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Twenty Years After

by Alexandre Dumas [Pere]

March, 1998  [Etext #1259]


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Twenty Years After

by Alexandre Dumas




1

The Shade of Cardinal Richelieu.



In a splendid chamber of the Palais Royal, formerly styled
the Palais Cardinal, a man was sitting in deep reverie, his
head supported on his hands, leaning over a gilt and inlaid
table which was covered with letters and papers. Behind this
figure glowed a vast fireplace alive with leaping flames;
great logs of oak blazed and crackled on the polished brass
andirons whose flicker shone upon the superb habiliments of
the lonely tenant of the room, which was illumined grandly
by twin candelabra rich with wax-lights.

Any one who happened at that moment to contemplate that red
simar -- the gorgeous robe of office -- and the rich lace,
or who gazed on that pale brow, bent in anxious meditation,
might, in the solitude of that apartment, combined with the
silence of the ante-chambers and the measured paces of the
guards upon the landing-place, have fancied that the shade
of Cardinal Richelieu lingered still in his accustomed
haunt.

It was, alas! the ghost of former greatness. France
enfeebled, the authority of her sovereign contemned, her
nobles returning to their former turbulence and insolence,
her enemies within her frontiers -- all proved the great
Richelieu no longer in existence.

In truth, that the red simar which occupied the wonted place
was his no longer, was still more strikingly obvious from
the isolation which seemed, as we have observed, more
appropriate to a phantom than a living creature -- from the
corridors deserted by courtiers, and courts crowded with
guards -- from that spirit of bitter ridicule, which,
arising from the streets below, penetrated through the very
casements of the room, which resounded with the murmurs of a
whole city leagued against the minister; as well as from the
distant and incessant sounds of guns firing -- let off,
happily, without other end or aim, except to show to the
guards, the Swiss troops and the military who surrounded the
Palais Royal, that the people were possessed of arms.

The shade of Richelieu was Mazarin. Now Mazarin was alone
and defenceless, as he well knew.

"Foreigner!" he ejaculated, "Italian! that is their mean yet
mighty byword of reproach -- the watchword with which they
assassinated, hanged, and made away with Concini; and if I
gave them their way they would assassinate, hang, and make
away with me in the same manner, although they have nothing
to complain of except a tax or two now and then. Idiots!
ignorant of their real enemies, they do not perceive that it
is not the Italian who speaks French badly, but those who
can say fine things to them in the purest Parisian accent,
who are their real foes.

"Yes, yes," Mazarin continued, whilst his wonted smile, full
of subtlety, lent a strange expression to his pale lips;
"yes, these noises prove to me, indeed, that the destiny of
favorites is precarious; but ye shall know I am no ordinary
favorite. No! The Earl of Essex, 'tis true, wore a splendid
ring, set with diamonds, given him by his royal mistress,
whilst I -- I have nothing but a simple circlet of gold,
with a cipher on it and a date; but that ring has been
blessed in the chapel of the Palais Royal,* so they will
never ruin me, as they long to do, and whilst they shout,
`Down with Mazarin!' I, unknown, and unperceived by them,
incite them to cry out, `Long live the Duke de Beaufort' one
day; another, `Long live the Prince de Conde;' and again,
`Long live the parliament!'" And at this word the smile on
the cardinal's lips assumed an expression of hatred, of
which his mild countenance seemed incapable. "The
parliament! We shall soon see how to dispose," he continued,
"of the parliament! Both Orleans and Montargis are ours. It
will be a work of time, but those who have begun by crying
out: Down with Mazarin! will finish by shouting out, Down
with all the people I have mentioned, each in his turn.



* It is said that Mazarin, who, though a cardinal, had not
taken such vows as to prevent it, was secretly married to
Anne of Austria. -- La Porte's Memoirs.



"Richelieu, whom they hated during his lifetime and whom
they now praise after his death, was even less popular than
I am. Often he was driven away, oftener still had he a dread
of being sent away. The queen will never banish me, and even
were I obliged to yield to the populace she would yield with
me; if I fly, she will fly; and then we shall see how the
rebels will get on without either king or queen.

"Oh, were I not a foreigner! were I but a Frenchman! were I
but of gentle birth!"

The position of the cardinal was indeed critical, and recent
events had added to his difficulties. Discontent had long
pervaded the lower ranks of society in France. Crushed and
impoverished by taxation -- imposed by Mazarin, whose
avarice impelled him to grind them down to the very dust --
the people, as the Advocate-General Talon described it, had
nothing left to them except their souls; and as those could
not be sold by auction, they began to murmur. Patience had
in vain been recommended to them by reports of brilliant
victories gained by France; laurels, however, were not meat
and drink, and the people had for some time been in a state
of discontent.

Had this been all, it might not, perhaps, have greatly
signified; for when the lower classes alone complained, the
court of France, separated as it was from the poor by the
intervening classes of the gentry and the bourgeoisie,
seldom listened to their voice; but unluckily, Mazarin had
had the imprudence to attack the magistrates and had sold no
less than twelve appointments in the Court of Requests, at a
high price; and as the officers of that court paid very
dearly for their places, and as the addition of twelve new
colleagues would necessarily lower the value of each place,
the old functionaries formed a union amongst themselves,
and, enraged, swore on the Bible not to allow of this
addition to their number, but to resist all the persecutions
which might ensue; and should any one of them chance to
forfeit his post by this resistance, to combine to indemnify
him for his loss.

Now the following occurrences had taken place between the
two contending parties

On the seventh of January between seven and eight hundred
tradesmen had assembled in Paris to discuss a new tax which
was to be levied on house property. They deputed ten of
their number to wait upon the Duke of Orleans, who,
according to his custom, affected popularity. The duke
received them and they informed him that they were resolved
not to pay this tax, even if they were obliged to defend
themselves against its collectors by force of arms. They
were listened to with great politeness by the duke, who held
out hopes of easier measures, promised to speak in their
behalf to the queen, and dismissed them with the ordinary
expression of royalty, "We will see what we can do."

Two days afterward these same magistrates appeared before
the cardinal and their spokesman addressed Mazarin with so
much fearlessness and determination that the minister was
astounded and sent the deputation away with the same answer
as it had received from the Duke of Orleans -- that he would
see what could be done; and in accordance with that
intention a council of state was assembled and the
superintendent of finance was summoned.

This man, named Emery, was the object of popular
detestation, in the first place because he was
superintendent of finance, and every superintendent of
finance deserved to be hated; in the second place, because
he rather deserved the odium which he had incurred.

He was the son of a banker at Lyons named Particelli, who,
after becoming a bankrupt, chose to change his name to
Emery; and Cardinal Richelieu having discovered in him great
financial aptitude, had introduced him with a strong
recommendation to Louis XIII. under his assumed name, in
order that he might be appointed to the post he subsequently
held.

"You surprise me!" exclaimed the monarch. "I am rejoiced to
hear you speak of Monsieur d'Emery as calculated for a post
which requires a man of probity. I was really afraid that
you were going to force that villain Particelli upon me."

"Sire," replied Richelieu, "rest assured that Particelli,
the man to whom your majesty refers, has been hanged."

"Ah; so much the better!" exclaimed the king. "It is not for
nothing that I am styled Louis the Just." and he signed
Emery's appointment.

This was the same Emery who became eventually superintendent
of finance.

He was sent for by the ministers and he came before them
pale and trembling, declaring that his son had very nearly
been assassinated the day before, near the palace. The mob
had insulted him on account of the ostentatious luxury of
his wife, whose house was hung with red velvet edged with
gold fringe. This lady was the daughter of Nicholas de
Camus, who arrived in Paris with twenty francs in his
pocket, became secretary of state, and accumulated wealth
enough to divide nine millions of francs among his children
and to keep an income of forty thousand for himself.

The fact was that Emery's son had run a great chance of
being suffocated, one of the rioters having proposed to
squeeze him until he gave up all the gold he had swallowed.
Nothing, therefore, was settled that day, as Emery's head
was not steady enough for business after such an occurrence.

On the next day Mathieu Mole, the chief president, whose
courage at this crisis, says the Cardinal de Retz, was equal
to that of the Duc de Beaufort and the Prince de Conde -- in
other words, of the two men who were considered the bravest
in France -- had been attacked in his turn. The people
threatened to hold him responsible for the evils that hung
over them. But the chief president had replied with his
habitual coolness, without betraying either disturbance or
surprise, that should the agitators refuse obedience to the
king's wishes he would have gallows erected in the public
squares and proceed at once to hang the most active among
them. To which the others had responded that they would be
glad to see the gallows erected; they would serve for the
hanging of those detestable judges who purchased favor at
court at the price of the people's misery.

Nor was this all. On the eleventh the queen in going to mass
at Notre Dame, as she always did on Saturdays, was followed
by more than two hundred women demanding justice. These poor
creatures had no bad intentions. They wished only to be
allowed to fall on their knees before their sovereign, and
that they might move her to compassion; but they were
prevented by the royal guard and the queen proceeded on her
way, haughtily disdainful of their entreaties.

At length parliament was convoked; the authority of the king
was to be maintained.

One day -- it was the morning of the day my story begins --
the king, Louis XIV., then ten years of age, went in state,
under pretext of returning thanks for his recovery from the
small-pox, to Notre Dame. He took the opportunity of calling
out his guard, the Swiss troops and the musketeers, and he
had planted them round the Palais Royal, on the quays, and
on the Pont Neuf. After mass the young monarch drove to the
Parliament House, where, upon the throne, he hastily
confirmed not only such edicts as he had already passed, but
issued new ones, each one, according to Cardinal de Retz,
more ruinous than the others -- a proceeding which drew
forth a strong remonstrance from the chief president, Mole
-- whilst President Blancmesnil and Councillor Broussel
raised their voices in indignation against fresh taxes.

The king returned amidst the silence of a vast multitude to
the Palais Royal. All minds were uneasy, most were
foreboding, many of the people used threatening language.

At first, indeed, they were doubtful whether the king's
visit to the parliament had been in order to lighten or
increase their burdens; but scarcely was it known that the
taxes were to be still further increased, when cries of
"Down with Mazarin!" "Long live Broussel!" "Long live
Blancmesnil!" resounded through the city. For the people had
learned that Broussel and Blancmesnil had made speeches in
their behalf, and, although the eloquence of these deputies
had been without avail, it had none the less won for them
the people's good-will. All attempts to disperse the groups
collected in the streets, or silence their exclamations,
were in vain. Orders had just been given to the royal guards
and the Swiss guards, not only to stand firm, but to send
out patrols to the streets of Saint Denis and Saint Martin,
where the people thronged and where they were the most
vociferous, when the mayor of Paris was announced at the
Palais Royal.

He was shown in directly; he came to say that if these
offensive precautions were not discontinued, in two hours
Paris would be under arms.

Deliberations were being held when a lieutenant in the
guards, named Comminges, made his appearance, with his
clothes all torn, his face streaming with blood. The queen
on seeing him uttered a cry of surprise and asked him what
was going on.

As the mayor had foreseen, the sight of the guards had
exasperated the mob. The tocsin was sounded. Comminges had
arrested one of the ringleaders and had ordered him to be
hanged near the cross of Du Trahoir; but in attempting to
execute this command the soldiery were attacked in the
market-place with stones and halberds; the delinquent had
escaped to the Rue des Lombards and rushed into a house.
They broke open the doors and searched the dwelling, but in
vain. Comminges, wounded by a stone which had struck him on
the forehead, had left a picket in the street and returned
to the Palais Royal, followed by a menacing crowd, to tell
his story.

This account confirmed that of the mayor. The authorities
were not in a condition to cope with serious revolt. Mazarin
endeavored to circulate among the people a report that
troops had only been stationed on the quays and on the Pont
Neuf, on account of the ceremonial of the day, and that they
would soon withdraw. In fact, about four o'clock they were
all concentrated about the Palais Royal, the courts and
ground floors of which were filled with musketeers and Swiss
guards, and there awaited the outcome of all this
disturbance.

Such was the state of affairs at the very moment we
introduced our readers to the study of Cardinal Mazarin --
once that of Cardinal Richelieu. We have seen in what state
of mind he listened to the murmurs from below, which even
reached him in his seclusion, and to the guns, the firing of
which resounded through that room. All at once he raised his
head; his brow slightly contracted like that of a man who
has formed a resolution; he fixed his eyes upon an enormous
clock that was about to strike ten, and taking up a whistle
of silver gilt that stood upon the table near him, he
shrilled it twice.

A door hidden in the tapestry opened noiselessly and a man
in black silently advanced and stood behind the chair on
which Mazarin sat.

"Bernouin," said the cardinal, not turning round, for having
whistled, he knew that it was his valet-de-chambre who was
behind him; "what musketeers are now within the palace?"

"The Black Musketeers, my lord."

"What company?"

"Treville's company."

"Is there any officer belonging to this company in the
ante-chamber?"

"Lieutenant d'Artagnan."

"A man on whom we can depend, I hope."

"Yes, my lord."

"Give me a uniform of one of these musketeers and help me to
put it on."

The valet went out as silently as he had entered and
appeared in a few minutes bringing the dress demanded.

The cardinal, in deep thought and in silence, began to take
off the robes of state he had assumed in order to be present
at the sitting of parliament, and to attire himself in the
military coat, which he wore with a certain degree of easy
grace, owing to his former campaigns in Italy. When he was
completely dressed he said:

"Send hither Monsieur d'Artagnan."

The valet went out of the room, this time by the centre
door, but still as silently as before; one might have
fancied him an apparition.

When he was left alone the cardinal looked at himself in the
glass with a feeling of self-satisfaction. Still young --
for he was scarcely forty-six years of age -- he possessed
great elegance of form and was above the middle height; his
complexion was brilliant and beautiful; his glance full of
expression; his nose, though large, was well proportioned;
his forehead broad and majestic; his hair, of a chestnut
color, was curled slightly; his beard, which was darker than
his hair, was turned carefully with a curling iron, a
practice that greatly improved it. After a short time the
cardinal arranged his shoulder belt, then looked with great
complacency at his hands, which were most elegant and of
which he took the greatest care; and throwing on one side
the large kid gloves tried on at first, as belonging to the
uniform, he put on others of silk only. At this instant the
door opened.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the valet-de-chambre.

An officer, as he spoke, entered the apartment. He was a man
between thirty-nine and forty years of age, of medium height
but a very well proportioned figure; with an intellectual
and animated physiognomy; his beard black, and his hair
turning gray, as often happens when people have found life
either too gay or too sad, more especially when they happen
to be of swart complexion.

D'Artagnan advanced a few steps into the apartment.

How perfectly he remembered his former entrance into that
very room! Seeing, however, no one there except a musketeer
of his own troop, he fixed his eyes upon the supposed
soldier, in whose dress, nevertheless, he recognized at the
first glance the cardinal.

The lieutenant remained standing in a dignified but
respectful posture, such as became a man of good birth, who
had in the course of his life been frequently in the society
of the highest nobles.

The cardinal looked at him with a cunning rather than
serious glance, yet he examined his countenance with
attention and after a momentary silence said:

"You are Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"I am that individual," replied the officer.

Mazarin gazed once more at a countenance full of
intelligence, the play of which had been, nevertheless,
subdued by age and experience; and D'Artagnan received the
penetrating glance like one who had formerly sustained many
a searching look, very different, indeed, from those which
were inquiringly directed on him at that instant.

"Sir," resumed the cardinal, "you are to come with me, or
rather, I am to go with you."

"I am at your command, my lord," returned D'Artagnan.

"I wish to visit in person the outposts which surround the
Palais Royal; do you suppose that there is any danger in so
doing?"

"Danger, my lord!" exclaimed D'Artagnan with a look of
astonishment, "what danger?"

"I am told that there is a general insurrection."

"The uniform of the king's musketeers carries a certain
respect with it, and even if that were not the case I would
engage with four of my men to put to flight a hundred of
these clowns."

"Did you witness the injury sustained by Comminges?"

"Monsieur de Comminges is in the guards and not in the
musketeers ---- "

"Which means, I suppose, that the musketeers are better
soldiers than the guards." The cardinal smiled as he spoke.

"Every one likes his own uniform best, my lord."

"Myself excepted," and again Mazarin smiled; "for you
perceive that I have left off mine and put on yours."

"Lord bless us! this is modesty indeed!" cried D'Artagnan.
"Had I such a uniform as your eminence possesses, I protest
I should be mightily content, and I would take an oath never
to wear any other costume ---- "

"Yes, but for to-night's adventure I don't suppose my dress
would have been a very safe one. Give me my felt hat,
Bernouin."

The valet instantly brought to his master a regimental hat
with a wide brim. The cardinal put it on in military style.

"Your horses are ready saddled in their stables, are they
not?" he said, turning to D'Artagnan.

"Yes, my lord."

"Well, let us set out."

"How many men does your eminence wish to escort you?"

"You say that with four men you will undertake to disperse a
hundred low fellows; as it may happen that we shall have to
encounter two hundred, take eight ---- "

"As many as my lord wishes."

"I will follow you. This way -- light us downstairs Bernouin.

The valet held a wax-light; the cardinal took a key from his
bureau and opening the door of a secret stair descended into
the court of the Palais Royal.



2

A Nightly Patrol.



In ten minutes Mazarin and his party were traversing the
street "Les Bons Enfants" behind the theatre built by
Richelieu expressly for the play of "Mirame," and in which
Mazarin, who was an amateur of music, but not of literature,
had introduced into France the first opera that was ever
acted in that country.

The appearance of the town denoted the greatest agitation.
Numberless groups paraded the streets and, whatever
D'Artagnan might think of it, it was obvious that the
citizens had for the night laid aside their usual
forbearance, in order to assume a warlike aspect. From time
to time noises came in the direction of the public markets.
The report of firearms was heard near the Rue Saint Denis
and occasionally church bells began to ring indiscriminately
and at the caprice of the populace. D'Artagnan, meantime,
pursued his way with the indifference of a man upon whom
such acts of folly made no impression. When he approached a
group in the middle of the street he urged his horse upon it
without a word of warning; and the members of the group,
whether rebels or not, as if they knew with what sort of a
man they had to deal, at once gave place to the patrol. The
cardinal envied that composure, which he attributed to the
habit of meeting danger; but none the less he conceived for
the officer under whose orders he had for the moment placed
himself, that consideration which even prudence pays to
careless courage. On approaching an outpost near the
Barriere des Sergens, the sentinel cried out, "Who's there?"
and D'Artagnan answered -- having first asked the word of
the cardinal -- "Louis and Rocroy." After which he inquired
if Lieutenant Comminges were not the commanding officer at
the outpost. The soldier replied by pointing out to him an
officer who was conversing, on foot, his hand upon the neck
of a horse on which the individual to whom he was talking
sat. Here was the officer D'Artagnan was seeking.

"Here is Monsieur Comminges," said D'Artagnan, returning to
the cardinal. He instantly retired, from a feeling of
respectful delicacy; it was, however, evident that the
cardinal was recognized by both Comminges and the other
officers on horseback.

"Well done, Guitant," cried the cardinal to the equestrian;
"I see plainly that, notwithstanding the sixty-four years
that have passed over your head, you are still the same man,
active and zealous. What were you saying to this youngster?"

"My lord," replied Guitant, "I was observing that we live in
troublous times and that to-day's events are very like those
in the days of the Ligue, of which I heard so much in my
youth. Are you aware that the mob have even suggested
throwing up barricades in the Rue Saint Denis and the Rue
Saint Antoine?"

"And what was Comminges saying to you in reply, my good
Guitant?"

"My lord," said Comminges, "I answered that to compose a
Ligue only one ingredient was wanting -- in my opinion an
essential one -- a Duc de Guise; moreover, no generation
ever does the same thing twice."

"No, but they mean to make a Fronde, as they call it," said
Guitant.

"And what is a Fronde?" inquired Mazarin.

"My lord, Fronde is the name the discontented give to their
party."

"And what is the origin of this name?"

"It seems that some days since Councillor Bachaumont
remarked at the palace that rebels and agitators reminded
him of schoolboys slinging -- qui frondent -- stones from
the moats round Paris, young urchins who run off the moment
the constable appears, only to return to their diversion the
instant his back is turned. So they have picked up the word
and the insurrectionists are called `Frondeurs,' and
yesterday every article sold was `a la Fronde;' bread `a la
Fronde,' hats `a la Fronde,' to say nothing of gloves,
pocket-handkerchiefs, and fans; but listen ---- "

At that moment a window opened and a man began to sing:



"A tempest from the Fronde

Did blow to-day:

I think 'twill blow

Sieur Mazarin away."



"Insolent wretch!" cried Guitant.

"My lord," said Comminges, who, irritated by his wounds,
wished for revenge and longed to give back blow for blow,
"shall I fire off a ball to punish that jester, and to warn
him not to sing so much out of tune in the future?"

And as he spoke he put his hand on the holster of his
uncle's saddle-bow.

"Certainly not! certainly not," exclaimed Mazarin. "Diavolo!
my dear friend, you are going to spoil everything --
everything is going on famously. I know the French as well
as if I had made them myself. They sing -- let them pay the
piper. During the Ligue, about which Guitant was speaking
just now, the people chanted nothing except the mass, so
everything went to destruction. Come, Guitant, come along,
and let's see if they keep watch at the Quinze-Vingts as at
the Barriere des Sergens."

And waving his hand to Comminges he rejoined D'Artagnan, who
instantly put himself at the head of his troop, followed by
the cardinal, Guitant and the rest of the escort.

"Just so," muttered Comminges, looking after Mazarin. "True,
I forgot; provided he can get money out of the people, that
is all he wants."

The street of Saint Honore, when the cardinal and his party
passed through it, was crowded by an assemblage who,
standing in groups, discussed the edicts of that memorable
day. They pitied the young king, who was unconsciously
ruining his country, and threw all the odium of his
proceedings on Mazarin. Addresses to the Duke of Orleans and
to Conde were suggested. Blancmesnil and Broussel seemed in
the highest favor.

D'Artagnan passed through the very midst of this
discontented mob just as if his horse and he had been made
of iron. Mazarin and Guitant conversed together in whispers.
The musketeers, who had already discovered who Mazarin was,
followed in profound silence. In the street of Saint
Thomas-du-Louvre they stopped at the barrier distinguished
by the name of Quinze-Vingts. Here Guitant spoke to one of
the subalterns, asking how matters were progressing.

"Ah, captain!" said the officer, "everything is quiet
hereabout -- if I did not know that something is going on in
yonder house!"

And he pointed to a magnificent hotel situated on the very
spot whereon the Vaudeville now stands.

"In that hotel? it is the Hotel Rambouillet," cried Guitant.

"I really don't know what hotel it is; all I do know is that
I observed some suspicious looking people go in there ---- "

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Guitant, with a burst of laughter;
"those men must be poets."

"Come, Guitant, speak, if you please, respectfully of these
gentlemen," said Mazarin; "don't you know that I was in my
youth a poet? I wrote verses in the style of Benserade ----
"

"You, my lord?"

"Yes, I; shall I repeat to you some of my verses?"

"Just as you please, my lord. I do not understand Italian."

"Yes, but you understand French," and Mazarin laid his hand
upon Guitant's shoulder. "My good, my brave Guitant,
whatsoever command I may give you in that language -- in
French -- whatever I may order you to do, will you not
perform it?"

"Certainly. I have already answered that question in the
affirmative; but that command must come from the queen
herself."

"Yes! ah yes!" Mazarin bit his lips as he spoke; "I know
your devotion to her majesty."

"I have been a captain in the queen's guards for twenty
years," was the reply.

"En route, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the cardinal; "all
goes well in this direction."

D'Artagnan, in the meantime, had taken the head of his
detachment without a word and with that ready and profound
obedience which marks the character of an old soldier.

He led the way toward the hill of Saint Roche. The Rue
Richelieu and the Rue Villedot were then, owing to their
vicinity to the ramparts, less frequented than any others in
that direction, for the town was thinly inhabited
thereabout.

"Who is in command here?" asked the cardinal.

"Villequier," said Guitant.

"Diavolo! Speak to him yourself, for ever since you were
deputed by me to arrest the Duc de Beaufort, this officer
and I have been on bad terms. He laid claim to that honor as
captain of the royal guards."

"I am aware of that, and I have told him a hundred times
that he was wrong. The king could not give that order, since
at that time he was hardly four years old."

"Yes, but I could give him the order -- I, Guitant -- and I
preferred to give it to you."

Guitant, without reply, rode forward and desired the
sentinel to call Monsieur de Villequier.

"Ah! so you are here!" cried the officer, in the tone of
ill-humor habitual to him; "what the devil are you doing
here?"

"I wish to know -- can you tell me, pray -- is anything
fresh occurring in this part of the town?"

"What do you mean? People cry out, `Long live the king! down
with Mazarin!' That's nothing new; no, we've been used to
those acclamations for some time."

"And you sing chorus," replied Guitant, laughing.

"Faith, I've half a mind to do it. In my opinion the people
are right; and cheerfully would I give up five years of my
pay -- which I am never paid, by the way -- to make the king
five years older."

"Really! And pray what would come to pass, supposing the
king were five years older than he is?"

"As soon as ever the king comes of age he will issue his
commands himself, and 'tis far pleasanter to obey the
grandson of Henry IV. than the son of Peter Mazarin.
'Sdeath! I would die willingly for the king, but supposing I
happened to be killed on account of Mazarin, as your nephew
came near being to-day, there could be nothing in Paradise,
however well placed I might be there, that could console me
for it."

"Well, well, Monsieur de Villequier," Mazarin interposed, "I
shall make it my care the king hears of your loyalty. Come,
gentlemen," addressing the troop, "let us return."

"Stop," exclaimed Villequier, "so Mazarin was here! so much
the better. I have been waiting for a long time to tell him
what I think of him. I am obliged to you Guitant, although
your intention was perhaps not very favorable to me, for
such an opportunity."

He turned away and went off to his post, whistling a tune
then popular among the party called the "Fronde," whilst
Mazarin returned, in a pensive mood, toward the Palais
Royal. All that he had heard from these three different men,
Comminges, Guitant and Villequier, confirmed him in his
conviction that in case of serious tumults there would be no
one on his side except the queen; and then Anne of Austria
had so often deserted her friends that her support seemed
most precarious. During the whole of this nocturnal ride,
during the whole time that he was endeavoring to understand
the various characters of Comminges, Guitant and Villequier,
Mazarin was, in truth, studying more especially one man.
This man, who had remained immovable as bronze when menaced
by the mob -- not a muscle of whose face was stirred, either
at Mazarin's witticisms or by the jests of the multitude --
seemed to the cardinal a peculiar being, who, having
participated in past events similar to those now occurring,
was calculated to cope with those now on the eve of taking
place.

The name of D'Artagnan was not altogether new to Mazarin,
who, although he did not arrive in France before the year
1634 or 1635, that is to say, about eight or nine years
after the events which we have related in a preceding
narrative,* fancied he had heard it pronounced as that of
one who was said to be a model of courage, address and
loyalty.



* "The Three Musketeers."



Possessed by this idea, the cardinal resolved to know all
about D'Artagnan immediately; of course he could not inquire
from D'Artagnan himself who he was and what had been his
career; he remarked, however, in the course of conversation
that the lieutenant of musketeers spoke with a Gascon
accent. Now the Italians and the Gascons are too much alike
and know each other too well ever to trust what any one of
them may say of himself; so in reaching the walls which
surrounded the Palais Royal, the cardinal knocked at a
little door, and after thanking D'Artagnan and requesting
him to wait in the court of the Palais Royal, he made a sign
to Guitant to follow him.

They both dismounted, consigned their horses to the lackey
who had opened the door, and disappeared in the garden.

"My dear friend," said the cardinal, leaning, as they walked
through the garden, on his friend's arm, "you told me just
now that you had been twenty years in the queen's service."

"Yes, it's true. I have," returned Guitant.

"Now, my dear Guitant, I have often remarked that in
addition to your courage, which is indisputable, and your
fidelity, which is invincible, you possess an admirable
memory."

"You have found that out, have you, my lord? Deuce take it
-- all the worse for me!"

"How?"

"There is no doubt but that one of the chief accomplishments
of a courtier is to know when to forget."

"But you, Guitant, are not a courtier. You are a brave
soldier, one of the few remaining veterans of the days of
Henry IV. Alas! how few to-day exist!"

"Plague on't, my lord, have you brought me here to get my
horoscope out of me?"

"No; I only brought you here to ask you," returned Mazarin,
smiling, "if you have taken any particular notice of our
lieutenant of musketeers?"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan? I have had no occasion to notice him
particularly; he's an old acquaintance. He's a Gascon. De
Treville knows him and esteems him very highly, and De
Treville, as you know, is one of the queen's greatest
friends. As a soldier the man ranks well; he did his whole
duty and even more, at the siege of Rochelle -- as at Suze
and Perpignan."

"But you know, Guitant, we poor ministers often want men
with other qualities besides courage; we want men of talent.
Pray, was not Monsieur d'Artagnan, in the time of the
cardinal, mixed up in some intrigue from which he came out,
according to report, quite cleverly?"

"My lord, as to the report you allude to" -- Guitant
perceived that the cardinal wished to make him speak out --
"I know nothing but what the public knows. I never meddle in
intrigues, and if I occasionally become a confidant of the
intrigues of others I am sure your eminence will approve of
my keeping them secret."

Mazarin shook his head.

"Ah!" he said; "some ministers are fortunate and find out
all that they wish to know."

"My lord," replied Guitant, "such ministers do not weigh men
in the same balance; they get their information on war from
warriors; on intrigues, from intriguers. Consult some
politician of the period of which you speak, and if you pay
well for it you will certainly get to know all you want."

"Eh, pardieu!" said Mazarin, with a grimace which he always
made when spoken to about money. "They will be paid, if
there is no way of getting out of it."

"Does my lord seriously wish me to name any one who was
mixed up in the cabals of that day?"

"By Bacchus!" rejoined Mazarin, impatiently, "it's about an
hour since I asked you for that very thing, wooden-head that
you are."

"There is one man for whom I can answer, if he will speak
out."

"That's my concern; I will make him speak."

"Ah, my lord, 'tis not easy to make people say what they
don't wish to let out."

"Pooh! with patience one must succeed. Well, this man. Who
is he?"

"The Comte de Rochefort."

"The Comte de Rochefort!"

"Unfortunately he has disappeared these four or five years
and I don't know where he is."

"I know, Guitant," said Mazarin.

"Well, then, how is it that your eminence complained just
now of want of information?"

"You think," resumed Mazarin, "that Rochefort ---- "

"He was Cardinal Richelieu's creature, my lord. I warn you,
however, his services will cost you something. The cardinal
was lavish to his underlings."

"Yes, yes, Guitant," said Mazarin; "Richelieu was a great
man, a very great man, but he had that defect. Thanks,
Guitant; I shall benefit by your advice this very evening."

Here they separated and bidding adieu to Guitant in the
court of the Palais Royal, Mazarin approached an officer who
was walking up and down within that inclosure.

It was D'Artagnan, who was waiting for him.

"Cane hither," said Mazarin in his softest voice; "I have an
order to give you."

D'Artagnan bent low and following the cardinal up the secret
staircase, soon found himself in the study whence they had
first set out.

The cardinal seated himself before his bureau and taking a
sheet of paper wrote some lines upon it, whilst D'Artagnan
stood imperturbable, without showing either impatience or
curiosity. He was like a soldierly automaton, or rather,
like a magnificent marionette.

The cardinal folded and sealed his letter.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," he said, "you are to take this
dispatch to the Bastile and bring back here the person it
concerns. You must take a carriage and an escort, and guard
the prisoner with the greatest care."

D'Artagnan took the letter, touched his hat with his hand,
turned round upon his heel like a drill-sergeant, and a
moment afterward was heard, in his dry and monotonous tone,
commanding "Four men and an escort, a carriage and a horse."
Five minutes afterward the wheels of the carriage and the
horses' shoes were heard resounding on the pavement of the
courtyard.



3

Dead Animosities.



D'Artagnan arrived at the Bastile just as it was striking
half-past eight. His visit was announced to the governor,
who, on hearing that he came from the cardinal, went to meet
him and received him at the top of the great flight of steps
outside the door. The governor of the Bastile was Monsieur
du Tremblay, the brother of the famous Capuchin, Joseph,
that fearful favorite of Richelieu's, who went by the name
of the Gray Cardinal.

During the period that the Duc de Bassompierre passed in the
Bastile -- where he remained for twelve long years -- when
his companions, in their dreams of liberty, said to each
other: "As for me, I shall go out of the prison at such a
time," and another, at such and such a time, the duke used
to answer, "As for me, gentlemen, I shall leave only when
Monsieur du Tremblay leaves;" meaning that at the death of
the cardinal Du Tremblay would certainly lose his place at
the Bastile and De Bassompierre regain his at court.

His prediction was nearly fulfilled, but in a very different
way from that which De Bassompierre supposed; for after the
death of Richelieu everything went on, contrary to
expectation, in the same way as before; and Bassompierre had
little chance of leaving his prison.

Monsieur du Tremblay received D'Artagnan with extreme
politeness and invited him to sit down with him to supper,
of which he was himself about to partake.

"I should be delighted to do so," was the reply; "but if I
am not mistaken, the words `In haste,' are written on the
envelope of the letter which I brought."

"You are right," said Du Tremblay. "Halloo, major! tell them
to order Number 25 to come downstairs."

The unhappy wretch who entered the Bastile ceased, as he
crossed the threshold, to be a man -- he became a number.

D'Artagnan shuddered at the noise of the keys; he remained
on horseback, feeling no inclination to dismount, and sat
looking at the bars, at the buttressed windows and the
immense walls he had hitherto only seen from the other side
of the moat, but by which he had for twenty years been
awe-struck.

A bell resounded.

"I must leave you," said Du Tremblay; "I am sent for to sign
the release of a prisoner. I shall be happy to meet you
again, sir."

"May the devil annihilate me if I return thy wish!" murmured
D'Artagnan, smiling as he pronounced the imprecation; "I
declare I feel quite ill after only being five minutes in
the courtyard. Go to! go to! I would rather die on straw
than hoard up a thousand a year by being governor of the
Bastile."

He had scarcely finished this soliloquy before the prisoner
arrived. On seeing him D'Artagnan could hardly suppress an
exclamation of surprise. The prisoner got into the carriage
without seeming to recognize the musketeer.

"Gentlemen," thus D'Artagnan addressed the four musketeers,
"I am ordered to exercise the greatest possible care in
guarding the prisoner, and since there are no locks to the
carriage, I shall sit beside him. Monsieur de Lillebonne,
lead my horse by the bridle, if you please." As he spoke he
dismounted, gave the bridle of his horse to the musketeer
and placing himself by the side of the prisoner said, in a
voice perfectly composed, "To the Palais Royal, at full
trot."

The carriage drove on and D'Artagnan, availing himself of
the darkness in the archway under which they were passing,
threw himself into the arms of the prisoner.

"Rochefort!" he exclaimed; "you! is it you, indeed? I am not
mistaken?"

"D'Artagnan!" cried Rochefort.

"Ah! my poor friend!" resumed D'Artagnan, "not having seen
you for four or five years I concluded you were dead."

"I'faith," said Rochefort, "there's no great difference, I
think, between a dead man and one who has been buried alive;
now I have been buried alive, or very nearly so."

"And for what crime are you imprisoned in the Bastile."

"Do you wish me to speak the truth?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, I don't know."

"Have you any suspicion of me, Rochefort?"

"No! on the honor of a gentleman; but I cannot be imprisoned
for the reason alleged; it is impossible."

"What reason?" asked D'Artagnan.

"For stealing."

"For stealing! you, Rochefort! you are laughing at me."

"I understand. You mean that this demands explanation, do
you not?"

"I admit it."

"Well, this is what actually took place: One evening after
an orgy in Reinard's apartment at the Tuileries with the Duc
d'Harcourt, Fontrailles, De Rieux and others, the Duc
d'Harcourt proposed that we should go and pull cloaks on the
Pont Neuf; that is, you know, a diversion which the Duc
d'Orleans made quite the fashion."

"Were you crazy, Rochefort? at your age!"

"No, I was drunk. And yet, since the amusement seemed to me
rather tame, I proposed to Chevalier de Rieux that we should
be spectators instead of actors, and, in order to see to
advantage, that we should mount the bronze horse. No sooner
said than done. Thanks to the spurs, which served as
stirrups, in a moment we were perched upon the croupe; we
were well placed and saw everything. Four or five cloaks had
already been lifted, with a dexterity without parallel, and
not one of the victims had dared to say a word, when some
fool of a fellow, less patient than the others, took it into
his head to cry out, `Guard!' and drew upon us a patrol of
archers. Duc d'Harcourt, Fontrailles, and the others
escaped; De Rieux was inclined to do likewise, but I told
him they wouldn't look for us where we were. He wouldn't
listen, put his foot on the spur to get down, the spur
broke, he fell with a broken leg, and, instead of keeping
quiet, took to crying out like a gallows-bird. I then was
ready to dismount, but it was too late; I descended into the
arms of the archers. They conducted me to the Chatelet,
where I slept soundly, being very sure that on the next day
I should go forth free. The next day came and passed, the
day after, a week; I then wrote to the cardinal. The same
day they came for me and took me to the Bastile. That was
five years ago. Do you believe it was because I committed
the sacrilege of mounting en croupe behind Henry IV.?"

"No; you are right, my dear Rochefort, it couldn't be for
that; but you will probably learn the reason soon."

"Ah, indeed! I forgot to ask you -- where are you taking
me?"

"To the cardinal."

"What does he want with me?"

"I do not know. I did not even know that you were the person
I was sent to fetch."

"Impossible -- you -- a favorite of the minister!"

"A favorite! no, indeed!" cried D'Artagnan. "Ah, my poor
friend! I am just as poor a Gascon as when I saw you at
Meung, twenty-two years ago, you know; alas!" and he
concluded his speech with a deep sigh.

"Nevertheless, you come as one in authority."

"Because I happened to be in the ante-chamber when the
cardinal called me, by the merest chance. I am still a
lieutenant in the musketeers and have been so these twenty
years."

"Then no misfortune has happened to you?"

"And what misfortune could happen to me? To quote some Latin
verses I have forgotten, or rather, never knew well, `the
thunderbolt never falls on the valleys,' and I am a valley,
dear Rochefort, -- one of the lowliest of the low."

"Then Mazarin is still Mazarin?"

"The same as ever, my friend; it is said that he is married
to the queen."

"Married?"

"If not her husband, he is unquestionably her lover."

"You surprise me. Rebuff Buckingham and consent to Mazarin!"

"Just like the women," replied D'Artagnan, coolly.

"Like women, not like queens."

"Egad! queens are the weakest of their sex, when it comes to
such things as these."

"And M. de Beaufort -- is he still in prison?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh, nothing, but that he might get me out of this, if he
were favorably inclined to me."

"You are probably nearer freedom than he is, so it will be
your business to get him out."

"And," said the prisoner, "what talk is there of war with
Spain?"

"With Spain, no," answered D'Artagnan; "but Paris."

"What do you mean?" cried Rochefort.

"Do you hear the guns, pray? The citizens are amusing
themselves in the meantime."

"And you -- do you really think that anything could be done
with these bourgeois?"

"Yes, they might do well if they had any leader to unite
them in one body."

"How miserable not to be free!"

"Don't be downcast. Since Mazarin has sent for you, it is
because he wants you. I congratulate you! Many a long year
has passed since any one has wanted to employ me; so you see
in what a situation I am."

"Make your complaints known; that's my advice."

"Listen, Rochefort; let us make a compact. We are friends,
are we not?"

"Egad! I bear the traces of our friendship -- three slits or
slashes from your sword."

"Well, if you should be restored to favor, don't forget me."

"On the honor of a Rochefort; but you must do the like for
me."

"There's my hand, -- I promise."

"Therefore, whenever you find any opportunity of saying
something in my behalf ---- "

"I shall say it, and you?"

"I shall do the same."

"Apropos, are we to speak of your friends also, Athos,
Porthos, and Aramis? or have you forgotten them?"

"Almost."

"What has become of them?"

"I don't know; we separated, as you know. They are alive,
that's all that I can say about them; from time to time I
hear of them indirectly, but in what part of the world they
are, devil take me if I know, No, on my honor, I have not a
friend in the world but you, Rochefort."

"And the illustrious -- what's the name of the lad whom I
made a sergeant in Piedmont's regiment?"

"Planchet!"

"The illustrious Planchet. What has become of him?"

"I shouldn't wonder if he were at the head of the mob at
this very moment. He married a woman who keeps a
confectioner's shop in the Rue des Lombards, for he's a lad
who was always fond of sweetmeats; he's now a citizen of
Paris. You'll see that that queer fellow will be a sheriff
before I shall be a captain."

"Come, dear D'Artagnan, look up a little! Courage! It is
when one is lowest on the wheel of fortune that the
merry-go-round wheels and rewards us. This evening your
destiny begins to change."

"Amen!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, stopping the carriage.

"What are you doing?" asked Rochefort.

"We are almost there and I want no one to see me getting out
of your carriage; we are supposed not to know each other."

"You are right. Adieu."

"Au revoir. Remember your promise."

In five minutes the party entered the courtyard and
D'Artagnan led the prisoner up the great staircase and
across the corridor and ante-chamber.

As they stopped at the door of the cardinal's study,
D'Artagnan was about to be announced when Rochefort slapped
him on his shoulder.

"D'Artagnan, let me confess to you what I've been thinking
about during the whole of my drive, as I looked out upon the
parties of citizens who perpetually crossed our path and
looked at you and your four men with fiery eyes."

"Speak out," answered D'Artagnan.

"I had only to cry out `Help!' for you and for your
companions to be cut to pieces, and then I should have been
free."

"Why didn't you do it?" asked the lieutenant.

"Come, come!" cried Rochefort. "Did we not swear friendship?
Ah! had any one but you been there, I don't say ---- "

D'Artagnan bowed. "Is it possible that Rochefort has become
a better man than I am?" he said to himself. And he caused
himself to be announced to the minister.

"Let M. de Rochefort enter," said Mazarin, eagerly, on
hearing their names pronounced; "and beg M. d'Artagnan to
wait; I shall have further need of him."

These words gave great joy to D'Artagnan. As he had said, it
had been a long time since any one had needed him; and that
demand for his services on the part of Mazarin seemed to him
an auspicious sign.

Rochefort, rendered suspicious and cautious by these words,
entered the apartment, where he found Mazarin sitting at the
table, dressed in his ordinary garb and as one of the
prelates of the Church, his costume being similar to that of
the abbes in that day, excepting that his scarf and
stockings were violet.

As the door was closed Rochefort cast a glance toward
Mazarin, which was answered by one, equally furtive, from
the minister.

There was little change in the cardinal; still dressed with
sedulous care, his hair well arranged and curled, his person
perfumed, he looked, owing to his extreme taste in dress,
only half his age. But Rochefort, who had passed five years
in prison, had become old in the lapse of a few years; the
dark locks of this estimable friend of the defunct Cardinal
Richelieu were now white; the deep bronze of his complexion
had been succeeded by a mortal pallor which betokened
debility. As he gazed at him Mazarin shook his head
slightly, as much as to say, "This is a man who does not
appear to me fit for much."

After a pause, which appeared an age to Rochefort, Mazarin
took from a bundle of papers a letter, and showing it to the
count, he said:

"I find here a letter in which you sue for liberty, Monsieur
de Rochefort. You are in prison, then?"

Rochefort trembled in every limb at this question. "But I
thought," he said, "that your eminence knew that
circumstance better than any one ---- "

"I? Oh no! There is a congestion of prisoners in the
Bastile, who were cooped up in the time of Monsieur de
Richelieu; I don't even know their names."

"Yes, but in regard to myself, my lord, it cannot be so, for
I was removed from the Chatelet to the Bastile owing to an
order from your eminence."

"You think you were."

"I am certain of it."

"Ah, stay! I fancy I remember it. Did you not once refuse to
undertake a journey to Brussels for the queen?"

"Ah! ah!" exclaimed Rochefort. "There is the true reason!
Idiot that I am, though I have been trying to find it out
for five years, I never found it out."

"But I do not say it was the cause of your imprisonment. I
merely ask you, did you not refuse to go to Brussels for the
queen, whilst you had consented to go there to do some
service for the late cardinal?"

"That is the very reason I refused to go back to Brussels. I
was there at a fearful moment. I was sent there to intercept
a correspondence between Chalais and the archduke, and even
then, when I was discovered I was nearly torn to pieces. How
could I, then, return to Brussels? I should injure the queen
instead of serving her."

"Well, since the best motives are liable to misconstruction,
the queen saw in your refusal nothing but a refusal -- a
distinct refusal she had also much to complain of you during
the lifetime of the late cardinal; yes, her majesty the
queen ---- "

Rochefort smiled contemptuously.

"Since I was a faithful servant, my lord, to Cardinal
Richelieu during his life, it stands to reason that now,
after his death, I should serve you well, in defiance of the
whole world."

"With regard to myself, Monsieur de Rochefort," replied
Mazarin, "I am not, like Monsieur de Richelieu,
all-powerful. I am but a minister, who wants no servants,
being myself nothing but a servant of the queen's. Now, the
queen is of a sensitive nature. Hearing of your refusal to
obey her she looked upon it as a declaration of war, and as
she considers you a man of superior talent, and consequently
dangerous, she desired me to make sure of you; that is the
reason of your being shut up in the Bastile. But your
release can be managed. You are one of those men who can
comprehend certain matters and having understood them, can
act with energy ---- "

"Such was Cardinal Richelieu's opinion, my lord."

"The cardinal," interrupted Mazarin, "was a great politician
and therein shone his vast superiority over me. I am a
straightforward, simple man; that's my great disadvantage. I
am of a frankness of character quite French."

Rochefort bit his lips in order to prevent a smile.

"Now to the point. I want friends; I want faithful servants.
When I say I want, I mean the queen wants them. I do nothing
without her commands -- pray understand that; not like
Monsieur de Richelieu, who went on just as he pleased. So I
shall never be a great man, as he was, but to compensate for
that, I shall be a good man, Monsieur de Rochefort, and I
hope to prove it to you."

Rochefort knew well the tones of that soft voice, in which
sounded sometimes a sort of gentle lisp, like the hissing of
young vipers.

"I am disposed to believe your eminence," he replied;
"though I have had but little evidence of that good-nature
of which your eminence speaks. Do not forget that I have
been five years in the Bastile and that no medium of viewing
things is so deceptive as the grating of a prison."

"Ah, Monsieur de Rochefort! have I not told you already that
I had nothing to do with that? The queen -- cannot you make
allowances for the pettishness of a queen and a princess?
But that has passed away as suddenly as it came, and is
forgotten."

"I can easily suppose, sir, that her majesty has forgotten
it amid the fetes and the courtiers of the Palais Royal, but
I who have passed those years in the Bastile ---- "

"Ah! mon Dieu! my dear Monsieur de Rochefort! do you
absolutely think that the Palais Royal is the abode of
gayety? No. We have had great annoyances there. As for me, I
play my game squarely, fairly, and above board, as I always
do. Let us come to some conclusion. Are you one of us,
Monsieur de Rochefort?"

"I am very desirous of being so, my lord, but I am totally
in the dark about everything. In the Bastile one talks
politics only with soldiers and jailers, and you have not an
idea, my lord, how little is known of what is going on by
people of that sort; I am of Monsieur de Bassompierre's
party. Is he still one of the seventeen peers of France."

"He is dead, sir; a great loss. His devotion to the queen
was boundless; men of loyalty are scarce."

"I think so, forsooth," said Rochefort, "and when you find
any of them, you march them off to the Bastile. However,
there are plenty in the world, but you don't look in the
right direction for them, my lord."

"Indeed! explain to me. Ah! my dear Monsieur de Rochefort,
how much you must have learned during your intimacy with the
late cardinal! Ah! he was a great man."

"Will your eminence be angry if I read you a lesson?"

"I! never! you know you may say anything to me. I try to be
beloved, not feared."

"Well, there is on the wall of my cell, scratched with a
nail, a proverb, which says, `Like master, like servant.'"

"Pray, what does that mean?"

"It means that Monsieur de Richelieu was able to find trusty
servants, dozens and dozens of them."

"He! the point aimed at by every poniard! Richelieu, who
passed his life in warding off blows which were forever
aimed at him!"

"But he did ward them off," said De Rochefort, "and the
reason was, that though he had bitter enemies he possessed
also true friends. I have known persons," he continued --
for he thought he might avail himself of the opportunity of
speaking of D'Artagnan -- "who by their sagacity and address
have deceived the penetration of Cardinal Richelieu; who by
their valor have got the better of his guards and spies;
persons without money, without support, without credit, yet
who have preserved to the crowned head its crown and made
the cardinal crave pardon."

"But those men you speak of," said Mazarin, smiling inwardly
on seeing Rochefort approach the point to which he was
leading him, "those men were not devoted to the cardinal,
for they contended against him."

"No; in that case they would have met with more fitting
reward. They had the misfortune to be devoted to that very
queen for whom just now you were seeking servants."

"But how is it that you know so much of these matters?"

"I know them because the men of whom I speak were at that
time my enemies; because they fought against me; because I
did them all the harm I could and they returned it to the
best of their ability; because one of them, with whom I had
most to do, gave me a pretty sword-thrust, now about seven
years ago, the third that I received from the same hand; it
closed an old account."

"Ah!" said Mazarin, with admirable suavity, "could I but
find such men!"

"My lord, there has stood for six years at your very door a
man such as I describe, and during those six years he has
been unappreciated and unemployed by you."

"Who is it?"

"It is Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"That Gascon!" cried Mazarin, with well acted surprise.

"`That Gascon' has saved a queen and made Monsieur de
Richelieu confess that in point of talent, address and
political skill, to him he was only a tyro."

"Really?"

"It is as I have the honor of telling it to your
excellency."

"Tell me a little about it, my dear Monsieur de Rochefort."

"That is somewhat difficult, my lord," said Rochefort, with
a smile.

"Then he will tell it me himself."

"I doubt it, my lord."

"Why do you doubt it?"

"Because the secret does not belong to him; because, as I
have told you, it has to do with a great queen."

"And he was alone in achieving an enterprise like that?"

"No, my lord, he had three colleagues, three brave men, men
such as you were wishing for just now."

"And were these four men attached to each other, true in
heart, really united?"

"As if they had been one man -- as if their four hearts had
pulsated in one breast."

"You pique my curiosity, dear Rochefort; pray tell me the
whole story."

"That is impossible; but I will tell you a true story, my
lord."

"Pray do so, I delight in stories," cried the cardinal.

"Listen, then," returned Rochefort, as he spoke endeavoring
to read in that subtle countenance the cardinal's motive.
"Once upon a time there lived a queen -- a powerful monarch
-- who reigned over one of the greatest kingdoms of the
universe; and a minister; and this minister wished much to
injure the queen, whom once he had loved too well. (Do not
try, my lord, you cannot guess who it is; all this happened
long before you came into the country where this queen
reigned.) There came to the court an ambassador so brave, so
magnificent, so elegant, that every woman lost her heart to
him; and the queen had even the indiscretion to give him
certain ornaments so rare that they could never be replaced
by any like them.

"As these ornaments were given by the king the minister
persuaded his majesty to insist upon the queen's appearing
in them as part of her jewels at a ball which was soon to
take place. There is no occasion to tell you, my lord, that
the minister knew for a fact that these ornaments had sailed
away with the ambassador, who was far away, beyond seas.
This illustrious queen had fallen low as the least of her
subjects -- fallen from her high estate."

"Indeed!"

"Well, my lord, four men resolved to save her. These four
men were not princes, neither were they dukes, neither were
they men in power; they were not even rich. They were four
honest soldiers, each with a good heart, a good arm and a
sword at the service of those who wanted it. They set out.
The minister knew of their departure and had planted people
on the road to prevent them ever reaching their destination.
Three of them were overwhelmed and disabled by numerous
assailants; one of them alone arrived at the port, having
either killed or wounded those who wished to stop him. He
crossed the sea and brought back the set of ornaments to the
great queen, who was able to wear them on her shoulder on
the appointed day; and this very nearly ruined the minister.
What do you think of that exploit, my lord?"

"It is magnificent!" said Mazarin, thoughtfully.

"Well, I know of ten such men."

Mazarin made no reply; he reflected.

Five or six minutes elapsed.

"You have nothing more to ask of me, my lord?" said
Rochefort.

"Yes. And you say that Monsieur d'Artagnan was one of those
four men?"

"He led the enterprise."

"And who were the others?"

"I leave it to Monsieur d'Artagnan to name them, my lord.
They were his friends and not mine. He alone would have any
influence with them; I do not even know them under their
true names."

"You suspect me, Monsieur de Rochefort; I want him and you
and all to aid me."

"Begin with me, my lord; for after five or six years of
imprisonment it is natural to feel some curiosity as to
one's destination."

"You, my dear Monsieur de Rochefort, shall have the post of
confidence; you shall go to Vincennes, where Monsieur de
Beaufort is confined; you will guard him well for me. Well,
what is the matter?"

"The matter is that you have proposed to me what is
impossible," said Rochefort, shaking his head with an air of
disappointment.

"What! impossible? And why is it impossible?"

"Because Monsieur de Beaufort is one of my friends, or
rather, I am one of his. Have you forgotten, my lord, that
it is he who answered for me to the queen?"

"Since then Monsieur de Beaufort has become an enemy of the
State."

"That may be, my lord; but since I am neither king nor queen
nor minister, he is not my enemy and I cannot accept your
offer."

"This, then, is what you call devotion! I congratulate you.
Your devotion does not commit you too far, Monsieur de
Rochefort."

"And then, my lord," continued Rochefort, "you understand
that to emerge from the Bastile in order to enter Vincennes
is only to change one's prison."

"Say at once that you are on the side of Monsieur de
Beaufort; that will be the most sincere line of conduct,"
said Mazarin.

"My lord, I have been so long shut up, that I am only of one
party -- I am for fresh air. Employ me in any other way;
employ me even actively, but let it be on the high roads."

"My dear Monsieur de Rochefort," Mazarin replied in a tone
of raillery, "you think yourself still a young man; your
spirit is that of the phoenix, but your strength fails you.
Believe me, you ought now to take a rest. Here!"

"You decide, then, nothing about me, my lord?"

"On the contrary, I have come to a decision."

Bernouin came into the room.

"Call an officer of justice," he said; "and stay close to
me," he added, in a low tone.

The officer entered. Mazarin wrote a few words, which he
gave to this man; then he bowed.

"Adieu, Monsieur de Rochefort," he said.

Rochefort bent low.

"I see, my lord, I am to be taken back to the Bastile."

"You are sagacious."

"I shall return thither, my lord, but it is a mistake on
your part not to employ me."

"You? the friend of my greatest foes? Don't suppose that you
are the only person who can serve me, Monsieur de Rochefort.
I shall find many men as able as you are."

"I wish you may, my lord," replied De Rochefort.

He was then reconducted by the little staircase, instead of
passing through the ante-chamber where D'Artagnan was
waiting. In the courtyard the carriage and the four
musketeers were ready, but he looked around in vain for his
friend.

"Ah!" he muttered to himself, "this changes the situation,
and if there is still a crowd of people in the streets we
will try to show Mazarin that we are still, thank God, good
for something else than keeping guard over a prisoner;" and
he jumped into the carriage with the alacrity of a man of
five-and-twenty.



4

Anne of Austria at the Age of Forty-six.



When left alone with Bernouin, Mazarin was for some minutes
lost in thought. He had gained much information, but not
enough. Mazarin was a cheat at the card-table. This is a
detail preserved to us by Brienne. He called it using his
advantages. He now determined not to begin the game with
D'Artagnan till he knew completely all his adversary's
cards.

"My lord, have you any commands?" asked Bernouin.

"Yes, yes," replied Mazarin. "Light me; I am going to the
queen."

Bernouin took up a candlestick and led the way.

There was a secret communication between the cardinal's
apartments and those of the queen; and through this
corridor* Mazarin passed whenever he wished to visit Anne of
Austria.



*This secret passage is still to be seen in the Palais
Royal.



In the bedroom in which this passage ended, Bernouin
encountered Madame de Beauvais, like himself intrusted with
the secret of these subterranean love affairs; and Madame de
Beauvais undertook to prepare Anne of Austria, who was in
her oratory with the young king, Louis XIV., to receive the
cardinal.

Anne, reclining in a large easy-chair, her head supported by
her hand, her elbow resting on a table, was looking at her
son, who was turning over the leaves of a large book filled
with pictures. This celebrated woman fully understood the
art of being dull with dignity. It was her practice to pass
hours either in her oratory or in her room, without either
reading or praying.

When Madame de Beauvais appeared at the door and announced
the cardinal, the child, who had been absorbed in the pages
of Quintus Curtius, enlivened as they were by engravings of
Alexander's feats of arms, frowned and looked at his mother.

"Why," he said, "does he enter without first asking for an
audience?"

Anne colored slightly.

"The prime minister," she said, "is obliged in these
unsettled days to inform the queen of all that is happening
from time to time, without exciting the curiosity or remarks
of the court."

"But Richelieu never came in this manner," said the
pertinacious boy.

"How can you remember what Monsieur de Richelieu did? You
were too young to know about such things."

"I do not remember what he did, but I have inquired and I
have been told all about it."

"And who told you about it?" asked Anne of Austria, with a
movement of impatience.

"I know that I ought never to name the persons who answer my
questions," answered the child, "for if I do I shall learn
nothing further."

At this very moment Mazarin entered. The king rose
immediately, took his book, closed it and went to lay it
down on the table, near which he continued standing, in
order that Mazarin might be obliged to stand also.

Mazarin contemplated these proceedings with a thoughtful
glance. They explained what had occurred that evening.

He bowed respectfully to the king, who gave him a somewhat
cavalier reception, but a look from his mother reproved him
for the hatred which, from his infancy, Louis XIV. had
entertained toward Mazarin, and he endeavored to receive the
minister's homage with civility.

Anne of Austria sought to read in Mazarin's face the
occasion of this unexpected visit, since the cardinal
usually came to her apartment only after every one had
retired.

The minister made a slight sign with his head, whereupon the
queen said to Madame Beauvais:

"It is time for the king to go to bed; call Laporte."

The queen had several times already told her son that he
ought to go to bed, and several times Louis had coaxingly
insisted on staying where he was; but now he made no reply,
but turned pale and bit his lips with anger.

In a few minutes Laporte came into the room. The child went
directly to him without kissing his mother.

"Well, Louis," said Anne, "why do you not kiss me?"

"I thought you were angry with me, madame; you sent me
away."

"I do not send you away, but you have had the small-pox and
I am afraid that sitting up late may tire you."

"You had no fears of my being tired when you ordered me to
go to the palace to-day to pass the odious decrees which
have raised the people to rebellion."

"Sire!" interposed Laporte, in order to turn the subject,
"to whom does your majesty wish me to give the candle?"

"To any one, Laporte," the child said; and then added in a
loud voice, "to any one except Mancini."

Now Mancini was a nephew of Mazarin's and was as much hated
by Louis as the cardinal himself, although placed near his
person by the minister.

And the king went out of the room without either embracing
his mother or even bowing to the cardinal.

"Good," said Mazarin, "I am glad to see that his majesty has
been brought up with a hatred of dissimulation."

"Why do you say that?" asked the queen, almost timidly.

"Why, it seems to me that the way in which he left us needs
no explanation. Besides, his majesty takes no pains to
conceal how little affection he has for me. That, however,
does not hinder me from being entirely devoted to his
service, as I am to that of your majesty."

"I ask your pardon for him, cardinal," said the queen; "he
is a child, not yet able to understand his obligations to
you."

The cardinal smiled.

"But," continued the queen, "you have doubtless come for
some important purpose. What is it, then?"

Mazarin sank into a chair with the deepest melancholy
painted on his countenance.

"It is likely," he replied, "that we shall soon be obliged
to separate, unless you love me well enough to follow me to
Italy."

"Why," cried the queen; "how is that?"

"Because, as they say in the opera of `Thisbe,' `The whole
world conspires to break our bonds.'"

"You jest, sir!" answered the queen, endeavoring to assume
something of her former dignity.

"Alas! I do not, madame," rejoined Mazarin. "Mark well what
I say. The whole world conspires to break our bonds. Now as
you are one of the whole world, I mean to say that you also
are deserting me."

"Cardinal!"

"Heavens! did I not see you the other day smile on the Duke
of Orleans? or rather at what he said?"

"And what was he saying?"

"He said this, madame: `Mazarin is a stumbling-block. Send
him away and all will then be well.'"

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Oh, madame! you are the queen!"

"Queen, forsooth! when I am at the mercy of every scribbler
in the Palais Royal who covers waste paper with nonsense, or
of every country squire in the kingdom."

"Nevertheless, you have still the power of banishing from
your presence those whom you do not like!"

"That is to say, whom you do not like," returned the queen.

"I! persons whom I do not like!"

"Yes, indeed. Who sent away Madame de Chevreuse after she
had been persecuted twelve years under the last reign?"

"A woman of intrigue, who wanted to keep up against me the
spirit of cabal she had raised against M. de Richelieu."

"Who dismissed Madame de Hautefort, that friend so loyal
that she refused the favor of the king that she might remain
in mine?"

"A prude, who told you every night, as she undressed you,
that it was a sin to love a priest, just as if one were a
priest because one happens to be a cardinal."

"Who ordered Monsieur de Beaufort to be arrested?"

"An incendiary the burden of whose song was his intention to
assassinate me."

"You see, cardinal," replied the queen, "that your enemies
are mine."

"That is not enough madame, it is necessary that your
friends should be also mine."

"My friends, monsieur?" The queen shook her head. "Alas, I
have them no longer!"

"How is it that you have no friends in your prosperity when
you had many in adversity?"

"It is because in my prosperity I forgot those old friends,
monsieur; because I have acted like Queen Marie de Medicis,
who, returning from her first exile, treated with contempt
all those who had suffered for her and, being proscribed a
second time, died at Cologne abandoned by every one, even by
her own son."

"Well, let us see," said Mazarin; "isn't there still time to
repair the evil? Search among your friends, your oldest
friends."

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Nothing else than I say -- search."

"Alas, I look around me in vain! I have no influence with
any one. Monsieur is, as usual, led by his favorite;
yesterday it was Choisy, to-day it is La Riviere, to-morrow
it will be some one else. Monsieur le Prince is led by the
coadjutor, who is led by Madame de Guemenee."

"Therefore, madame, I ask you to look, not among your
friends of to-day, but among those of other times."

"Among my friends of other times?" said the queen.

"Yes, among your friends of other times; among those who
aided you to contend against the Duc de Richelieu and even
to conquer him."

"What is he aiming at?" murmured the queen, looking uneasily
at the cardinal.

"Yes," continued his eminence; "under certain circumstances,
with that strong and shrewd mind your majesty possesses,
aided by your friends, you were able to repel the attacks of
that adversary."

"I!" said the queen. "I suffered, that is all."

"Yes." said Mazarin, "as women suffer in avenging
themselves. Come, let us come to the point. Do you know
Monsieur de Rochefort?"

"One of my bitterest enemies -- the faithful friend of
Cardinal Richelieu."

"I know that, and we sent him to the Bastile," said Mazarin.

"Is he at liberty?" asked the queen.

"No; still there, but I only speak of him in order that I
may introduce the name of another man. Do you know Monsieur
d'Artagnan?" he added, looking steadfastly at the queen.

Anne of Austria received the blow with a beating heart.

"Has the Gascon been indiscreet?" she murmured to herself,
then said aloud:

"D'Artagnan! stop an instant, the name seems certainly
familiar. D'Artagnan! there was a musketeer who was in love
with one of my women. Poor young creature! she was poisoned
on my account."

"That's all you know of him?" asked Mazarin.

The queen looked at him, surprised.

"You seem, sir," she remarked, "to be making me undergo a
course of cross-examination."

"Which you answer according to your fancy," replied Mazarin.

"Tell me your wishes and I will comply with them."

The queen spoke with some impatience.

"Well, madame," said Mazarin, bowing, "I desire that you
give me a share in your friends, as I have shared with you
the little industry and talent that Heaven has given me. The
circumstances are grave and it will be necessary to act
promptly."

"Still!" said the queen. "I thought that we were finally
quit of Monsieur de Beaufort."

"Yes, you saw only the torrent that threatened to overturn
everything and you gave no attention to the still water.
There is, however, a proverb current in France relating to
water which is quiet."

"Continue," said the queen.

"Well, then, madame, not a day passes in which I do not
suffer affronts from your princes and your lordly servants,
all of them automata who do not perceive that I wind up the
spring that makes them move, nor do they see that beneath my
quiet demeanor lies the still scorn of an injured, irritated
man, who has sworn to himself to master them one of these
days. We have arrested Monsieur de Beaufort, but he is the
least dangerous among them. There is the Prince de Conde
---- "

"The hero of Rocroy. Do you think of him?"

"Yes, madame, often and often, but pazienza, as we say in
Italy; next, after Monsieur de Conde, comes the Duke of
Orleans."

"What are you saying? The first prince of the blood, the
king's uncle!"

"No! not the first prince of the blood, not the king's
uncle, but the base conspirator, the soul of every cabal,
who pretends to lead the brave people who are weak enough to
believe in the honor of a prince of the blood -- not the
prince nearest to the throne, not the king's uncle, I
repeat, but the murderer of Chalais, of Montmorency and of
Cinq-Mars, who is playing now the same game he played long
ago and who thinks that he will win the game because he has
a new adversary -- instead of a man who threatened, a man
who smiles. But he is mistaken; I shall not leave so near
the queen that source of discord with which the deceased
cardinal so often caused the anger of the king to rage above
the boiling point."

Anne blushed and buried her face in her hands.

"What am I to do?" she said, bowed down beneath the voice of
her tyrant.

"Endeavor to remember the names of those faithful servants
who crossed the Channel, in spite of Monsieur de Richelieu,
tracking the roads along which they passed by their blood,
to bring back to your majesty certain jewels given by you to
Buckingham."

Anne arose, full of majesty, and as if touched by a spring,
and looking at the cardinal with the haughty dignity which
in the days of her youth had made her so powerful: "You are
insulting me!" she said.

"I wish," continued Mazarin, finishing, as it were, the
speech this sudden movement of the queen had cut; "I wish,
in fact, that you should now do for your husband what you
formerly did for your lover."

"Again that accusation!" cried the queen. "I thought that
calumny was stifled or extinct; you have spared me till now,
but since you speak of it, once for all, I tell you ---- "

"Madame, I do not ask you to tell me," said Mazarin,
astounded by this returning courage.

"I will tell you all," replied Anne. "Listen: there were in
truth, at that epoch, four devoted hearts, four loyal
spirits, four faithful swords, who saved more than my life
-- my honor ---- "

"Ah! you confess it!" exclaimed Mazarin.

"Is it only the guilty whose honor is at the sport of
others, sir? and cannot women be dishonored by appearances?
Yes, appearances were against me and I was about to suffer
dishonor. However, I swear I was not guilty, I swear it by
---- "

The queen looked around her for some sacred object by which
she could swear, and taking out of a cupboard hidden in the
tapestry, a small coffer of rosewood set in silver, and
laying it on the altar:

"I swear," she said, "by these sacred relics that Buckingham
was not my lover."

"What relics are those by which you swear?" asked Mazarin,
smiling. "I am incredulous."

The queen untied from around her throat a small golden key
which hung there, and presented it to the cardinal.

"Open, sir," she said, "and look for yourself."

Mazarin opened the coffer; a knife, covered with rust, and
two letters, one of which was stained with blood, alone met
his gaze.

"What are these things?" he asked.

"What are these things?" replied Anne, with queen-like
dignity, extending toward the open coffer an arm, despite
the lapse of years, still beautiful. "These two letters are
the only ones I ever wrote to him. This knife is the knife
with which Felton stabbed him. Read the letters and see if I
have lied or spoken the truth."

But Mazarin, notwithstanding this permission, instead of
reading the letters, took the knife which the dying
Buckingham had snatched out of the wound and sent by Laporte
to the queen. The blade was red, for the blood had become
rust; after a momentary examination during which the queen
became as white as the cloth which covered the altar on
which she was leaning, he put it back into the coffer with
an involuntary shudder.

"It is well, madame, I believe your oath."

"No, no, read," exclaimed the queen, indignantly; "read, I
command you, for I am resolved that everything shall be
finished to-night and never will I recur to this subject
again. Do you think," she said, with a ghastly smile, "that
I shall be inclined to reopen this coffer to answer any
future accusations?"

Mazarin, overcome by this determination, read the two
letters. In one the queen asked for the ornaments back
again. This letter had been conveyed by D'Artagnan and had
arrived in time. The other was that which Laporte had placed
in the hands of the Duke of Buckingham, warning him that he
was about to be assassinated; that communication had arrived
too late.

"It is well, madame," said Mazarin; "nothing can gainsay
such testimony."

"Sir," replied the queen, closing the coffer and leaning her
hand upon it, "if there is anything to be said, it is that I
have always been ungrateful to the brave men who saved me --
that I have given nothing to that gallant officer,
D'Artagnan, you were speaking of just now, but my hand to
kiss and this diamond."

As she spoke she extended her beautiful hand to the cardinal
and showed him a superb diamond which sparkled on her
finger.

"It appears," she resumed, "that he sold it ---he sold it in
order to save me another time -- to be able to send a
messenger to the duke to warn him of his danger -- he sold
it to Monsieur des Essarts, on whose finger I remarked it. I
bought it from him, but it belongs to D'Artagnan. Give it
back to him, sir, and since you have such a man in your
service, make him useful."

"Thank you, madame," said Mazarin. "I will profit by the
advice."

"And now," added the queen, her voice broken by her emotion,
"have you any other question to ask me?"

"Nothing," -- the cardinal spoke in his most conciliatory
manner -- "except to beg of you to forgive my unworthy
suspicions. I love you so tenderly that I cannot help being
jealous, even of the past."

A smile, which was indefinable, passed over the lips of the
queen.

"Since you have no further interrogations to make, leave me,
I beseech you," she said. "I wish, after such a scene, to be
alone."

Mazarin bent low before her.

"I will retire, madame. Do you permit me to return?"

"Yes, to-morrow."

The cardinal took the queen's hand and pressed it with an
air of gallantry to his lips.

Scarcely had he left her when the queen went into her son's
room, and inquired from Laporte if the king was in bed.
Laporte pointed to the child, who was asleep.

Anne ascended the steps side of the bed and softly kissed
the placid forehead of her son; then she retired as silently
as she had come, merely saying to Laporte:

"Try, my dear Laporte, to make the king more courteous to
Monsieur le Cardinal, to whom both he and I are under such
important obligations."



5

The Gascon and the Italian.



Meanwhile the cardinal returned to his own room; and after
asking Bernouin, who stood at the door, whether anything had
occurred during his absence, and being answered in the
negative, he desired that he might be left alone.

When he was alone he opened the door of the corridor and
then that of the ante-chamber. There D'Artagnan was asleep
upon a bench.

The cardinal went up to him and touched his shoulder.
D'Artagnan started, awakened himself, and as he awoke, stood
up exactly like a soldier under arms.

"Here I am," said he. "Who calls me?"

"I," said Mazarin, with his most smiling expression.

"I ask pardon of your eminence," said D'Artagnan, "but I was
so fatigued ---- "

"Don't ask my pardon, monsieur," said Mazarin, "for you
fatigued yourself in my service."

D'Artagnan admired Mazarin's gracious manner. "Ah," said he,
between his teeth, "is there truth in the proverb that
fortune comes while one sleeps?"

"Follow me, monsieur," said Mazarin.

"Come, come," murmured D'Artagnan, "Rochefort has kept his
promise, but where in the devil is he?" And he searched the
cabinet even to the smallest recesses, but there was no sign
of Rochefort.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the cardinal, sitting down on a
fauteuil, "you have always seemed to me to be a brave and
honorable man."

"Possibly," thought D'Artagnan, "but he has taken a long
time to let me know his thoughts;" nevertheless, he bowed to
the very ground in gratitude for Mazarin's compliment.

"Well," continued Mazarin, "the time has come to put to use
your talents and your valor."

There was a sudden gleam of joy in the officer's eyes, which
vanished immediately, for he knew nothing of Mazarin's
purpose.

"Order, my lord," he said; "I am ready to obey your
eminence."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued the cardinal, "you
performed sundry superb exploits in the last reign."

"Your eminence is too good to remember such trifles in my
favor. It is true I fought with tolerable success."

"I don't speak of your warlike exploits, monsieur," said
Mazarin; "although they gained you much reputation, they
were surpassed by others."

D'Artagnan pretended astonishment.

"Well, you do not reply?" resumed Mazarin.

"I am waiting, my lord, till you tell me of what exploits
you speak."

"I speak of the adventure -- Eh, you know well what I mean."

"Alas, no, my lord!" replied D'Artagnan, surprised.

"You are discreet -- so much the better. I speak of that
adventure in behalf of the queen, of the ornaments, of the
journey you made with three of your friends."

"Aha!" thought the Gascon; "is this a snare or not? Let me
be on my guard."

And he assumed a look of stupidity which Mendori or
Bellerose, two of the first actors of the day, might have
envied.

"Bravo!" cried Mazarin; "they told me that you were the man
I wanted. Come, let us see what you will do for me."

"Everything that your eminence may please to command me,"
was the reply.

"You will do for me what you have done for the queen?"

"Certainly," D'Artagnan said to himself, "he wishes to make
me speak out. He's not more cunning than De Richelieu was!
Devil take him!" Then he said aloud:

"The queen, my lord? I don't comprehend."

"You don't comprehend that I want you and your three friends
to be of use to me?"

"Which of my friends, my lord?"

"Your three friends -- the friends of former days."

"Of former days, my lord! In former days I had not only
three friends, I had thirty; at two-and-twenty one calls
every man one's friend."

"Well, sir," returned Mazarin, "prudence is a fine thing,
but to-day you might regret having been too prudent."

"My lord, Pythagoras made his disciples keep silence for
five years that they might learn to hold their tongues."

"But you have been silent for twenty years, sir. Speak, now
the queen herself releases you from your promise."

"The queen!" said D'Artagnan, with an astonishment which
this time was not pretended.

"Yes, the queen! And as a proof of what I say she commanded
me to show you this diamond, which she thinks you know."

And so saying, Mazarin extended his hand to the officer, who
sighed as he recognized the ring so gracefully given to him
by the queen on the night of the ball at the Hotel de Ville
and which she had repurchased from Monsieur des Essarts.

"'Tis true. I remember well that diamond, which belonged to
the queen."

"You see, then, that I speak to you in the queen's name.
Answer me without acting as if you were on the stage; your
interests are concerned in your so doing."

"Faith, my lord, it is very necessary for me to make my
fortune, your eminence has so long forgotten me."

"We need only a week to amend all that. Come, you are
accounted for, you are here, but where are your friends?"

"I do not know, my lord. We have parted company this long
time; all three have left the service."

"Where can you find them, then?"

"Wherever they are, that's my business."

"Well, now, what are your conditions, if I employ you?"

"Money, my lord, as much money as what you wish me to
undertake will require. I remember too well how sometimes we
were stopped for want of money, and but for that diamond,
which I was obliged to sell, we should have remained on the
road."

"The devil he does! Money! and a large sum!" said Mazarin.
"Pray, are you aware that the king has no money in his
treasury?"

"Do then as I did, my lord. Sell the crown diamonds. Trust
me, don't let us try to do things cheaply. Great
undertakings come poorly off with paltry means."

"Well," returned Mazarin, "we will satisfy you."

"Richelieu," thought D'Artagnan, "would have given me five
hundred pistoles in advance."

"You will then be at my service?" asked Mazarin.

"Yes, if my friends agree."

"But if they refuse can I count on you?"

"I have never accomplished anything alone," said D'Artagnan,
shaking his head.

"Go, then, and find them."

"What shall I say to them by way of inducement to serve your
eminence?"

"You know them better than I. Adapt your promises to their
respective characters."

"What shall I promise?"

"That if they serve me as well as they served the queen my
gratitude shall be magnificent."

"But what are we to do?"

"Make your mind easy; when the time for action comes you
shall be put in full possession of what I require from you;
wait till that time arrives and find out your friends."

"My lord, perhaps they are not in Paris. It is even probable
that I shall have to make a journey. I am only a lieutenant
of musketeers, very poor, and journeys cost money.

"My intention," said Mazarin, "is not that you go with a
great following; my plans require secrecy, and would be
jeopardized by a too extravagant equipment."

"Still, my lord, I can't travel on my pay, for it is now
three months behind; and I can't travel on my savings, for
in my twenty-two years of service I have accumulated nothing
but debts."

Mazarin remained some moments in deep thought, as if he were
fighting with himself; then, going to a large cupboard
closed with a triple lock, he took from it a bag of silver,
and weighing it twice in his hands before he gave it to
D'Artagnan:

"Take this," he said with a sigh, "'tis merely for your
journey."

"If these are Spanish doubloons, or even gold crowns,"
thought D'Artagnan, "we shall yet be able to do business
together." He saluted the cardinal and plunged the bag into
the depths of an immense pocket.

"Well, then, all is settled; you are to set off," said the
cardinal.

"Yes, my lord."

"Apropos, what are the names of your friends?"

"The Count de la Fere, formerly styled Athos; Monsieur du
Vallon, whom we used to call Porthos; the Chevalier
d'Herblay, now the Abbe d'Herblay, whom we styled Aramis
---- "

The cardinal smiled.

"Younger sons," he said, "who enlisted in the musketeers
under feigned names in order not to lower their family
names. Long swords but light purses. Was that it?"

"If, God willing, these swords should be devoted to the
service of your eminence," said D'Artagnan, "I shall venture
to express a wish, which is, that in its turn the purse of
your eminence may become light and theirs heavy -- for with
these three men your eminence may rouse all Europe if you
like."

"These Gascons," said the cardinal, laughing, "almost beat
the Italians in effrontery."

"At all events," answered D'Artagnan, with a smile almost as
crafty as the cardinal's, "they beat them when they draw
their swords."

He then withdrew, and as he passed into the courtyard he
stopped near a lamp and dived eagerly into the bag of money.

"Crown pieces only -- silver pieces! I suspected it. Ah!
Mazarin! Mazarin! thou hast no confidence in me! so much the
worse for thee, for harm may come of it!"

Meanwhile the cardinal was rubbing his hands in great
satisfaction.

"A hundred pistoles! a hundred pistoles! for a hundred
pistoles I have discovered a secret for which Richelieu
would have paid twenty thousand crowns; without reckoning
the value of that diamond" -- he cast a complacent look at
the ring, which he had kept, instead of restoring to
D'Artagnan -- "which is worth, at least, ten thousand
francs."

He returned to his room, and after depositing the ring in a
casket filled with brilliants of every sort, for the
cardinal was a connoisseur in precious stones, he called to
Bernouin to undress him, regardless of the noises of
gun-fire that, though it was now near midnight, continued to
resound through Paris.

In the meantime D'Artagnan took his way toward the Rue
Tiquetonne, where he lived at the Hotel de la Chevrette.

We will explain in a few words how D'Artagnan had been led
to choose that place of residence.



6

D'Artagnan in his Fortieth Year.



Years have elapsed, many events have happened, alas! since,
in our romance of "The Three Musketeers," we took leave of
D'Artagnan at No. 12 Rue des Fossoyeurs. D'Artagnan had not
failed in his career, but circumstances had been adverse to
him. So long as he was surrounded by his friends he retained
his youth and the poetry of his character. He was one of
those fine, ingenuous natures which assimilate themselves
easily to the dispositions of others. Athos imparted to him
his greatness of soul, Porthos his enthusiasm, Aramis his
elegance. Had D'Artagnan continued his intimacy with these
three men he would have become a superior character. Athos
was the first to leave him, in order that he might retire to
a little property he had inherited near Blois; Porthos, the
second, to marry an attorney's wife; and lastly, Aramis, the
third, to take orders and become an abbe. From that day
D'Artagnan felt lonely and powerless, without courage to
pursue a career in which he could only distinguish himself
on condition that each of his three companions should endow
him with one of the gifts each had received from Heaven.

Notwithstanding his commission in the musketeers, D'Artagnan
felt completely solitary. For a time the delightful
remembrance of Madame Bonancieux left on his character a
certain poetic tinge, perishable indeed; for like all other
recollections in this world, these impressions were, by
degrees, effaced. A garrison life is fatal even to the most
aristocratic organization; and imperceptibly, D'Artagnan,
always in the camp, always on horseback, always in garrison,
became (I know not how in the present age one would express
it) a typical trooper. His early refinement of character was
not only not lost, it grew even greater than ever; but it
was now applied to the little, instead of to the great
things of life -- to the martial condition of the soldier --
comprised under the head of a good lodging, a rich table, a
congenial hostess. These important advantages D'Artagnan
found to his own taste in the Rue Tiquetonne at the sign of
the Roe.

From the time D'Artagnan took quarters in that hotel, the
mistress of the house, a pretty and fresh looking Flemish
woman, twenty-five or twenty-six years old, had been
singularly interested in him; and after certain love
passages, much obstructed by an inconvenient husband to whom
a dozen times D'Artagnan had made a pretence of passing a
sword through his body, that husband had disappeared one
fine morning, after furtively selling certain choice lots of
wine, carrying away with him money and jewels. He was
thought to be dead; his wife, especially, who cherished the
pleasing idea that she was a widow, stoutly maintained that
death had taken him. Therefore, after the connection had
continued three years, carefully fostered by D'Artagnan, who
found his bed and his mistress more agreeable every year,
each doing credit to the other, the mistress conceived the
extraordinary desire of becoming a wife and proposed to
D'Artagnan that he should marry her.

"Ah, fie!" D'Artagnan replied. "Bigamy, my dear! Come now,
you don't really wish it?"

"But he is dead; I am sure of it."

"He was a very contrary fellow and might come back on
purpose to have us hanged."

"All right; if he comes back you will kill him, you are so
skillful and so brave."

"Peste! my darling! another way of getting hanged."

"So you refuse my request?"

"To be sure I do -- furiously!"

The pretty landlady was desolate. She would have taken
D'Artagnan not only as her husband, but as her God, he was
so handsome and had so fierce a mustache.

Then along toward the fourth year came the expedition of
Franche-Comte. D'Artagnan was assigned to it and made his
preparations to depart. There were then great griefs, tears
without end and solemn promises to remain faithful -- all of
course on the part of the hostess. D'Artagnan was too grand
to promise anything; he purposed only to do all that he
could to increase the glory of his name.

As to that, we know D'Artagnan's courage; he exposed himself
freely to danger and while charging at the head of his
company he received a ball through the chest which laid him
prostrate on the field of battle. He had been seen falling
from his horse and had not been seen to rise; every one,
therefore, believed him to be dead, especially those to whom
his death would give promotion. One believes readily what he
wishes to believe. Now in the army, from the
division-generals who desire the: death of the
general-in-chief, to the soldiers who desire the death of
the corporals, all desire some one's death.

But D'Artagnan was not a man to let himself be killed like
that. After he had remained through the heat of the day
unconscious on the battle-field, the cool freshness of the
night brought him to himself. He gained a village, knocked
at the door of the finest house and was received as the
wounded are always and everywhere received in France. He was
petted, tended, cured; and one fine morning, in better
health than ever before, he set out for France. Once in
France he turned his course toward Paris, and reaching Paris
went straight to Rue Tiquetonne.

But D'Artagnan found in his chamber the personal equipment
of a man, complete, except for the sword, arranged along the
wall.

"He has returned," said he. "So much the worse, and so much
the better!"

It need not be said that D'Artagnan was still thinking of
the husband. He made inquiries and discovered that the
servants were new and that the mistress had gone for a walk.

"Alone?" asked D'Artagnan.

"With monsieur."

"Monsieur has returned, then?"

"Of course," naively replied the servant.

"If I had any money," said D'Artagnan to himself, "I would
go away; but I have none. I must stay and follow the advice
of my hostess, while thwarting the conjugal designs of this
inopportune apparition."

He had just completed this monologue -- which proves that in
momentous circumstances nothing is more natural than the
monologue -- when the servant-maid, watching at the door,
suddenly cried out:

"Ah! see! here is madame returning with monsieur."

D'Artagnan looked out and at the corner of Rue Montmartre
saw the hostess coming along hanging to the arm of an
enormous Swiss, who tiptoed in his walk with a magnificent
air which pleasantly reminded him of his old friend Porthos.

"Is that monsieur?" said D'Artagnan to himself. "Oh! oh! he
has grown a good deal, it seems to me." And he sat down in
the hall, choosing a conspicuous place.

The hostess, as she entered, saw D'Artagnan and uttered a
little cry, whereupon D'Artagnan, judging that he had been
recognized, rose, ran to her and embraced her tenderly. The
Swiss, with an air of stupefaction, looked at the hostess,
who turned pale.

"Ah, it is you, monsieur! What do you want of me?" she
asked, in great distress.

"Is monsieur your cousin? Is monsieur your brother?" said
D'Artagnan, not in the slightest degree embarrassed in the
role he was playing. And without waiting for her reply he
threw himself into the arms of the Helvetian, who received
him with great coldness.

"Who is that man?" he asked.

The hostess replied only by gasps.

"Who is that Swiss?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Monsieur is going to marry me," replied the hostess,
between two gasps.

"Your husband, then, is at last dead?"

"How does that concern you?" replied the Swiss.

"It concerns me much," said D'Artagnan, "since you cannot
marry madame without my consent and since ---- "

"And since?" asked the Swiss.

"And since -- I do not give it," said the musketeer.

The Swiss became as purple as a peony. He wore his elegant
uniform, D'Artagnan was wrapped in a sort of gray cloak; the
Swiss was six feet high, D'Artagnan was hardly more than
five; the Swiss considered himself on his own ground and
regarded D'Artagnan as an intruder.

"Will you go away from here?" demanded the Swiss, stamping
violently, like a man who begins to be seriously angry.

"I? By no means!" said D'Artagnan.

"Some one must go for help," said a lad, who could not
comprehend that this little man should make a stand against
that other man, who was so large.

D'Artagnan, with a sudden accession of wrath, seized the lad
by the ear and led him apart, with the injunction:

"Stay you where you are and don't you stir, or I will pull
this ear off. As for you, illustrious descendant of William
Tell, you will straightway get together your clothes which
are in my room and which annoy me, and go out quickly to
another lodging."

The Swiss began to laugh boisterously. "I go out?" he said.
"And why?"

"Ah, very well!" said D'Artagnan; "I see that you understand
French. Come then, and take a turn with me and I will
explain."

The hostess, who knew D'Artagnan's skill with the sword,
began to weep and tear her hair. D'Artagnan turned toward
her, saying, "Then send him away, madame."

"Pooh!" said the Swiss, who had needed a little time to take
in D'Artagnan's proposal, "pooh! who are you, in the first
place, to ask me to take a turn with you?"

"I am lieutenant in his majesty's musketeers," said
D'Artagnan, "and consequently your superior in everything;
only, as the question now is not of rank, but of quarters --
you know the custom -- come and seek for yours; the first to
return will recover his chamber."

D'Artagnan led away the Swiss in spite of lamentations on
the part of the hostess, who in reality found her heart
inclining toward her former lover, though she would not have
been sorry to give a lesson to that haughty musketeer who
had affronted her by the refusal of her hand.

It was night when the two adversaries reached the field of
battle. D'Artagnan politely begged the Swiss to yield to him
the disputed chamber; the Swiss refused by shaking his head,
and drew his sword.

"Then you will lie here," said D'Artagnan. "It is a wretched
bed, but that is not my fault, and it is you who have chosen
it." With these words he drew in his turn and crossed swords
with his adversary.

He had to contend against a strong wrist, but his agility
was superior to all force. The Swiss received two wounds and
was not aware of it, by reason of the cold; but suddenly
feebleness, occasioned by loss of blood, obliged him to sit
down.

"There!" said: D'Artagnan, "what did I tell you?
Fortunately, you won't be laid up more than a fortnight.
Remain here and I will send you your clothes by the boy.
Good-by! Oh, by the way, you'd better take lodging in the
Rue Montorgueil at the Chat Qui Pelote. You will be well fed
there, if the hostess remains the same. Adieu."

Thereupon he returned in a lively mood to his room and sent
to the Swiss the things that belonged to him. The boy found
him sitting where D'Artagnan had left him, still overwhelmed
by the coolness of his adversary.

The boy, the hostess, and all the house had the same regard
for D'Artagnan that one would have for Hercules should he
return to earth to repeat his twelve labors.

But when he was alone with the hostess he said: "Now, pretty
Madeleine, you know the difference between a Swiss and a
gentleman. As for you, you have acted like a barmaid. So
much the worse for you, for by such conduct you have lost my
esteem and my patronage. I have driven away the Swiss to
humiliate you, but I shall lodge here no longer. I will not
sleep where I must scorn. Ho, there, boy! Have my valise
carried to the Muid d'Amour, Rue des Bourdonnais. Adieu,
madame."

In saying these words D'Artagnan appeared at the same time
majestic and grieved. The hostess threw herself at his feet,
asked his pardon and held him back with a sweet violence.
What more need be said? The spit turned, the stove roared,
the pretty Madeleine wept; D'Artagnan felt himself invaded
by hunger, cold and love. He pardoned, and having pardoned
he remained.

And this explains how D'Artagnan had quarters in the Rue
Tiquetonne, at the Hotel de la Chevrette.

D'Artagnan, then returned home in thoughtful mood, finding a
somewhat lively pleasure in carrying Mazarin's bag of money
and thinking of that fine diamond which he had once called
his own and which he had seen on the minister's finger that
night.

"Should that diamond ever fall into my hands again," he
reflected, "I would turn it at once into money; I would buy
with the proceeds certain lands around my father's chateau,
which is a pretty place, well enough, but with no land to it
at all, except a garden about the size of the Cemetery des
Innocents; and I should wait in all my glory till some rich
heiress, attracted by my good looks, rode along to marry me.
Then I should like to have three sons; I should make the
first a nobleman, like Athos; the second a good soldier,
like Porthos; the third an excellent abbe, like Aramis.
Faith! that would be a far better life than I lead now; but
Monsieur Mazarin is a mean wretch, who won't dispossess
himself of his diamond in my favor."

On entering the Rue Tiquetonne he heard a tremendous noise
and found a dense crowd near the house.

"Oho!" said he, "is the hotel on fire?" On approaching the
hotel of the Roe he found, however, that it was in front of
the next house the mob was collected. The people were
shouting and running about with torches. By the light of one
of these torches D'Artagnan perceived men in uniform.

He asked what was going on.

He was told that twenty citizens, headed by one man, had
attacked a carriage which was escorted by a troop of the
cardinal's bodyguard; but a reinforcement having come up,
the assailants had been put to flight and the leader had
taken refuge in the hotel next to his lodgings; the house
was now being searched.

In his youth D'Artagnan had often headed the bourgeoisie
against the military, but he was cured of all those
hot-headed propensities; besides, he had the cardinal's
hundred pistoles in his pocket, so he went into the hotel
without a word. There he found Madeleine alarmed for his
safety and anxious to tell him all the events of the
evening, but he cut her short by ordering her to put his
supper in his room and give him with it a bottle of good
Burgundy.

He took his key and candle and went upstairs to his bedroom.
He had been contented, for the convenience of the house, to
lodge in the fourth story; and truth obliges us even to
confess that his chamber was just above the gutter and below
the roof. His first care on entering it was to lock up in an
old bureau with a new lock his bag of money, and then as
soon as supper was ready he sent away the waiter who brought
it up and sat down to table.

Not to reflect on what had passed, as one might fancy. No,
D'Artagnan considered that things are never well done when
they are not reserved to their proper time. He was hungry;
he supped, he went to bed. Neither was he one of those who
think that the necessary silence of the night brings counsel
with it. In the night he slept, but in the morning,
refreshed and calm, he was inspired with his clearest views
of everything. It was long since he had any reason for his
morning's inspiration, but he always slept all night long.
At daybreak he awoke and took a turn around his room.

"In '43," he said, "just before the death of the late
cardinal, I received a letter from Athos. Where was I then?
Let me see. Oh! at the siege of Besancon I was in the
trenches. He told me -- let me think -- what was it? That he
was living on a small estate -- but where? I was just
reading the name of the place when the wind blew my letter
away, I suppose to the Spaniards; there's no use in thinking
any more about Athos. Let me see: with regard to Porthos, I
received a letter from him, too. He invited me to a hunting
party on his property in the month of September, 1646.
Unluckily, as I was then in Bearn, on account of my father's
death, the letter followed me there. I had left Bearn when
it arrived and I never received it until the month of April,
1647; and as the invitation was for September, 1646, I
couldn't accept it. Let me look for this letter; it must be
with my title deeds."

D'Artagnan opened an old casket which stood in a corner of
the room, and which was full of parchments referring to an
estate during a period of two hundred years lost to his
family. He uttered an exclamation of delight, for the large
handwriting of Porthos was discernible, and underneath some
lines traced by his worthy spouse.

D'Artagnan eagerly searched for the heading of this letter;
it was dated from the Chateau du Vallon.

Porthos had forgotten that any other address was necessary;
in his pride he fancied that every one must know the Chateau
du Vallon.

"Devil take the vain fellow," said D'Artagnan. "However, I
had better find him out first, since he can't want money.
Athos must have become an idiot by this time from drinking.
Aramis must have worn himself to a shadow of his former self
by constant genuflexion."

He cast his eyes again on the letter. There was a
postscript:

"I write by the same courier to our worthy friend Aramis in
his convent."

"In his convent! What convent? There are about two hundred
in Paris and three thousand in France; and then, perhaps, on
entering the convent he changed his name. Ah! if I were but
learned in theology I should recollect what it was he used
to dispute about with the curate of Montdidier and the
superior of the Jesuits, when we were at Crevecoeur; I
should know what doctrine he leans to and I should glean
from that what saint he has adopted as his patron.

"Well, suppose I go back to the cardinal and ask him for a
passport into all the convents one can find, even into the
nunneries? It would be a curious idea, and maybe I should
find my friend under the name of Achilles. But, no! I should
lose myself in the cardinal's opinion. Great people only
thank you for doing the impossible; what's possible, they
say, they can effect themselves, and they are right. But let
us wait a little and reflect. I received a letter from him,
the dear fellow, in which he even asked me for some small
service, which, in fact, I rendered him. Yes, yes; but now
what did I do with that letter?"

D'Artagnan thought a moment and then went to the wardrobe in
which hung his old clothes. He looked for his doublet of the
year 1648 and as he had orderly habits, he found it hanging
on its nail. He felt in the pocket and drew from it a paper;
it was the letter of Aramis:



"Monsieur D'Artagnan: You know that I have had a quarrel
with a certain gentleman, who has given me an appointment
for this evening in the Place Royale. As I am of the church,
and the affair might injure me if I should share it with any
other than a sure friend like you, I write to beg that you
will serve me as second.

"You will enter by the Rue Neuve Sainte Catherine; under the
second lamp on the right you will find your adversary. I
shall be with mine under the third.

"Wholly yours,

"Aramis."



D'Artagnan tried to recall his remembrances. He had gone to
the rendezvous, had encountered there the adversary
indicated, whose name he had never known, had given him a
pretty sword-stroke on the arm, then had gone toward Aramis,
who at the same time came to meet him, having already
finished his affair. "It is over," Aramis had said. "I think
I have killed the insolent fellow. But, dear friend, if you
ever need me you know that I am entirely devoted to you."
Thereupon Aramis had given him a clasp of the hand and had
disappeared under the arcades.

So, then, he no more knew where Aramis was than where Athos
and Porthos were, and the affair was becoming a matter of
great perplexity, when he fancied he heard a pane of glass
break in his room window. He thought directly of his bag and
rushed from the inner room where he was sleeping. He was not
mistaken; as he entered his bedroom a man was getting in by
the window.

"Ah! you scoundrel!" cried D'Artagnan, taking the man for a
thief and seizing his sword.

"Sir!" cried the man, "in the name of Heaven put your sword
back into the sheath and don't kill me unheard. I'm no
thief, but an honest citizen, well off in the world, with a
house of my own. My name is -- ah! but surely you are
Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"And thou -- Planchet!" cried the lieutenant.

"At your service, sir," said Planchet, overwhelmed with joy;
"if I were still capable of serving you."

"Perhaps so," replied D'Artagnan. "But why the devil dost
thou run about the tops of houses at seven o'clock of the
morning in the month of January?"

"Sir," said Planchet, "you must know; but, perhaps you ought
not to know ---- "

"Tell us what," returned D'Artagnan, "but first put a napkin
against the window and draw the curtains."

"Sir," said the prudent Planchet, "in the first place, are
you on good terms with Monsieur de Rochefort?"

"Perfectly; one of my dearest friends."

"Ah! so much the better!"

"But what has De Rochefort to do with this manner you have
of invading my room?"

"Ah, sir! I must first tell you that Monsieur de Rochefort
is ---- "

Planchet hesitated.

"Egad, I know where he is," said D'Artagnan. "He's in the
Bastile."

"That is to say, he was there," replied Planchet. "But in
returning thither last night, when fortunately you did not
accompany him, as his carriage was crossing the Rue de la
Ferronnerie his guards insulted the people, who began to
abuse them. The prisoner thought this a good opportunity for
escape; he called out his name and cried for help. I was
there. I heard the name of Rochefort. I remembered him well.
I said in a loud voice that he was a prisoner, a friend of
the Duc de Beaufort, who called for help. The people were
infuriated; they stopped the horses and cut the escort to
pieces, whilst I opened the doors of the carriage and
Monsieur de Rochefort jumped out and soon was lost amongst
the crowd. At this moment a patrol passed by. I was obliged
to sound a retreat toward the Rue Tiquetonne; I was pursued
and took refuge in the house next to this, where I have been
concealed between two mattresses. This morning I ventured to
run along the gutters and ---- "

"Well," interrupted D'Artagnan, "I am delight that De
Rochefort is free, but as for thee, if thou shouldst fall
into the hands of the king's servants they will hang thee
without mercy. Nevertheless, I promise thee thou shalt be
hidden here, though I risk by concealing thee neither more
nor less than my lieutenancy, if it was found out that I
gave one rebel an asylum."

"Ah! sir, you know well I would risk my life for you."

"Thou mayst add that thou hast risked it, Planchet. I have
not forgotten all I owe thee. Sit down there and eat in
security. I see thee cast expressive glances at the remains
of my supper."

"Yes, sir; for all I've had since yesterday was a slice of
bread and butter, with preserves on it. Although I don't
despise sweet things in proper time and place, I found the
supper rather light."

"Poor fellow!" said D'Artagnan. "Well, come; set to."

"Ah, sir, you are going to save my life a second time!"
cried Planchet.

And he seated himself at the table and ate as he did in the
merry days of the Rue des Fossoyeurs, whilst D'Artagnan
walked to and fro and thought how he could make use of
Planchet under present circumstances. While he turned this
over in his mind Planchet did his best to make up for lost
time at table. At last he uttered a sigh of satisfaction and
paused, as if he had partially appeased his hunger.

"Come," said D'Artagnan, who thought that it was now a
convenient time to begin his interrogations, "dost thou know
where Athos is?"

"No, sir," replied Planchet.

"The devil thou cost not! Dost know where Porthos is?":

"No -- not at all."

"And Aramis?"

"Not in the least."

"The devil! the devil! the devil!"

"But, sir," said Planchet, with a look of shrewdness, "I
know where Bazin is."

"Where is he?"

"At Notre Dame."

"What has he to do at Notre Dame?"

"He is beadle."

"Bazin beadle at Notre Dame! He must know where his master
is!"

"Without a doubt he must."

D'Artagnan thought for a moment, then took his sword and put
on his cloak to go out.

"Sir," said Planchet, in a mournful tone, "do you abandon me
thus to my fate? Think, if I am found out here, the people
of the house, who have not seen me enter it, will take me
for a thief."

"True," said D'Artagnan. "Let's see. Canst thou speak any
patois?"

"I can do something better than that, sir, I can speak
Flemish."

"Where the devil didst thou learn it?"

"In Artois, where I fought for years. Listen, sir. Goeden
morgen, mynheer, eth teen begeeray le weeten the ge sond
heets omstand."

"Which means?"

"Good-day, sir! I am anxious to know the state of your
health."

"He calls that a language! But never mind, that will do
capitally."

D'Artagnan opened the door and called out to a waiter to
desire Madeleine to come upstairs.

When the landlady made her appearance she expressed much
astonishment at seeing Planchet.

"My dear landlady," said D'Artagnan, "I beg to introduce to
you your brother, who is arrived from Flanders and whom I am
going to take into my service."

"My brother?"

"Wish your sister good-morning, Master Peter."

"Wilkom, suster," said Planchet.

"Goeden day, broder," replied the astonished landlady.

"This is the case," said D'Artagnan; "this is your brother,
Madeleine; you don't know him perhaps, but I know him; he
has arrived from Amsterdam. You must dress him up during my
absence. When I return, which will be in about an hour, you
must offer him to me as a servant, and upon your
recommendation, though he doesn't speak a word of French, I
take him into my service. You understand?"

"That is to say, I guess your wishes, and that is all that's
necessary," said Madeleine.

"You are a precious creature, my pretty hostess, and I am
much obliged to you."

The next moment D'Artagnan was on his way to Notre Dame.



7

Touches upon the Strange Effects a Half-pistole may have
upon a Beadle and a Chorister.



D'Artagnan, as he crossed the Pont Neuf, congratulated
himself on having found Planchet again, for at that time an
intelligent servant was essential to him; nor was he sorry
that through Planchet and the situation which he held in Rue
des Lombards, a connection with the bourgeoisie might be
commenced, at that critical period when that class were
preparing to make war with the court party. It was like
having a spy in the enemy's camp. In this frame of mind,
grateful for the accidental meeting with Planchet, pleased
with himself, D'Artagnan reached Notre Dame. He ran up the
steps, entered the church, and addressing a verger who was
sweeping the chapel, asked him if he knew Monsieur Bazin.

"Monsieur Bazin, the beadle?" said the verger. "Yes. There
he is, attending mass, in the chapel of the Virgin."

D'Artagnan nearly jumped for joy; he had despaired of
finding Bazin, but now, he thought, since he held one end of
the thread he would be pretty sure to reach the other end.

He knelt down just opposite the chapel in order not to lose
sight of his man; and as he had almost forgotten his prayers
and had omitted to take a book with him, he made use of his
time in gazing at Bazin.

Bazin wore his dress, it may be observed, with equal dignity
and saintly propriety. It was not difficult to understand
that he had gained the crown of his ambition and that the
silver-mounted wand he brandished was in his eyes as
honorable a distinction as the marshal's baton which Conde
threw, or did not throw, into the enemy's line of battle at
Fribourg. His person had undergone a change, analogous to
the change in his dress; his figure had grown rotund and, as
it were, canonical. The striking points of his face were
effaced; he had still a nose, but his cheeks, fattened out,
each took a portion of it unto themselves; his chin had
joined his throat; his eyes were swelled up with the
puffiness of his cheeks; his hair, cut straight in holy
guise, covered his forehead as far as his eyebrows.

The officiating priest was just finishing mass whilst
D'Artagnan was looking at Bazin; he pronounced the words of
the holy Sacrament and retired, giving the benediction,
which was received by the kneeling communicants, to the
astonishment of D'Artagnan, who recognized in the priest the
coadjutor* himself, the famous Jean Francois Gondy, who at
that time, having a presentiment of the part he was to play,
was beginning to court popularity by almsgiving. It was to
this end that he performed from time to time some of those
early masses which the common people, generally, alone
attended.



*A sacerdotal officer.



D'Artagnan knelt as well as the rest, received his share of
the benediction and made the sign of the cross; but when
Bazin passed in his turn, with his eyes raised to Heaven and
walking, in all humility, the very last, D'Artagnan pulled
him by the hem of his robe.

Bazin looked down and started, as if he had seen a serpent.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" he cried; "Vade retro Satanas!"

"So, my dear Bazin!" said the officer, laughing, "this is
the way you receive an old friend."

"Sir," replied Bazin, "the true friends of a Christian are
those who aid him in working out his salvation, not those
who hinder him in doing so."

"I don't understand you, Bazin; nor can I see how I can be a
stumbling-block in the way of your salvation," said
D'Artagnan.

"You forget, sir, that you very nearly ruined forever that
of my master; and that it was owing to you that he was very
nearly being damned eternally for remaining a musketeer,
whilst all the time his true vocation was the church."

"My dear Bazin, you ought to perceive," said D'Artagnan,
"from the place in which you find me, that I am greatly
changed in everything. Age produces good sense, and, as I
doubt not but that your master is on the road to salvation,
I want you to tell me where he is, that he may help me to
mine."

"Rather say, to take him back with you into the world.
Fortunately, I don't know where he is."

"How!" cried D'Artagnan; "you don't know where Aramis is?"

"Formerly," replied Bazin, "Aramis was his name of
perdition. By Aramis is meant Simara, which is the name of a
demon. Happily for him he has ceased to bear that name."

"And therefore," said D'Artagnan, resolved to be patient to
the end, "it is not Aramis I seek, but the Abbe d'Herblay.
Come, my dear Bazin, tell me where he is."

"Didn't you hear me tell you, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that I
don't know where he is?"

"Yes, certainly; but to that I answer that it is
impossible."

"It is, nevertheless, the truth, monsieur -- the pure truth,
the truth of the good God."

D'Artagnan saw clearly that he would get nothing out of this
man, who was evidently telling a falsehood in his pretended
ignorance of the abode of Aramis, but whose lies were bold
and decided.

"Well, Bazin," said D'Artagnan, "since you do not know where
your master lives, let us speak of it no more; let us part
good friends. Accept this half-pistole to drink to my
health."

"I do not drink" -- Bazin pushed away with dignity the
officer's hand -- "'tis good only for the laity."

"Incorruptible!" murmured D'Artagnan; "I am unlucky;" and
whilst he was lost in thought Bazin retreated toward the
sacristy, and even there he could not think himself safe
until he had shut and locked the door behind him.

D'Artagnan was still in deep thought when some one touched
him on the shoulder. He turned and was about to utter an
exclamation of surprise when the other made to him a sign of
silence.

"You here, Rochefort?" he said, in a low voice.

"Hush!" returned Rochefort. "Did you know that I am at
liberty?"

"I knew it from the fountain-head -- from Planchet. And what
brought you here?"

"I came to thank God for my happy deliverance," said
Rochefort.

"And nothing more? I suppose that is not all."

"To take my orders from the coadjutor and to see if we
cannot wake up Mazarin a little."

"A bad plan; you'll be shut up again in the Bastile."

"Oh, as to that, I shall take care, I assure you. The air,
the fresh, free air is so good; besides," and Rochefort drew
a deep breath as he spoke, "I am going into the country to
make a tour."

"Stop," cried D'Artagnan; "I, too, am going."

"And if I may without impertinence ask -- where are you
going?"

"To seek my friends."

"What friends?"

"Those that you asked about yesterday."

"Athos. Porthos and Aramis -- you are looking for them?"

"Yes."

"On honor?"

"What, then, is there surprising in that?"

"Nothing. Queer, though. And in whose behalf are you looking
for them?"

"You are in no doubt on that score."

"That is true."

"Unfortunately, I have no idea where they are."

"And you have no way to get news of them? Wait a week and I
myself will give you some."

"A week is too long. I must find them within three days."

"Three days are a short time and France is large."

"No matter; you know the word must; with that word great
things are done."

"And when do you set out?"

"I am now on my road."

"Good luck to you."

"And to you -- a good journey."

"Perhaps we shall meet on our road."

"That is not probable."

"Who knows? Chance is so capricious. Adieu, till we meet
again! Apropos, should Mazarin speak to you about me, tell
him that I should have requested you to acquaint him that in
a short time he will see whether I am, as he says, too old
for action."

And Rochefort went away with one of those diabolical smiles
which used formerly to make D'Artagnan shudder, but
D'Artagnan could now see it without alarm, and smiling in
his turn, with an expression of melancholy which the
recollections called up by that smile could, perhaps, alone
give to his countenance, he said:

"Go, demon, do what thou wilt! It matters little now to me.
There's no second Constance in the world."

On his return to the cathedral, D'Artagnan saw Bazin, who
was conversing with the sacristan. Bazin was making, with
his spare little short arms, ridiculous gestures. D'Artagnan
perceived that he was enforcing prudence with respect to
himself.

D'Artagnan slipped out of the cathedral and placed himself
in ambuscade at the corner of the Rue des Canettes; it was
impossible that Bazin should go out of the cathedral without
his seeing him.

In five minutes Bazin made his appearance, looking in every
direction to see if he were observed, but he saw no one.
Calmed by appearances he ventured to walk on through the Rue
Notre Dame. Then D'Artagnan rushed out of his hiding place
and arrived in time to see Bazin turn down the Rue de la
Juiverie and enter, in the Rue de la Calandre, a respectable
looking house; and this D'Artagnan felt no doubt was the
habitation of the worthy beadle. Afraid of making any
inquiries at this house, D'Artagnan entered a small tavern
at the corner of the street and asked for a cup of hypocras.
This beverage required a good half-hour to prepare. And
D'Artagnan had time, therefore, to watch Bazin unsuspected.

He perceived in the tavern a pert boy between twelve and
fifteen years of age whom he fancied he had seen not twenty
minutes before under the guise of a chorister. He questioned
him, and as the boy had no interest in deceiving, D'Artagnan
learned that he exercised, from six o'clock in the morning
until nine, the office of chorister, and from nine o'clock
till midnight that of a waiter in the tavern.

Whilst he was talking to this lad a horse was brought to the
door of Bazin's house. It was saddled and bridled. Almost
immediately Bazin came downstairs.

"Look!" said the boy, "there's our beadle, who is going a
journey."

"And where is he going?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Forsooth, I don't know."

"Half a pistole if you can find out," said D'Artagnan.

"For me?" cried the boy, his eyes sparkling with joy, "if I
can find out where Bazin is going? That is not difficult.
You are not joking, are you?"

"No, on the honor of an officer; there is the half-pistole;"
and he showed him the seductive coin, but did not give it
him.

"I shall ask him."

"Just the very way not to know. Wait till he is set out and
then, marry, come up, ask, and find out. The half-pistole is
ready," and he put it back again into his pocket.

"I understand," said the child, with that jeering smile
which marks especially the "gamin de Paris." "Well, we must
wait."

They had not long to wait. Five minutes afterward Bazin set
off on a full trot, urging on his horse by the blows of a
parapluie, which he was in the habit of using instead of a
riding whip.

Scarcely had he turned the corner of the Rue de la Juiverie
when the boy rushed after him like a bloodhound on full
scent.

Before ten minutes had elapsed the child returned.

"Well!" said D'Artagnan.

"Well!" answered the boy, "the thing is done."

"Where is he gone?"

"The half-pistole is for me?"

"Doubtless, answer me."

"I want to see it. Give it me, that I may see it is not
false.

"There it is."

The child put the piece of money into his pocket.

"And now, where is he gone?" inquired D'Artagnan.

"He is gone to Noisy."

"How dost thou know?"

"Ah, faith! there was no great cunning necessary. I knew the
horse he rode; it belonged to the butcher, who lets it out
now and then to M. Bazin. Now I thought that the butcher
would not let his horse out like that without knowing where
it was going. And he answered `that Monsieur Bazin went to
Noisy.' 'Tis his custom. He goes two or three times a week."

"Dost thou know Noisy well?"

"I think so, truly; my nurse lives there."

"Is there a convent at Noisy?"

"Isn't there a great and grand one -- the convent of
Jesuits?"

"What is thy name?"

"Friquet."

D'Artagnan wrote the child's name in his tablets.

"Please, sir," said the boy, "do you think I can gain any
more half-pistoles in any way?"

"Perhaps," replied D'Artagnan.

And having got out all he wanted, he paid for the hypocras,
which he did not drink, and went quickly back to the Rue
Tiquetonne.



8

How D'Artagnan, on going to a Distance to discover Aramis,
discovers his old Friend on Horseback behind his own
Planchet.



On entering the hotel D'Artagnan saw a man sitting in a
corner by the fire. It was Planchet, but so completely
transformed, thanks to the old clothes that the departing
husband had left behind, that D'Artagnan himself could
hardly recognize him. Madeleine introduced him in presence
of all the servants. Planchet addressed the officer with a
fine Flemish phrase; the officer replied in words that
belonged to no language at all, and the bargain was
concluded; Madeleine's brother entered D'Artagnan's service.

The plan adopted by D'Artagnan was soon perfected. He
resolved not to reach Noisy in the day, for fear of being
recognized; he had therefore plenty of time before him, for
Noisy is only three or four leagues from Paris, on the road
to Meaux.

He began his day by breakfasting substantially -- a bad
beginning when one wants to employ the head, but an
excellent precaution when one wants to work the body; and
about two o'clock he had his two horses saddled, and
followed by Planchet he quitted Paris by the Barriere de la
Villete. A most active search was still prosecuted in the
house near the Hotel de la Chevrette for the discovery of
Planchet.

At about a league and a half from the city, D'Artagnan,
finding that in his impatience he had set out too soon,
stopped to give the horses breathing time. The inn was full
of disreputable looking people, who seemed as if they were
on the point of commencing some nightly expedition. A man,
wrapped in a cloak, appeared at the door, but seeing a
stranger he beckoned to his companions, and two men who were
drinking in the inn went out to speak to him.

D'Artagnan, on his side, went up to the landlady, praised
her wine -- which was a horrible production from the country
of Montreuil -- and heard from her that there were only two
houses of importance in the village; one of these belonged
to the Archbishop of Paris, and was at that time the abode
of his niece the Duchess of Longueville; the other was a
convent of Jesuits and was the property -- a by no means
unusual circumstance -- of these worthy fathers.

At four o'clock D'Artagnan recommenced his journey. He
proceeded slowly and in deep reverie. Planchet also was lost
in thought, but the subject of their reflections was not the
same.

One word which their landlady had pronounced had given a
particular turn to D'Artagnan's deliberations; this was the
name of Madame de Longueville.

That name was indeed one to inspire imagination and produce
thought. Madame de Longueville was one of the highest ladies
in the realm; she was also one of the greatest beauties at
court. She had formerly been suspected of an intimacy of too
tender a nature with Coligny, who, for her sake, had been
killed in a duel, in the Place Royale, by the Duc de Guise.
She was now connected by bonds of a political nature with
the Prince de Marsillac, the eldest son of the old Duc de
Rochefoucauld, whom she was trying to inspire with an enmity
toward the Duc de Conde, her brother-in-law, whom she now
hated mortally.

D'Artagnan thought of all these matters. He remembered how
at the Louvre he had often seen, as she passed by him in the
full radiance of her dazzling charms, the beautiful Madame
de Longueville. He thought of Aramis, who, without
possessing any greater advantages than himself, had formerly
been the lover of Madame de Chevreuse, who had been to a
former court what Madame de Longueville was in that day; and
he wondered how it was that there should be in the world
people who succeed in every wish, some in ambition, others
in love, whilst others, either from chance, or from
ill-luck, or from some natural defect or impediment, remain
half-way upon the road toward fulfilment of their hopes and
expectations.

He was confessing to himself that he belonged to the latter
unhappy class, when Planchet approached and said:

"I will lay a wager, your honor, that you and I are thinking
of the same thing."

"I doubt it, Planchet," replied D'Artagnan, "but what are
you thinking of?"

"I am thinking, sir, of those desperate looking men who were
drinking in the inn where we rested."

"Always cautious, Planchet."

"'Tis instinct, your honor."

"Well, what does your instinct tell you now?"

"Sir, my instinct told me that those people were assembled
there for some bad purpose; and I was reflecting on what my
instinct had told me, in the darkest corner of the stable,
when a man wrapped in a cloak and followed by two other men,
came in."

"Ah ah!" said D'Artagnan, Planchet's recital agreeing with
his own observations. "Well?"

"One of these two men said, `He must certainly be at Noisy,
or be coming there this evening, for I have seen his
servant.'

"`Art thou sure? ' said the man in the cloak.

"`Yes, my prince.'"

"My prince!" interrupted D'Artagnan.

"Yes, `my prince;' but listen. `If he is here' -- this is
what the other man said -- `let's see decidedly what to do
with him.'

"`What to do with him?' answered the prince.

"`Yes, he's not a man to allow himself to be taken anyhow;
he'll defend himself.'

"`Well, we must try to take him alive. Have you cords to
bind him with and a gag to stop his mouth?'

"`We have.'

"`Remember that he will most likely be disguised as a
horseman.'

"`Yes, yes, my lord; don't be uneasy.'

"`Besides, I shall be there.'

"`You will assure us that justice ---- '

"`Yes, yes! I answer for all that,' the prince said.

"`Well, then, we'll do our best.' Having said that, they
went out of the stable."

"Well, what matters all that to us?" said D'Artagnan. "This
is one of those attempts that happen every day."

"Are you sure that we are not its objects?"

"We? Why?"

"Just remember what they said. `I have seen his servant,'
said one, and that applies very well to me."

"Well?"

"`He must certainly be at Noisy, or be coming there this
evening,' said the other; and that applies very well to
you."

"What else?"

"Then the prince said: `Take notice that in all probability
he will be disguised as a cavalier;' which seems to me to
leave no room for doubt, since you are dressed as a cavalier
and not as an officer of musketeers. Now then, what do you
say to that?"

"Alas! my dear Planchet," said D'Artagnan, sighing, "we are
unfortunately no longer in those times in which princes
would care to assassinate me. Those were good old days;
never fear -- these people owe us no grudge."

"Is your honor sure?"

"I can answer for it they do not."

"Well, we won't speak of it any more, then;" and Planchet
took his place in D'Artagnan's suite with that sublime
confidence he had always had in his master, which even
fifteen years of separation had not destroyed.

They had traveled onward about half a mile when Planchet
came close up to D'Artagnan.

"Stop, sir, look yonder," he whispered; "don't you see in
the darkness something pass by, like shadows? I fancy I hear
horses' feet."

"Impossible!" returned D'Artagnan. "The ground is soaking
wet; yet I fancy, as thou sayest, that I see something."

At this moment the neighing of a horse struck his ear,
coming through darkness and space.

"There are men somewhere about, but that's of no consequence
to us," said D'Artagnan; "let us ride onward."

At about half-past eight o'clock they reached the first
houses in Noisy; every one was in bed and not a light was to
be seen in the village. The obscurity was broken only now
and then by the still darker lines of the roofs of houses.
Here and there a dog barked behind a door or an affrighted
cat fled precipitately from the midst of the pavement to
take refuge behind a pile of faggots, from which retreat her
eyes would shine like peridores. These were the only living
creatures that seemed to inhabit the village.

Toward the middle of the town, commanding the principal open
space, rose a dark mass, separated from the rest of the
world by two lanes and overshadowed in the front by enormous
lime-trees. D'Artagnan looked attentively at the building.

"This," he said to Planchet, "must be the archbishop's
chateau, the abode of the fair Madame de Longueville; but
the convent, where is that?"

"The convent, your honor, is at the other end of the
village; I know it well."

"Well, then, Planchet, gallop up to it whilst I tighten my
horse's girth, and come back and tell me if there is a light
in any of the Jesuits' windows."

In about five minutes Planchet returned.

"Sir," he said, "there is one window of the convent lighted
up."

"Hem! If I were a `Frondeur,'" said D'Artagnan, "I should
knock here and should be sure of a good supper. If I were a
monk I should knock yonder and should have a good supper
there, too; whereas, 'tis very possible that between the
castle and the convent we shall sleep on hard beds, dying
with hunger and thirst."

"Yes," added Planchet, "like the famous ass of Buridan.
Shall I knock?"

"Hush!" replied D'Artagnan; "the light no longer burns in
yonder window."

"Do you hear nothing?" whispered Planchet.

"What is that noise?"

There came a sound like a whirlwind, at the same time two
troops of horsemen, each composed of ten men, sallied forth
from each of the lanes which encompassed the house and
surrounded D'Artagnan and Planchet.

"Heyday!" cried D'Artagnan, drawing his sword and taking
refuge behind his horse; "are you not mistaken? is it really
for us that you mean your attack?"

"Here he is! we have him!" cried the horsemen, rushing on
D'Artagnan with naked swords.

"Don't let him escape!" said a loud voice.

"No, my lord; be assured we shall not."

D'Artagnan thought it was now time for him to join in the
conversation.

"Halloo, gentlemen!" he called out in his Gascon accent,
"what do you want? what do you demand?"

"That thou shalt soon know," shouted a chorus of horsemen.

"Stop, stop!" cried he whom they had addressed as "my lord;"
"'tis not his voice."

"Ah! just so, gentlemen! pray, do people get into a passion
at random at Noisy? Take care, for I warn you that the first
man that comes within the length of my sword -- and my sword
is long -- I rip him up."

The chieftain of the party drew near.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a lofty tone, as that
of one accustomed to command.

"And you -- what are you doing here?" replied D'Artagnan.

"Be civil, or I shall beat you; for although one may not
choose to proclaim oneself, one insists on respect suitable
to one's rank."

"You don't choose to discover yourself, because you are the
leader of an ambuscade," returned D'Artagnan; "but with
regard to myself, who am traveling quietly with my own
servant, I have not the same reasons as you have to conceal
my name."

"Enough! enough! what is your name?"

"I shall tell you my name in order that you may know where
to find me, my lord, or my prince, as it may suit you best
to be called," said our Gascon, who did not choose to seem
to yield to a threat. "Do you know Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Lieutenant in the king's musketeers?" said the voice; "you
are Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"I am."

"Then you came here to defend him?"

"Him? whom?"

"The man we are seeking."

"It seems," said D'Artagnan, "that whilst I thought I was
coming to Noisy I have entered, without suspecting it, into
the kingdom of mysteries."

"Come," replied the same lofty tone, "answer! Are you
waiting for him underneath these windows? Did you come to
Noisy to defend him?"

"I am waiting for no one," replied D'Artagnan, who was
beginning to be angry. "I propose to defend no one but
myself, and I shall defend myself vigorously, I give you
warning."

"Very well," said the voice; "go away from here and leave
the place to us."

"Go away from here!" said D'Artagnan, whose purposes were in
conflict with that order, "that is not so easy, since I am
on the point of falling, and my horse, too, through fatigue;
unless, indeed, you are disposed to offer me a supper and a
bed in the neighborhood."

"Rascal!"

"Eh! monsieur!" said D'Artagnan, "I beg you will have a care
what you say; for if you utter another word like that, be
you marquis, duke, prince or king, I will thrust it down
your throat! do you hear?"

"Well, well," rejoined the leader, "there's no doubt 'tis a
Gascon who is speaking, and therefore not the man we are
looking for. Our blow has failed for to-night; let us
withdraw. We shall meet again, Master d'Artagnan," continued
the leader, raising his voice.

"Yes, but never with the same advantages," said D'Artagnan,
in a tone of raillery; "for when you meet me again you will
perhaps be alone and there will be daylight."

"Very good, very good," said the voice. "En route,
gentlemen."

And the troop, grumbling angrily, disappeared in the
darkness and took the road to Paris. D'Artagnan and Planchet
remained for some moments still on the defensive; then, as
the noise of the horsemen became more and more distant, they
sheathed their swords.

"Thou seest, simpleton," said D'Artagnan to his servant,
"that they wished no harm to us."

"But to whom, then?"

"I'faith! I neither know nor care. What I do care for now,
is to make my way into the Jesuits' convent; so to horse and
let us knock at their door. Happen what will, the devil take
them, they can't eat us."

And he mounted his horse. Planchet had just done the same
when an unexpected weight fell upon the back of the horse,
which sank down.

"Hey! your honor!" cried Planchet, "I've a man behind me."

D'Artagnan turned around and plainly saw two human forms on
Planchet's horse.

"'Tis then the devil that pursues!" he cried; drawing his
sword and preparing to attack the new foe.

"No, no, dear D'Artagnan," said the figure, "'tis not the
devil, 'tis Aramis; gallop fast, Planchet, and when you come
to the end of the village turn swiftly to the left."

And Planchet, with Aramis behind him, set off at full
gallop, followed by D'Artagnan, who began to think he was in
the merry maze of some fantastic dream.



9

The Abbe D'Herblay.



At the extremity of the village Planchet turned to the left
in obedience to the orders of Aramis, and stopped underneath
the window which had light in it. Aramis alighted and
clapped his hands three times. Immediately the window was
opened and a ladder of rope was let down from it.

"My friend," said Aramis, "if you like to ascend I shall be
delighted to receive you."

"Ah," said D'Artagnan, "is that the way you return to your
apartment?"

"After nine at night, pardieu!" said Aramis, "the rule of
the convent is very severe."

"Pardon me, my dear friend," said D'Artagnan, "I think you
said `pardieu!'"

"Do you think so?" said Aramis, smiling; "it is possible.
You have no idea, my dear fellow, how one acquires bad
habits in these cursed convents, or what evil ways all these
men of the church have, with whom I am obliged to live. But
will you not go up?"

"Pass on before me, I beg of you."

"As the late cardinal used to say to the late king, `only to
show you the way, sire.'" And Aramis ascended the ladder
quickly and reached the window in an instant.

D'Artagnan followed, but less nimbly, showing plainly that
this mode of ascent was not one to which he was accustomed.

"I beg your pardon," said Aramis, noticing his awkwardness;
"if I had known that I was to have the honor of your visit I
should have procured the gardener's ladder; but for me alone
this is good enough."

"Sir," said Planchet when he saw D'Artagnan on the summit of
the ladder, "this way is easy for Monsieur Aramis and even
for you; in case of necessity I might also climb up, but my
two horses cannot mount the ladder."

"Take them to yonder shed, my friend," said Aramis, pointing
to a low building on the plain; "there you will find hay and
straw for them; then come back here and clap your hands
three times, and we will give you wine and food. Marry,
forsooth, people don't die of hunger here.'

And Aramis, drawing in the ladder, closed the window.
D'Artagnan then looked around attentively.

Never was there an apartment at the same time more warlike
and more elegant. At each corner were arranged trophies,
presenting to view swords of all sorts, and on the walls
hung four great pictures representing in their ordinary
military costume the Cardinal de Lorraine, the Cardinal de
Richelieu, the Cardinal de la Valette, and the Archbishop of
Bordeaux. Exteriorly, nothing in the room showed that it was
the habitation of an abbe. The hangings were of damask, the
carpets from Alencon, and the bed, especially, had more the
look of a fine lady's couch, with its trimmings of fine lace
and its embroidered counterpane, than that of a man who had
made a vow that he would endeavor to gain Heaven by fasting
and mortification.

"You are examining my den," said Aramis. "Ah, my dear
fellow, excuse me; I am lodged like a Chartreux. But what
are you looking for?"

"I am looking for the person who let down the ladder. I see
no one and yet the ladder didn't come down of itself."

"No, it is Bazin."

"Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan.

"But," continued Aramis, "Bazin is a well trained servant,
and seeing that I was not alone he discreetly retired. Sit
down, my dear friend, and let us talk." And Aramis pushed
forward a large easy-chair, in which D'Artagnan stretched
himself out.

"In the first place, you will sup with me, will you not?"
asked Aramis.

"Yes, if you really wish it," said D'Artagnan, "and even
with great pleasure, I confess; the journey has given me a
devil of an appetite."

"Ah, my poor friend!" said Aramis, "you will find meagre
fare; you were not expected."

"Am I then threatened with the omelet of Crevecoeur?"

"Oh, let us hope," said Aramis, "that with the help of God
and of Bazin we shall find something better than that in the
larder of the worthy Jesuit fathers. Bazin, my friend, come
here."

The door opened and Bazin entered; on perceiving the
musketeer he uttered an exclamation that was almost a cry of
despair.

"My dear Bazin," said D'Artagnan, "I am delighted to see
with what wonderful composure you can tell a lie even in
church!"

"Sir," replied Bazin, "I have been taught by the good Jesuit
fathers that it is permitted to tell a falsehood when it is
told in a good cause."

"So far well," said Aramis; "we are dying of hunger. Serve
us up the best supper you can, and especially give us some
good wine."

Bazin bowed low, sighed, and left the room.

"Now we are alone, dear Aramis," said D'Artagnan, "tell me
how the devil you managed to alight upon the back of
Planchet's horse."

"I'faith!" answered Aramis, "as you see, from Heaven."

"From Heaven," replied D'Artagnan, shaking his head; "you
have no more the appearance of coming from thence than you
have of going there."

"My friend," said Aramis, with a look of imbecility on his
face which D'Artagnan had never observed whilst he was in
the musketeers, "if I did not come from Heaven, at least I
was leaving Paradise, which is almost the same."

"Here, then, is a puzzle for the learned," observed
D'Artagnan, "until now they have never been able to agree as
to the situation of Paradise; some place it on Mount Ararat,
others between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates; it seems
that they have been looking very far away for it, while it
was actually very near. Paradise is at Noisy le Sec, upon
the site of the archbishop's chateau. People do not go out
from it by the door, but by the window; one doesn't descend
here by the marble steps of a peristyle, but by the branches
of a lime-tree; and the angel with a flaming sword who
guards this elysium seems to have changed his celestial name
of Gabriel into that of the more terrestrial one of the
Prince de Marsillac."

Aramis burst into a fit of laughter.

"You were always a merry companion, my dear D'Artagnan," he
said, "and your witty Gascon fancy has not deserted you.
Yes, there is something in what you say; nevertheless, do
not believe that it is Madame de Longueville with whom I am
in love."

"A plague on't! I shall not do so. After having been so long
in love with Madame de Chevreuse, you would hardly lay your
heart at the feet of her mortal enemy!"

"Yes," replied Aramis, with an absent air; "yes, that poor
duchess! I once loved her much, and to do her justice, she
was very useful to us. Eventually she was obliged to leave
France. He was a relentless enemy, that damned cardinal,"
continued Aramis, glancing at the portrait of the old
minister. "He had even given orders to arrest her and would
have cut off her head had she not escaped with her
waiting-maid -- poor Kitty! I have heard that she met with a
strange adventure in I don't know what village, with I don't
know what cure, of whom she asked hospitality and who,
having but one chamber, and taking her for a cavalier,
offered to share it with her. For she had a wonderful way of
dressing as a man, that dear Marie; I know only one other
woman who can do it as well. So they made this song about
her: `Laboissiere, dis moi.' You know it, don't you?"

"No, sing it, please."

Aramis immediately complied, and sang the song in a very
lively manner.

"Bravo!" cried D'Artagnan, "you sing charmingly, dear
Aramis. I do not perceive that singing masses has spoiled
your voice."

"My dear D'Artagnan," replied Aramis, "you understand, when
I was a musketeer I mounted guard as seldom as I could; now
when I am an abbe I say as few masses as I can. But to
return to our duchess."

"Which -- the Duchess de Chevreuse or the Duchess de
Longueville?"

"Have I not already told you that there is nothing between
me and the Duchess de Longueville? Little flirtations,
perhaps, and that's all. No, I spoke of the Duchess de
Chevreuse; did you see her after her return from Brussels,
after the king's death?"

"Yes, she is still beautiful."

"Yes," said Aramis, "I saw her also at that time. I gave her
good advice, by which she did not profit. I ventured to tell
her that Mazarin was the lover of Anne of Austria. She
wouldn't believe me, saying that she knew Anne of Austria,
who was too proud to love such a worthless coxcomb. After
that she plunged into the cabal headed by the Duke of
Beaufort; and the `coxcomb' arrested De Beaufort and
banished Madame de Chevreuse."

"You know," resumed D'Artagnan, "that she has had leave to
return to France?"

"Yes she is come back and is going to commit some fresh
folly or another."

"Oh, but this time perhaps she will follow your advice."

"Oh, this time," returned Aramis, "I haven't seen her; she
is much changed."

"In that respect unlike you, my dear Aramis, for you are
still the same; you have still your beautiful dark hair,
still your elegant figure, still your feminine hands, which
are admirably suited to a prelate."

"Yes," replied Aramis, "I am extremely careful of my
appearance. Do you know that I am growing old? I am nearly
thirty-seven."

"Mind, Aramis" -- D'Artagnan smiled as he spoke -- "since we
are together again, let us agree on one point: what age
shall we be in future?"

"How?"

"Formerly I was your junior by two or three years, and if I
am not mistaken I am turned forty years old."

"Indeed! Then 'tis I who am mistaken, for you have always
been a good chronologist. By your reckoning I must be
forty-three at least. The devil I am! Don't let it out at
the Hotel Rambouillet; it would ruin me," replied the abbe.

"Don't be afraid," said D'Artagnan. "I never go there."

"Why, what in the world," cried Aramis, "is that animal
Bazin doing? Bazin! Hurry up there, you rascal; we are mad
with hunger and thirst!"

Bazin entered at that moment carrying a bottle in each hand.

"At last," said Aramis, "we are ready, are we?

"Yes, monsieur, quite ready," said Bazin; "but it took me
some time to bring up all the ---- "

"Because you always think you have on your shoulders your
beadle's robe, and spend all your time reading your
breviary. But I give you warning that if in polishing your
chapel utensils you forget how to brighten up my sword, I
will make a great fire of your blessed images and will see
that you are roasted on it."

Bazin, scandalized, made a sign of the cross with the bottle
in his hand. D'Artagnan, more surprised than ever at the
tone and manners of the Abbe d'Herblay, which contrasted so
strongly with those of the Musketeer Aramis, remained
staring with wide-open eyes at the face of his friend.

Bazin quickly covered the table with a damask cloth and
arranged upon it so many things, gilded, perfumed,
appetizing, that D'Artagnan was quite overcome.

"But you expected some one then?" asked the officer.

"Oh," said Aramis, "I always try to be prepared; and then I
knew you were seeking me."

"From whom?"

"From Master Bazin, to be sure; he took you for the devil,
my dear fellow, and hastened to warn me of the danger that
threatened my soul if I should meet again a companion so
wicked as an officer of musketeers."

"Oh, monsieur!" said Bazin, clasping his hands
supplicatingly.

"Come, no hypocrisy! you know that I don't like it. You will
do much better to open the window and let down some bread, a
chicken and a bottle of wine to your friend Planchet, who
has been this last hour killing himself clapping his hands."

Planchet, in fact, had bedded and fed his horses, and then
coming back under the window had repeated two or three times
the signal agreed upon.

Bazin obeyed, fastened to the end of a cord the three
articles designated and let them down to Planchet, who then
went satisfied to his shed.

"Now to supper," said Aramis.

The two friends sat down and Aramis began to cut up fowls,
partridges and hams with admirable skill.

"The deuce!" cried D'Artagnan; "do you live in this way
always?"

"Yes, pretty well. The coadjutor has given me dispensations
from fasting on the jours maigres, on account of my health;
then I have engaged as my cook the cook who lived with
Lafollone -- you know the man I mean? -- the friend of the
cardinal, and the famous epicure whose grace after dinner
used to be, `Good Lord, do me the favor to cause me to
digest what I have eaten.'"

"Nevertheless he died of indigestion, in spite of his
grace," said D'Artagnan.

"What can you expect?" replied Aramis, in a tone of
resignation. "Every man that's born must fulfil his
destiny."

"If it be not an indelicate question," resumed D'Artagnan,
"have you grown rich?"

"Oh, Heaven! no. I make about twelve thousand francs a year,
without counting a little benefice of a thousand crowns the
prince gave me."

"And how do you make your twelve thousand francs? By your
poems?"

"No, I have given up poetry, except now and then to write a
drinking song, some gay sonnet or some innocent epigram; I
compose sermons, my friend."

"What! sermons? Do you preach them?"

"No; I sell them to those of my cloth who wish to become
great orators."

"Ah, indeed! and you have not been tempted by the hopes of
reputation yourself?"

"I should, my dear D'Artagnan, have been so, but nature said
`No.' When I am in the pulpit, if by chance a pretty woman
looks at me, I look at her again: if she smiles, I smile
too. Then I speak at random; instead of preaching about the
torments of hell I talk of the joys of Paradise. An event
took place in the Church of St. Louis au Marais. A gentleman
laughed in my face. I stopped short to tell him that he was
a fool; the congregation went out to get stones to stone me
with, but whilst they were away I found means to conciliate
the priests who were present, so that my foe was pelted
instead of me. 'Tis true that he came the next morning to my
house, thinking that he had to do with an abbe -- like all
other abbes."

"And what was the end of the affair?"

"We met in the Place Royale -- Egad! you know about it."

"Was I not your second?" cried D'Artagnan.

"You were; you know how I settled the matter."

"Did he die?"

"I don't know. But, at all events, I gave him absolution in
articulo mortis. 'Tis enough to kill the body, without
killing the soul."

Bazin made a despairing sign which meant that while perhaps
he approved the moral he altogether disapproved the tone in
which it was uttered.

"Bazin, my friend," said Aramis, "you don't seem to be aware
that I can see you in that mirror, and you forget that once
for all I have forbidden all signs of approbation or
disapprobation. You will do me the favor to bring us some
Spanish wine and then to withdraw. Besides, my friend
D'Artagnan has something to say to me privately, have you
not, D'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan nodded his head and Bazin retired, after placing
on the table the Spanish wine.

The two friends, left alone, remained silent, face to face.
Aramis seemed to await a comfortable digestion; D'Artagnan,
to be preparing his exordium. Each of them, when the other
was not looking, hazarded a sly glance. It was Aramis who
broke the silence.

"What are you thinking of, D'Artagnan?" he began.

"I was thinking, my dear old friend, that when you were a
musketeer you turned your thoughts incessantly to the
church, and now that you are an abbe you are perpetually
longing to be once more a musketeer."

"'Tis true; man, as you know," said Aramis, "is a strange
animal, made up of contradictions. Since I became an abbe I
dream of nothing but battles."

"That is apparent in your surroundings; you have rapiers
here of every form and to suit the most exacting taste. Do
you still fence well?"

"I -- I fence as well as you did in the old time -- better
still, perhaps; I do nothing else all day."

"And with whom?"

"With an excellent master-at-arms that we have here."

"What! here?"

Yes, here, in this convent, my dear fellow. There is
everything in a Jesuit convent."

"Then you would have killed Monsieur de Marsillac if he had
come alone to attack you, instead of at the head of twenty
men?"

"Undoubtedly," said Aramis, "and even at the head of his
twenty men, if I could have drawn without being recognized."

"God pardon me!" said D'Artagnan to himself, "I believe he
has become more Gascon than I am!" Then aloud: "Well, my
dear Aramis, do you ask me why I came to seek you?"

"No, I have not asked you that," said Aramis, with his
subtle manner; "but I have expected you to tell me."

"Well, I sought you for the single purpose of offering you a
chance to kill Monsieur de Marsillac whenever you please,
prince though he is."

"Hold on! wait!" said Aramis; "that is an idea!"

"Of which I invite you to take advantage, my friend. Let us
see; with your thousand crowns from the abbey and the twelve
thousand francs you make by selling sermons, are you rich?
Answer frankly."

"I? I am as poor as Job, and were you to search my pockets
and my boxes I don't believe you would find a hundred
pistoles."

"Peste! a hundred pistoles!" said D'Artagnan to himself; "he
calls that being as poor as Job! If I had them I should
think myself as rich as Croesus." Then aloud: "Are you
ambitious?"

"As Enceladus."

"Well, my friend, I bring you the means of becoming rich,
powerful, and free to do whatever you wish."

The shadow of a cloud passed over Aramis's face as quickly
as that which in August passes over the field of grain; but
quick as it was, it did not escape D'Artagnan's observation.

"Speak on," said Aramis.

"One question first. Do you take any interest in politics?"

A gleam of light shone in Aramis's eyes, as brief as the
shadow that had passed over his face, but not so brief but
that it was seen by D'Artagnan.

"No," Aramis replied.

"Then proposals from any quarter will be agreeable to you,
since for the moment you have no master but God?"

"It is possible."

"Have you, my dear Aramis, thought sometimes of those happy,
happy, happy days of youth we passed laughing, drinking, and
fighting each other for play?"

"Certainly, and more than once regretted them; it was indeed
a glorious time."

"Well, those splendidly wild days may chance to come again;
I am commissioned to find out my companions and I began by
you, who were the very soul of our society."

Aramis bowed, rather with respect than pleasure at the
compliment.

"To meddle in politics," he exclaimed, in a languid voice,
leaning back in his easy-chair. "Ah! dear D'Artagnan! see
how regularly I live and how easy I am here. We have
experienced the ingratitude of `the great,' as you well
know."

"'Tis true," replied D'Artagnan. "Yet the great sometimes
repent of their ingratitude."

"In that case it would be quite another thing. Come! let's
be merciful to every sinner! Besides, you are right in
another respect, which is in thinking that if we were to
meddle in politics there could not be a better time than the
present."

"How can you know that? You who never interest yourself in
politics?"

"Ah! without caring about them myself, I live among those
who are much occupied in them. Poet as I am, I am intimate
with Sarazin, who is devoted to the Prince de Conti, and
with Monsieur de Bois-Robert, who, since the death of
Cardinal Richelieu, is of all parties or any party; so that
political discussions have not altogether been uninteresting
to me."

"I have no doubt of it," said D'Artagnan.

"Now, my dear friend, look upon all I tell you as merely the
statement of a monk -- of a man who resembles an echo --
repeating simply what he hears. I understand that Mazarin is
at this very moment extremely uneasy as to the state of
affairs; that his orders are not respected like those of our
former bugbear, the deceased cardinal, whose portrait as you
see hangs yonder -- for whatever may be thought of him, it
must be allowed that Richelieu was great."

"I will not contradict you there," said D'Artagnan.

"My first impressions were favorable to the minister; I said
to myself that a minister is never loved, but that with the
genius this one was said to have he would eventually triumph
over his enemies and would make himself feared, which in my
opinion is much more to be desired than to be loved ---- "

D'Artagnan made a sign with his head which indicated that he
entirely approved that doubtful maxim.

"This, then," continued Aramis, "was my first opinion; but
as I am very ignorant in matters of this kind and as the
humility which I profess obliges me not to rest on my own
judgment, but to ask the opinion of others, I have inquired
-- Eh! -- my friend ---- "

Aramis paused.

"Well? what?" asked his friend.

"Well, I must mortify myself. I must confess that I was
mistaken. Monsieur de Mazarin is not a man of genius, as I
thought, he is a man of no origin -- once a servant of
Cardinal Bentivoglio, and he got on by intrigue. He is an
upstart, a man of no name, who will only be the tool of a
party in France. He will amass wealth, he will injure the
king's revenue and pay to himself the pensions which
Richelieu paid to others. He is neither a gentleman in
manner nor in feeling, but a sort of buffoon, a punchinello,
a pantaloon. Do you know him? I do not."

"Hem!" said D'Artagnan, "there is some truth in what you
say."

"Ah! it fills me with pride to find that, thanks to a common
sort of penetration with which I am endowed, I am approved
by a man like you, fresh from the court."

"But you speak of him, not of his party, his resources."

"It is true -- the queen is for him."

"Something in his favor."

"But he will never have the king."

"A mere child."

"A child who will be of age in four years. Then he has
neither the parliament nor the people with him -- they
represent the wealth of the country; nor the nobles nor the
princes, who are the military power of France."

D'Artagnan scratched his ear. He was forced to confess to
himself that this reasoning was not only comprehensive, but
just.

"You see, my poor friend, that I am sometimes bereft of my
ordinary thoughtfulness; perhaps I am wrong in speaking thus
to you, who have evidently a leaning to Mazarin."

"I!" cried D'Artagnan, "not in the least."

"You spoke of a mission."

"Did I? I was wrong then, no, I said what you say -- there
is a crisis at hand. Well! let's fly the feather before the
wind; let us join with that side to which the wind will
carry it and resume our adventurous life. We were once four
valiant knights -- four hearts fondly united; let us unite
again, not our hearts, which have never been severed, but
our courage and our fortunes. Here's a good opportunity for
getting something better than a diamond."

"You are right, D'Artagnan; I held a similar project, but as
I had not nor ever shall have your fruitful, vigorous
imagination, the idea was suggested to me. Every one
nowadays wants auxiliaries; propositions have been made to
me and I confess to you frankly that the coadjutor has made
me speak out."

"Monsieur de Gondy! the cardinal's enemy?"

"No; the king's friend," said Aramis; "the king's friend,
you understand. Well, it is a question of serving the king,
the gentleman's duty."

"But the king is with Mazarin."

"He is, but not willingly; in appearance, not heart; and
that is exactly the snare the king's enemies are preparing
for the poor child."

"Ah! but this is, indeed, civil war which you propose to me,
dear Aramis."

"War for the king."

"Yet the king will be at the head of the army on Mazarin's
side."

"But his heart will be in the army commanded by the Duc de
Beaufort."

"Monsieur de Beaufort? He is at Vincennes."

"Did I say Monsieur de Beaufort? Monsieur de Beaufort or
another. Monsieur de Beaufort or Monsieur le Prince."

"But Monsieur le Prince is to set out for the army; he is
entirely devoted to the cardinal."

"Oh oh!" said Aramis, "there are questions between them at
this very moment. And besides, if it is not the prince, then
Monsieur de Gondy ---- "

"But Monsieur de Gondy is to be made a cardinal; they are
soliciting the hat for him."

"And are there no cardinals that can fight? Come now, recall
the four cardinals that at the head of armies have equalled
Monsieur de Guebriant and Monsieur de Gassion."

"But a humpbacked general!

"Under the cuirass the hump will not be seen. Besides,
remember that Alexander was lame and Hannibal had but one
eye."

"Do you see any great advantage in adhering to this party?"
asked D'Artagnan.

"I foresee in it the aid of powerful princes."

"With the enmity of the government."

"Counteracted by parliament and insurrections."

"That may be done if they can separate the king from his
mother."

"That may be done," said Aramis.

"Never!" cried D'Artagnan. "You, Aramis, know Anne of
Austria better than I do. Do you think she will ever forget
that her son is her safeguard, her shield, the pledge for
her dignity, for her fortune and her life? Should she
forsake Mazarin she must join her son and go over to the
princes' side; but you know better than I do that there are
certain reasons why she can never abandon Mazarin."

"Perhaps you are right," said Aramis, thoughtfully;
"therefore I shall not pledge myself."

"To them or to us, do you mean, Aramis?"

"To no one. I am a priest," resumed Aramis. "What have I to
do with politics? I am not obliged to read any breviary. I
have a jolly little circle of witty abbes and pretty women;
everything goes on smoothly, so certainly, dear friend, I
shall not meddle in politics."

"Well, listen, my dear Aramis," said D'Artagnan; "your
philosophy convinces me, on my honor. I don't know what
devil of an insect stung me and made me ambitious. I have a
post by which I live; at the death of Monsieur de Treville,
who is old, I may be a captain, which is a very snug berth
for a once penniless Gascon. Instead of running after
adventures I shall accept an invitation from Porthos; I
shall go and shoot on his estate. You know he has estates --
Porthos?"

"I should think so, indeed. Ten leagues of wood, of marsh
land and valleys; he is lord of the hill and the plain and
is now carrying on a suit for his feudal rights against the
Bishop of Noyon!"

"Good," said D'Artagnan to himself. "That's what I wanted to
know. Porthos is in Picardy."

Then aloud:

"And he has taken his ancient name of Vallon?"

"To which he adds that of Bracieux, an estate which has been
a barony, by my troth."

"So that Porthos will be a baron."

"I don't doubt it. The `Baroness Porthos' will sound
particularly charming."

And the two friends began to laugh.

"So," D'Artagnan resumed, "you will not become a partisan of
Mazarin's?"

"Nor you of the Prince de Conde?"

"No, let us belong to no party, but remain friends; let us
be neither Cardinalists nor Frondists."

"Adieu, then." And D'Artagnan poured out a glass of wine.

"To old times," he said.

"Yes," returned Aramis. "Unhappily, those times are past."

"Nonsense! They will return," said D'Artagnan. "At all
events, if you want me, remember the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel
de la Chevrette."

"And I shall be at the convent of Jesuits; from six in the
morning to eight at night come by the door. From eight in
the evening until six in the morning come in by the window."

"Adieu, dear friend."

"Oh, I can't let you go so! I will go with you." And he took
his sword and cloak.

"He wants to be sure that I go away," said D'Artagnan to
himself.

Aramis whistled for Bazin, but Bazin was asleep in the
ante-chamber, and Aramis was obliged to shake him by the ear
to awake him.

Bazin stretched his arms, rubbed his eyes, and tried to go
to sleep again.

"Come, come, sleepy head; quick, the ladder!"

"But," said Bazin, yawning portentously, "the ladder is
still at the window."

"The other one, the gardener's. Didn't you see that Monsieur
d'Artagnan mounted with difficulty? It will be even more
difficult to descend."

D'Artagnan was about to assure Aramis that he could descend
easily, when an idea came into his head which silenced him.

Bazin uttered a profound sigh and went out to look for the
ladder. Presently a good, solid, wooden ladder was placed
against the window.

"Now then," said D'Artagnan, "this is something like; this
is a means of communication. A woman could go up a ladder
like that."

Aramis's searching look seemed to seek his friend's thought
even at the bottom of his heart, but D'Artagnan sustained
the inquisition with an air of admirable simplicity.
Besides, at that moment he put his foot on the first step of
the ladder and began his descent. In a moment he was on the
ground. Bazin remained at the window.

"Stay there," said Aramis; "I shall return immediately."

The two friends went toward the shed. At their approach
Planchet came out leading the two horses.

"That is good to see," said Aramis. "There is a servant
active and vigilant, not like that lazy fellow Bazin, who is
no longer good for anything since he became connected with
the church. Follow us, Planchet; we shall continue our
conversation to the end of the village."

They traversed the width of the village, talking of
indifferent things, then as they reached the last houses:

"Go, then, dear friend," said Aramis, "follow your own
career. Fortune lavishes her smiles upon you; do not let her
flee from your embrace. As for me, I remain in my humility
and indolence. Adieu!"

"Thus 'tis quite decided," said D'Artagnan, "that what I
have to offer to you does not tempt you?"

"On the contrary, it would tempt me were I any other man,"
rejoined Aramis; "but I repeat, I am made up of
contradictions. What I hate to-day I adore to-morrow, and
vice versa. You see that I cannot, like you, for instance,
settle on any fixed plan."

"Thou liest, subtile one," said D'Artagnan to himself. "Thou
alone, on the contrary, knowest how to choose thy object and
to gain it stealthily."

The friends embraced. They descended into the plain by the
ladder. Planchet met them hard by the shed. D'Artagnan
jumped into the saddle, then the old companions in arms
again shook hands. D'Artagnan and Planchet spurred their
steeds and took the road to Paris.

But after he had gone about two hundred steps D'Artagnan
stopped short, alighted, threw the bridle of his horse over
the arm of Planchet and took the pistols from his saddle-bow
to fasten them to his girdle.

"What's the matter?" asked Planchet.

"This is the matter: be he ever so cunning he shall never
say I was his dupe. Stand here, don't stir, turn your back
to the road and wait for me."

Having thus spoken, D'Artagnan cleared the ditch by the
roadside and crossed the plain so as to wind around the
village. He had observed between the house that Madame de
Longueville inhabited and the convent of the Jesuits, an
open space surrounded by a hedge.

The moon had now risen and he could see well enough to
retrace his road.

He reached the hedge and hid himself behind it; in passing
by the house where the scene which we have related took
place, he remarked that the window was again lighted up and
he was convinced that Aramis had not yet returned to his own
apartment and that when he did it would not be alone.

In truth, in a few minutes he heard steps approaching and
low whispers.

Close to the hedge the steps stopped.

D'Artagnan knelt down near the thickest part of the hedge.

Two men, to the astonishment of D'Artagnan, appeared
shortly; soon, however, his surprise vanished, for he heard
the murmurs of a soft, harmonious voice; one of these two
men was a woman disguised as a cavalier.

"Calm yourself, dear Rene," said the soft voice, "the same
thing will never happen again. I have discovered a sort of
subterranean passage which runs beneath the street and we
shall only have to raise one of the marble slabs before the
door to open you an entrance and an outlet."

"Oh!" answered another voice, which D'Artagnan instantly
recognized as that of Aramis. "I swear to you, princess,
that if your reputation did not depend on precautions and if
my life alone were jeopardized ---- "

"Yes, yes! I know you are as brave and venturesome as any
man in the world, but you do not belong to me alone; you
belong to all our party. Be prudent! sensible!"

"I always obey, madame, when I am commanded by so gentle a
voice."

He kissed her hand tenderly.

"Ah!" exclaimed the cavalier with a soft voice.

"What's the matter?" asked Aramis.

"Do you not see that the wind has blown off my hat?"

Aramis rushed after the fugitive hat. D'Artagnan took
advantage of the circumstance to find a place in the hedge
not so thick, where his glance could penetrate to the
supposed cavalier. At that instant, the moon, inquisitive,
perhaps, like D'Artagnan, came from behind a cloud and by
her light D'Artagnan recognized the large blue eyes, the
golden hair and the classic head of the Duchess de
Longueville.

Aramis returned, laughing, one hat on his head and the other
in his hand; and he and his companion resumed their walk
toward the convent.

"Good!" said D'Artagnan, rising and brushing his knees; "now
I have thee -- thou art a Frondeur and the lover of Madame
de Longueville."



10

Monsieur Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.



Thanks to what Aramis had told him, D'Artagnan, who knew
already that Porthos called himself Du Vallon, was now aware
that he styled himself, from his estate, De Bracieux; and
that he was, on account of this estate, engaged in a lawsuit
with the Bishop of Noyon. It was, then, in the neighborhood
of Noyon that he must seek that estate. His itinerary was
promptly determined: he would go to Dammartin, from which
place two roads diverge, one toward Soissons, the other
toward Compiegne; there he would inquire concerning the
Bracieux estate and go to the right or to the left according
to the information obtained.

Planchet, who was still a little concerned for his safety
after his recent escapade, declared that he would follow
D'Artagnan even to the end of the world, either by the road
to the right or by that to the left; only he begged his
former master to set out in the evening, for greater
security to himself. D'Artagnan suggested that he should
send word to his wife, so that she might not be anxious
about him, but Planchet replied with much sagacity that he
was very sure his wife would not die of anxiety through not
knowing where he was, while he, Planchet, remembering her
incontinence of tongue, would die of anxiety if she did
know.

This reasoning seemed to D'Artagnan so satisfactory that he
no further insisted; and about eight o'clock in the evening,
the time when the vapors of night begin to thicken in the
streets, he left the Hotel de la Chevrette, and followed by
Planchet set forth from the capital by way of the Saint
Denis gate.

At midnight the two travelers were at Dammartin, but it was
then too late to make inquiries -- the host of the Cygne de
la Croix had gone to bed.

The next morning D'Artagnan summoned the host, one of those
sly Normans who say neither yes nor no and fear to commit
themselves by giving a direct answer. D'Artagnan, however,
gathered from his equivocal replies that the road to the
right was the one he ought to take, and on that uncertain
information he resumed his journey. At nine in the morning
he reached Nanteuil and stopped for breakfast. His host here
was a good fellow from Picardy, who gave him all the
information he needed. The Bracieux estate was a few leagues
from Villars-Cotterets.

D'Artagnan was acquainted with Villars-Cotterets having gone
thither with the court on several occasions; for at that
time Villars-Cotterets was a royal residence. He therefore
shaped his course toward that place and dismounted at the
Dauphin d'Or. There he ascertained that the Bracieux estate
was four leagues distant, but that Porthos was not at
Bracieux. Porthos had, in fact, been involved in a dispute
with the Bishop of Noyon in regard to the Pierrefonds
property, which adjoined his own, and weary at length of a
legal controversy which was beyond his comprehension, he put
an end to it by purchasing Pierrefonds and added that name
to his others. He now called himself Du Vallon de Bracieux
de Pierrefonds, and resided on his new estate.

The travelers were therefore obliged to stay at the hotel
until the next day; the horses had done ten leagues that day
and needed rest. It is true they might have taken others,
but there was a great forest to pass through and Planchet,
as we have seen, had no liking for forests after dark.

There was another thing that Planchet had no liking for and
that was starting on a journey with a hungry stomach.
Accordingly, D'Artagnan, on awaking, found his breakfast
waiting for him. It need not be said that Planchet in
resuming his former functions resumed also his former
humility and was not ashamed to make his breakfast on what
was left by D'Artagnan.

It was nearly eight o'clock when they set out again. Their
course was clearly defined: they were to follow the road
toward Compiegne and on emerging from the forest turn to the
right.

The morning was beautiful, and in this early springtime the
birds sang on the trees and the sunbeams shone through the
misty glades, like curtains of golden gauze.

In other parts of the forest the light could scarcely
penetrate through the foliage, and the stems of two old oak
trees, the refuge of the squirrel, startled by the
travelers, were in deep shadow.

There came up from all nature in the dawn of day a perfume
of herbs, flowers and leaves, which delighted the heart.
D'Artagnan, sick of the closeness of Paris, thought that
when a man had three names of his different estates joined
one to another, he ought to be very happy in such a
paradise; then he shook his head, saying, "If I were Porthos
and D'Artagnan came to make me such a proposition as I am
going to make to him, I know what I should say to it."

As to Planchet, he thought of little or nothing, but was
happy as a hunting-hound in his old master's company.

At the extremity of the wood D'Artagnan perceived the road
that had been described to him, and at the end of the road
he saw the towers of an immense feudal castle.

"Oh! oh!" he said, "I fancied this castle belonged to the
ancient branch of Orleans. Can Porthos have negotiated for
it with the Duc de Longueville?"

"Faith!" exclaimed Planchet, "here's land in good condition;
if it belongs to Monsieur Porthos I wish him joy."

"Zounds!" cried D'Artagnan, "don't call him Porthos, nor
even Vallon; call him De Bracieux or De Pierrefonds; thou
wilt knell out damnation to my mission otherwise."

As he approached the castle which had first attracted his
eye, D'Artagnan was convinced that it could not be there
that his friend dwelt; the towers, though solid and as if
built yesterday, were open and broken. One might have
fancied that some giant had cleaved them with blows from a
hatchet.

On arriving at the extremity of the castle D'Artagnan found
himself overlooking a beautiful valley, in which, at the
foot of a charming little lake, stood several scattered
houses, which, humble in their aspect, and covered, some
with tiles, others with thatch, seemed to acknowledge as
their sovereign lord a pretty chateau, built about the
beginning of the reign of Henry IV., and surmounted by four
stately, gilded weather-cocks. D'Artagnan no longer doubted
that this was Porthos's pleasant dwelling place.

The road led straight up to the chateau which, compared to
its ancestor on the hill, was exactly what a fop of the
coterie of the Duc d'Enghein would have been beside a knight
in steel armor in the time of Charles VII. D'Artagnan
spurred his horse on and pursued his road, followed by
Planchet at the same pace.

In ten minutes D'Artagnan reached the end of an alley
regularly planted with fine poplars and terminating in an
iron gate, the points and crossed bars of which were gilt.
In the midst of this avenue was a nobleman, dressed in green
and with as much gilding about him as the iron gate, riding
on a tall horse. On his right hand and his left were two
footmen, with the seams of their dresses laced. A
considerable number of clowns were assembled and rendered
homage to their lord.

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan to himself, "can this be the Seigneur
du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds? Well-a-day! how he has
shrunk since he gave up the name of Porthos!"

"This cannot be Monsieur Porthos," observed Planchet
replying, as it were, to his master's thoughts. "Monsieur
Porthos was six feet high; this man is scarcely five."

"Nevertheless," said D'Artagnan, "the people are bowing very
low to this person."

As he spoke, he rode toward the tall horse -- to the man of
importance and his valets. As he approached he seemed to
recognize the features of this individual.

"Jesu!" cried Planchet, "can it be?"

At this exclamation the man on horseback turned slowly and
with a lofty air, and the two travelers could see, displayed
in all their brilliancy, the large eyes, the vermilion
visage, and the eloquent smile of -- Musqueton.

It was indeed Musqueton -- Musqueton, as fat as a pig,
rolling about with rude health, puffed out with good living,
who, recognizing D'Artagnan and acting very differently from
the hypocrite Bazin, slipped off his horse and approached
the officer with his hat off, so that the homage of the
assembled crowd was turned toward this new sun, which
eclipsed the former luminary.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan! Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried Musqueton,
his fat cheeks swelling out and his whole frame perspiring
with joy; "Monsieur d'Artagnan! oh! what joy for my lord and
master, Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds!"

"Thou good Musqueton! where is thy master?"

"You stand upon his property!"

"But how handsome thou art -- how fat! thou hast prospered
and grown stout!" and D'Artagnan could not restrain his
astonishment at the change good fortune had produced on the
once famished one.

"Hey, yes, thank God, I am pretty well," said Musqueton.

"But hast thou nothing to say to thy friend Planchet?"

"How, my friend Planchet? Planchet -- art thou there?" cried
Musqueton, with open arms and eyes full of tears.

"My very self," replied Planchet; "but I wanted first to see
if thou wert grown proud."

"Proud toward an old friend? never, Planchet! thou wouldst
not have thought so hadst thou known Musqueton well."

"So far so well," answered Planchet, alighting, and
extending his arms to Musqueton, the two servants embraced
with an emotion which touched those who were present and
made them suppose that Planchet was a great lord in
disguise, so highly did they estimate the position of
Musqueton.

"And now, sir," resumed Musqueton, when he had rid himself
of Planchet, who had in vain tried to clasp his hands behind
his friend's fat back, "now, sir, allow me to leave you, for
I could not permit my master to hear of your arrival from
any but myself; he would never forgive me for not having
preceded you."

"This dear friend," said D'Artagnan, carefully avoiding to
utter either the former name borne by Porthos or his new
one, "then he has not forgotten me?"

"Forgotten -- he!" cried Musqueton; "there's not a day, sir,
that we don't expect to hear that you were made marshal
either instead of Monsieur de Gassion, or of Monsieur de
Bassompierre."

On D'Artagnan's lips there played one of those rare and
melancholy smiles which seemed to emanate from the depth of
his soul -- the last trace of youth and happiness that had
survived life's disillusions.

"And you -- fellows," resumed Musqueton, "stay near Monsieur
le Comte d'Artagnan and pay him every attention in your
power whilst I go to prepare my lord for his visit."

And mounting his horse Musqueton rode off down the avenue on
the grass at a hand gallop.

"Ah, there! there's something promising," said D'Artagnan.
"No mysteries, no cloak to hide one's self in, no cunning
policy here; people laugh outright, they weep for joy here.
I see nothing but faces a yard broad; in short, it seems to
me that nature herself wears a holiday garb, and that the
trees, instead of leaves and flowers, are covered with red
and green ribbons as on gala days."

"As for me," said Planchet, "I seem to smell, from this
place, even, a most delectable perfume of fine roast meat,
and to see the scullions in a row by the hedge, hailing our
approach. Ah! sir, what a cook must Monsieur Pierrefonds
have, when he was so fond of eating and drinking, even
whilst he was only called Monsieur Porthos!"

"Say no more!" cried D'Artagnan. "If the reality corresponds
with appearances I am lost; for a man so well off will never
change his happy condition, and I shall fail with him, as I
have already done with Aramis."



11

How D'Artagnan, in discovering the Retreat of Porthos,
perceives that Wealth does not necessarily produce
Happiness.



D'Artagnan passed through the iron gate and arrived in front
of the chateau. He alighted as he saw a species of giant on
the steps. Let us do justice to D'Artagnan. Independently of
every selfish wish, his heart palpitated with joy when he
saw that tall form and martial demeanor, which recalled to
him a good and brave man.

He ran to Porthos and threw himself into his arms; the whole
body of servants, arranged in a semi-circle at a respectful
distance, looked on with humble curiosity. Musqueton, at the
head of them, wiped his eyes. Porthos linked his arm in that
of his friend.

"Ah! how delightful to see you again, dear friend!" he
cried, in a voice which was now changed from a baritone into
a bass, "you've not then forgotten me?"

"Forget you! oh! dear Du Vallon, does one forget the
happiest days of flowery youth, one's dearest friends, the
dangers we have dared together? On the contrary, there is
not an hour we have passed together that is not present to
my memory."

"Yes, yes," said Porthos, trying to give to his mustache a
curl which it had lost whilst he had been alone. "Yes, we
did some fine things in our time and we gave that poor
cardinal a few threads to unravel."

And he heaved a sigh.

"Under any circumstances," he resumed, "you are welcome, my
dear friend; you will help me to recover my spirits;
to-morrow we will hunt the hare on my plain, which is a
superb tract of land, or pursue the deer in my woods, which
are magnificent. I have four harriers which are considered
the swiftest in the county, and a pack of hounds which are
unequalled for twenty leagues around."

And Porthos heaved another sigh.

"But, first," interposed D'Artagnan, "you must present me to
Madame du Vallon."

A third sigh from Porthos.

"I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago," he said, "and you
find me still in affliction on that account. That was the
reason why I left my Chateau du Vallon near Corbeil, and
came to my estate, Bracieux. Poor Madame du Vallon! her
temper was uncertain, but she came at last to accustom
herself to my little ways and understand my little wishes."

"So you are free now, and rich?"

"Alas!" groaned Porthos, "I am a widower and have forty
thousand francs a year. Let us go to breakfast."

"I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me
hungry."

"Yes," said Porthos; "my air is excellent."

They went into the chateau; there was nothing but gilding,
high and low; the cornices were gilt, the mouldings were
gilt, the legs and arms of the chairs were gilt. A table,
ready set out, awaited them.

"You see," said Porthos, "this is my usual style."

"Devil take me!" answered D'Artagnan, "I wish you joy of it.
The king has nothing like it."

"No," answered Porthos, "I hear it said that he is very
badly fed by the cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this
cutlet, my dear D'Artagnan; 'tis off one of my sheep."

"You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it." said
D'Artagnan.

"Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent
pasture."

"Give me another cutlet."

"No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of
my warrens."

"Zounds! what a flavor!" cried D'Artagnan; "ah! they are fed
on thyme only, your hares."

"And how do you like my wine?" asked Porthos; "it is
pleasant, isn't it?"

"Capital!"

"It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country."

"Really?"

"Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill,
gives me twenty hogsheads."

"Quite a vineyard, hey?"

Porthos sighed for the fifth time -- D'Artagnan had counted
his sighs. He became curious to solve the problem.

"Well now," he said, "it seems, my dear friend, that
something vexes you; you are ill, perhaps? That health,
which ---- "

"Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill
an ox with a blow of my fist."

"Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?"

"Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care
for."

"But what makes you sigh?"

"My dear fellow," replied Porthos, "to be candid with you, I
am not happy."

"You are not happy, Porthos? You who have chateau, meadows,
mountains, woods -- you who have forty thousand francs a
year -- you -- are -- not -- happy?"

"My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit
in the midst of superfluity."

"Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you
could not associate."

Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of
wine.

"No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who
have all some title or another and pretend to go back as far
as Charlemagne, or at least to Hugh Capet. When I first came
here; being the last comer, it was for me to make the first
advances. I made them, but you know, my dear friend, Madame
du Vallon ---- "

Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down
something.

"Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her
first marriage -- I don't think, D'Artagnan, I am telling
you anything new -- married a lawyer; they thought that
`nauseous;' you can understand that's a word bad enough to
make one kill thirty thousand men. I have killed two, which
has made people hold their tongues, but has not made me
their friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am
sick of it -- my mind preys on itself."

D'Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was
weak, and prepared the blow.

"But now," he said, "that you are a widower, your wife's
connection cannot injure you."

"Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic
fame, like the De Courcys, who were content to be plain
sirs, or the Rohans, who didn't wish to be dukes, all these
people, who are all either vicomtes or comtes go before me
at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say nothing to
them. Ah! If I only were a ---- "

"A baron, don't you mean?" cried D'Artagnan, finishing his
friend's sentence.

"Ah!" cried Porthos; "would I were but a baron!"

"Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title
which you wish for so much."

Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three
bottles fell and were broken. Musqueton ran thither, hearing
the noise.

Porthos waved his hand to Musqueton to pick up the bottles.

"I am glad to see," said D'Artagnan, "that you have still
that honest lad with you."

"He is my steward," replied Porthos; "he will never leave
me. Go away now, Mouston."

"So he's called Mouston," thought D'Artagnan; "'tis too long
a word to pronounce `Musqueton.'"

"Well," he said aloud, "let us resume our conversation
later, your people may suspect something; there may be spies
about. You can suppose, Porthos, that what I have to say
relates to most important matters."

"Devil take them; let us walk in the park," answered
Porthos, "for the sake of digestion."

"Egad," said D'Artagnan, "the park is like everything else
and there are as many fish in your pond as rabbits in your
warren; you are a happy man, my friend since you have not
only retained your love of the chase, but acquired that of
fishing."

"My friend," replied Porthos, "I leave fishing to Musqueton,
-- it is a vulgar pleasure, -- but I shoot sometimes; that
is to say, when I am dull, and I sit on one of those marble
seats, have my gun brought to me, my favorite dog, and I
shoot rabbits."

"Really, how very amusing!"

"Yes," replied Porthos, with a sigh; it is amusing."

D'Artagnan now no longer counted the sighs. They were
innumerable.

"However, what had you to say to me?" he resumed; "let us
return to that subject."

"With pleasure," replied D'Artagnan; "I must, however, first
frankly tell you that you must change your mode of life."

"How?"

"Go into harness again, gird on your sword, run after
adventures, and leave as in old times a little of your fat
on the roadside."

"Ah! hang it!" said Porthos.

"I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you are corpulent, your
arm has no longer that movement of which the late cardinal's
guards have so many proofs."

"Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear," cried Porthos,
extending a hand like a shoulder of mutton.

"So much the better."

"Are we then to go to war?"

"By my troth, yes."

"Against whom?"

"Are you a politician, friend?"

"Not in the least."

"Are you for Mazarin or for the princes?"

"I am for no one."

"That is to say, you are for us. Well, I tell you that I
come to you from the cardinal."

This speech was heard by Porthos in the same sense as if it
had still been in the year 1640 and related to the true
cardinal.

"Ho! ho! What are the wishes of his eminence?"

"He wishes to have you in his service."

"And who spoke to him of me?"

"Rochefort -- you remember him?"

"Yes, pardieu! It was he who gave us so much trouble and
kept us on the road so much; you gave him three sword-wounds
in three separate engagements."

"But you know he is now our friend?"

"No, I didn't know that. So he cherishes no resentment?"

"You are mistaken, Porthos," said D'Artagnan. "It is I who
cherish no resentment."

Porthos didn't understand any too clearly; but then we know
that understanding was not his strong point. "You say,
then," he continued, "that the Count de Rochefort spoke of
me to the cardinal?"

"Yes, and the queen, too."

"The queen, do you say?"

"To inspire us with confidence she has even placed in
Mazarin's hands that famous diamond -- you remember all
about it -- that I once sold to Monsieur des Essarts and of
which, I don't know how, she has regained possession."

"But it seems to me," said Porthos, "that she would have
done much better if she had given it back to you."

"So I think," replied D'Artagnan; "but kings and queens are
strange beings and have odd fancies; nevertheless, since
they are the ones who have riches and honors, we are devoted
to them."

"Yes, we are devoted to them," repeated Porthos; "and you --
to whom are you devoted now?"

"To the king, the queen, and to the cardinal; moreover, I
have answered for your devotion also."

"And you say that you have made certain conditions on my
behalf?"

"Magnificent, my dear fellow, magnificent! In the first
place you have plenty of money, haven't you? forty thousand
francs income, I think you said."

Porthos began to be suspicious. "Eh! my friend," said he,
"one never has too much money. Madame du Vallon left things
in much disorder; I am not much of a hand at figures, so
that I live almost from hand to mouth."

"He is afraid I have come to borrow money," thought
D'Artagnan. "Ah, my friend," said he, "it is all the better
if you are in difficulties."

"How is it all the better?"

"Yes, for his eminence will give you all that you want --
land, money, and titles."

"Ah! ah! ah!" said Porthos, opening his eyes at that last
word.

"Under the other cardinal," continued D'Artagnan, "we didn't
know enough to make our profits; this, however, doesn't
concern you, with your forty thousand francs income, the
happiest man in the world, it seems to me."

Porthos sighed.

"At the same time," continued D'Artagnan, "notwithstanding
your forty thousand francs a year, and perhaps even for the
very reason that you have forty thousand francs a year, it
seems to me that a little coronet would do well on your
carriage, hey?"

"Yes indeed," said Porthos.

"Well, my dear friend, win it -- it is at the point of your
sword. We shall not interfere with each other -- your object
is a title; mine, money. If I can get enough to rebuild
Artagnan, which my ancestors, impoverished by the Crusades,
allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy thirty acres of land
about it, that is all I wish. I shall retire and die
tranquilly -- at home."

"For my part," said Porthos, "I desire to be made a baron."

"You shall be one."

"And have you not seen any of our other friends?"

"Yes, I have seen Aramis."

"And what does he wish? To be a bishop?"

"Aramis," answered D'Artagnan, who did not wish to undeceive
Porthos, "Aramis, fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit, and
lives like a bear. My offers did not arouse him, -- did not
even tempt him."

"So much the worse! He was a clever man. And Athos?"

"I have not yet seen him. Do you know where I shall find
him?"

"Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne. Only imagine, my dear
friend. Athos, who was of as high birth as the emperor and
who inherits one estate which gives him the title of comte,
what is he to do with all those dignities -- the Comte de la
Fere, Comte de Bragelonne?"

"And he has no children with all these titles?"

"Ah!" said Porthos, "I have heard that he had adopted a
young man who resembles him greatly."

"What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have
you seen him?

"No."

"Well, I shall see him to-morrow and tell him about you; but
I'm afraid, entre nous, that his liking for wine has aged
and degraded him."

"Yes, he used to drink a great deal," replied Porthos.

"And then he was older than any of us," added D'Artagnan.

"Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he
was."

"Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we
cannot, we will do without him. We two are worth a dozen."

"Yes," said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his
former exploits; "but we four, altogether, would be equal to
thirty-six, more especially as you say the work will not be
child's play. Will it last long?"

"By'r Lady! two or three years perhaps."

"So much the better," cried Porthos. "You have no idea, my
friend, how my bones ache since I came here. Sometimes on a
Sunday, I take a ride in the fields and on the property of
my neighbours, in order to pick up a nice little quarrel,
which I am really in want of, but nothing happens. Either
they respect or they fear me, which is more likely, but they
let me trample down the clover with my dogs, insult and
obstruct every one, and I come back still more weary and
low-spirited, that's all. At any rate, tell me: there's more
chance of fighting in Paris, is there not?"

"In that respect, my dear friend, it's delightful. No more
edicts, no more of the cardinal's guards, no more De
Jussacs, nor other bloodhounds. I'Gad! underneath a lamp in
an inn, anywhere, they ask `Are you one of the Fronde?' They
unsheathe, and that's all that is said. The Duke de Guise
killed Monsieur de Coligny in the Place Royale and nothing
was said of it."

"Ah, things go on gaily, then," said Porthos.

"Besides which, in a short time," resumed D'Artagnan, "We
shall have set battles, cannonades, conflagrations and there
will be great variety."

"Well, then, I decide."

"I have your word, then?"

"Yes, 'tis given. I shall fight heart and soul for Mazarin;
but ---- "

"But?"

"But he must make me a baron."

"Zounds!" said D'Artagnan, "that's settled already; I will
be responsible for the barony."

On this promise being given, Porthos, who had never doubted
his friend's assurance, turned back with him toward the
castle.



12

In which it is shown that if Porthos was discontented with
his Condition, Musqueton was completely satisfied with his.



As they returned toward the castle, D'Artagnan thought of
the miseries of poor human nature, always dissatisfied with
what it has, ever desirous of what it has not.

In the position of Porthos, D'Artagnan would have been
perfectly happy; and to make Porthos contented there was
wanting -- what? five letters to put before his three names,
a tiny coronet to paint upon the panels of his carriage!

"I shall pass all my life," thought D'Artagnan, "in seeking
for a man who is really contented with his lot."

Whilst making this reflection, chance seemed, as it were, to
give him the lie direct. When Porthos had left him to give
some orders he saw Musqueton approaching. The face of the
steward, despite one slight shade of care, light as a summer
cloud, seemed a physiognomy of absolute felicity.

"Here is what I am looking for," thought D'Artagnan; "but
alas! the poor fellow does not know the purpose for which I
am here."

He then made a sign for Musqueton to come to him.

"Sir," said the servant, "I have a favour to ask you."

"Speak out, my friend."

"I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that
prosperity has spoiled me?"

"Art thou happy, friend?" asked D'Artagnan.

"As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you may make me even
happier than I am."

"Well, speak, if it depends on me."

"Oh, sir! it depends on you only."

"I listen -- I am waiting to hear."

"Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is, not to call me
`Musqueton' but `Mouston.' Since I have had the honor of
being my lord's steward I have taken the last name as more
dignified and calculated to make my inferiors respect me.
You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in any large
establishment of servants."

D'Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names,
Musqueton to cut his short.

"Well, my dear Mouston," he said, "rest satisfied. I will
call thee Mouston; and if it makes thee happy I will not
`tutoyer' you any longer."

"Oh!" cried Musqueton, reddening with joy; "if you do me,
sir, such honor, I shall be grateful all my life; it is too
much to ask."

"Alas!" thought D'Artagnan, "it is very little to offset the
unexpected tribulations I am bringing to this poor devil who
has so warmly welcomed me."

"Will monsieur remain long with us?" asked Musqueton, with a
serene and glowing countenance.

"I go to-morrow, my friend," replied D'Artagnan.

"Ah, monsieur," said Musqueton, "then you have come here
only to awaken our regrets."

"I fear that is true," said D'Artagnan, in a low tone.

D'Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at
inducing Porthos to enter into schemes in which his life and
fortune would be in jeopardy, for Porthos, in the title of
baron, had his object and reward; but poor Musqueton, whose
only wish was to be called Mouston -- was it not cruel to
snatch him from the delightful state of peace and plenty in
which he was?

He was thinking of these matters when Porthos summoned him
to dinner.

"What! to dinner?" said D'Artagnan. "What time is it, then?"

"Eh! why, it is after one o'clock."

"Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one takes no note of
time. I follow you, though I am not hungry."

"Come, if one can't always eat, one can always drink -- a
maxim of poor Athos, the truth of which I have discovered
since I began to be lonely."

D'Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was inclined to sobriety,
seemed not so sure as his friend of the truth of Athos's
maxim, but he did his best to keep up with his host.
Meanwhile his misgivings in regard to Musqueton recurred to
his mind and with greater force because Musqueton, though he
did not himself wait on the table, which would have been
beneath him in his new position, appeared at the door from
time to time and evinced his gratitude to D'Artagnan by the
quality of the wine he directed to be served. Therefore,
when, at dessert, upon a sign from D'Artagnan, Porthos had
sent away his servants and the two friends were alone:

"Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "who will attend you in your
campaigns?"

"Why," replied Porthos, "Mouston, of course."

This was a blow to D'Artagnan. He could already see the
intendant's beaming smile change to a contortion of grief.
"But," he said, "Mouston is not so young as he was, my dear
fellow; besides, he has grown fat and perhaps has lost his
fitness for active service."

"That may be true," replied Porthos; "but I am used to him,
and besides, he wouldn't be willing to let me go without
him, he loves me so much."

"Oh, blind self-love!" thought D'Artagnan.

"And you," asked Porthos, "haven't you still in your service
your old lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent
---what, then, is his name?"

"Planchet -- yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey
no longer."

"What is he, then?"

"With his sixteen hundred francs -- you remember, the
sixteen hundred francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle
by carrying a letter to Lord de Winter -- he has set up a
little shop in the Rue des Lombards and is now a
confectioner."

"Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does
it happen, then, that he is in your service?"

"He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be
disturbed." And the musketeer narrated to his friend
Planchet's adventure.

"Well," said Porthos, "if any one had told you in the old
times that the day would come when Planchet would rescue
Rochefort and that you would protect him in it ---- "

"I should not have believed him; but men are changed by
events."

"There is nothing truer than that," said Porthos; "but what
does not change, or changes for the better, is wine. Taste
of this; it is a Spanish wine which our friend Athos thought
much of."

At that moment the steward came in to consult his master
upon the proceedings of the next day and also with regard to
the shooting party which had been proposed.

"Tell me, Mouston," said Porthos, "are my arms in good
condition?"

"Your arms, my lord -- what arms?"

"Zounds! my weapons."

"What weapons?"

"My military weapons."

"Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so."

"Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished
up. Which is my best cavalry horse?"

"Vulcan."

"And the best hack?"

"Bayard."

"What horse dost thou choose for thyself?"

"I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit
me."

"Strong, think's" thou?"

"Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day."

"That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make
some one else polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee
and a hunting-knife."

"Are we then going to travel, my lord?" asked Musqueton,
rather uneasy.

"Something better still, Mouston."

"An expedition, sir?" asked the steward, whose roses began
to change into lilies.

"We are going to return to the service, Mouston," replied
Porthos, still trying to restore his mustache to the
military curl it had long lost.

"Into the service -- the king's service?" Musqueton
trembled; even his fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and
he looked at D'Artagnan with an air of reproach; he
staggered, and his voice was almost choked.

"Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all
sorts of adventures -- return, in short, to our former
life."

These last words fell on Musqueton like a thunderbolt. It
was those very terrible old days that made the present so
excessively delightful, and the blow was so great he rushed
out, overcome, and forgot to shut the door.

The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to
build castles in the air. The good wine which Musqueton had
placed before them traced out in glowing drops to D'Artagnan
a fine perspective, shining with quadruples and pistoles,
and showed to Porthos a blue ribbon and a ducal mantle; they
were, in fact, asleep on the table when the servants came to
light them to their bed.

Musqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D'Artagnan, who
the next day told him that in all probability war would
always be carried on in the heart of Paris and within reach
of the Chateau du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or
Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds, which
was between Compiegne and Villars-Cotterets.

"But -- formerly -- it appears," began Musqueton timidly.

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "we don't now make war as we did
formerly. To-day it's a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask
Planchet."

Musqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his
old friend, who confirmed the statement of D'Artagnan.
"But," he added, "in this war prisoners stand a chance of
being hung."

"The deuce they do!" said Musqueton; "I think I should like
the siege of Rochelle better than this war, then!"

Porthos, meantime, asked D'Artagnan to give him his
instructions how to proceed on his journey.

"Four days," replied his friend, "are necessary to reach
Blois; one day to rest there; three or four days to return
to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week, with your suite,
and go to the Hotel de la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and
there await me."

"That's agreed," said Porthos.

"As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I
don't think his aid worth much, one must with one's friends
observe all due politeness," said D'Artagnan.

The friends then took leave of each other on the very border
of the estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his
friend.

"At least," D'Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road
to Villars-Cotterets, "at least I shall not be alone in my
undertaking. That devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious
strength; still, if Athos joins us, well, we shall be three
of us to laugh at Aramis, that little coxcomb with his too
good luck."

At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:



"My Lord, -- I have already one man to offer to your
eminence, and he is well worth twenty men. I am just setting
out for Blois. The Comte de la Fere inhabits the Castle of
Bragelonne, in the environs of that city."



13

Two Angelic Faces.



The road was long, but the horses upon which D'Artagnan and
Planchet rode had been refreshed in the well supplied
stables of the Lord of Bracieux; the master and servant rode
side by side, conversing as they went, for D'Artagnan had by
degrees thrown off the master and Planchet had entirely
ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been
raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his
master. It was many years since D'Artagnan had opened his
heart to any one; it happened, however, that these two men,
on meeting again, assimilated perfectly. Planchet was in
truth no vulgar companion in these new adventures; he was a
man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting danger he
never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a
soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the
footing of friends that D'Artagnan and Planchet arrived in
the neighborhood of Blois.

Going along, D'Artagnan, shaking his head, said:

"I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but
still I owe this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in
him material for the most noble and generous of characters."

"Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman," said Planchet,
"was he not? Scattering money round about him as Heaven
sprinkles rain. Do you remember, sir, that duel with the
Englishman in the inclosure des Carmes? Ah! how lofty, how
magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day, when he said to his
adversary: `You have insisted on knowing my name, sir; so
much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill
you.' I was near him, those were his exact words, when he
stabbed his foe as he said he would, and his adversary fell
without saying, `Oh!' 'Tis a noble gentleman -- Monsieur
Athos."

"Yes, true as Gospel," said D'Artagnan; "but one single
fault has swallowed up all these fine qualities."

"I remember well," said Planchet, "he was fond of drinking
-- in truth, he drank, but not as other men drink. One
seemed, as he raised the wine to his lips, to hear him say,
`Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my sorrows.' And
how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a
bottle! There was no one like him for that."

"And now," replied D'Artagnan, "behold the sad spectacle
that awaits us. This noble gentleman with his lofty glance,
this handsome cavalier, so brilliant in feats of arms that
every one was surprised that he held in his hand a sword
only instead of a baton of command! Alas! we shall find him
changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and
eyes that slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn,
whence he will look at us with a languid eye and
peradventure will not recognize us. God knows, Planchet,
that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not wish to
show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once
the Comte de la Fere, whom we loved so much."

Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident
that he shared his master's apprehensions.

"And then," resumed D'Artagnan, "to this decrepitude is
probably added poverty, for he must have neglected the
little that he had, and the dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more
taciturn than ever and still more drunken than his master --
stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely think of it."

"I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear
him stammering," said Planchet, in a piteous tone, "but at
all events we shall soon know the real state of things, for
I imagine that those lofty walls, now turning ruby in the
setting sun, are the walls of Blois."

"Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that
we catch a glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I
have heard described at Chambord."

At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks,
which carry the wood cut in the fine forests of the country
to the ports of the Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts
and turned on that which the two horsemen were following. A
man carrying a long switch with a nail at the end of it,
with which he urged on his slow team, was walking with the
cart.

"Ho! friend," cried Planchet.

"What's your pleasure, gentlemen?" replied the peasant, with
a purity of accent peculiar to the people of that district
and which might have put to shame the cultured denizens of
the Sorbonne and the Rue de l'Universite.

"We are looking for the house of Monsieur de la Fere," said
D'Artagnan.

The peasant took off his hat on hearing this revered name.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the wood that I am carting is his; I
cut it in his copse and I am taking it to the chateau."

D'Artagnan determined not to question this man; he did not
wish to hear from another what he had himself said to
Planchet.

"The chateau!" he said to himself, "what chateau? Ah, I
understand! Athos is not a man to be thwarted; he, like
Porthos, has obliged his peasantry to call him `my lord,'
and to dignify his pettifogging place by the name of
chateau. He had a heavy hand -- dear old Athos -- after
drinking."

D'Artagnan, after asking the man the right way, continued
his route, agitated in spite of himself at the idea of
seeing once more that singular man whom he had so truly
loved and who had contributed so much by advice and example
to his education as a gentleman. He checked by degrees the
speed of his horse and went on, his head drooping as if in
deep thought.

Soon, as the road turned, the Chateau de la Valliere
appeared in view; then, a quarter of a mile beyond, a white
house, encircled in sycamores, was visible at the farther
end of a group of trees, which spring had powdered with a
snow of flowers.

On beholding this house, D'Artagnan, calm as he was in
general, felt an unusual disturbance within his heart -- so
powerful during the whole course of life are the
recollections of youth. He proceeded, nevertheless, and came
opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in the taste of the
period.

Through the gate was seen kitchen-gardens, carefully
attended to, a spacious courtyard, in which neighed several
horses held by valets in various liveries, and a carriage,
drawn by two horses of the country.

"We are mistaken," said D'Artagnan. "This cannot be the
establishment of Athos. Good heavens! suppose he is dead and
that this property now belongs to some one who bears his
name. Alight, Planchet, and inquire, for I confess that I
have scarcely courage so to do."

Planchet alighted.

"Thou must add," said D'Artagnan, "that a gentleman who is
passing by wishes to have the honor of paying his respects
to the Comte de la Fere, and if thou art satisfied with what
thou hearest, then mention my name!"

Planchet, leading his horse by the bridle, drew near to the
gate and rang the bell, and immediately a servant-man with
white hair and of erect stature, notwithstanding his age,
presented himself.

"Does Monsieur le Comte de la Fere live here?" asked
Planchet.

"Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives," the servant replied to
Planchet, who was not in livery.

"A nobleman retired from service, is he not?"

"Yes."

"And who had a lackey named Grimaud?" persisted Planchet,
who had prudently considered that he couldn't have too much
information.

"Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the chateau for the time
being," said the servitor, who, little used as he was to
such inquiries, began to examine Planchet from head to foot.

"Then," cried Planchet joyously, "I see well that it is the
same Comte de la Fere whom we seek. Be good enough to open
to me, for I wish to announce to monsieur le comte that my
master, one of his friends, is here, and wishes to greet
him."

"Why didn't you say so?" said the servitor, opening the
gate. "But where is your master?"

"He is following me."

The servitor opened the gate and walked before Planchet, who
made a sign to D'Artagnan. The latter, his heart palpitating
more than ever, entered the courtyard without dismounting.

Whilst Planchet was standing on the steps before the house
he heard a voice say:

"Well, where is this gentleman and why do they not bring him
here?"

This voice, the sound of which reached D'Artagnan,
reawakened in his heart a thousand sentiments, a thousand
recollections that he had forgotten. He vaulted hastily from
his horse, whilst Planchet, with a smile on his lips,
advanced toward the master of the house.

"But I know you, my lad," said Athos, appearing on the
threshold.

"Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me and I know you. I
am Planchet -- Planchet, whom you know well." But the honest
servant could say no more, so much was he overcome by this
unexpected interview.

"What, Planchet, is Monsieur d'Artagnan here?"

"Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!" cried D'Artagnan, in a
faltering voice and almost staggering from agitation.

At these words a visible emotion was expressed on the
beautiful countenance and calm features of Athos. He rushed
toward D'Artagnan with eyes fixed upon him and clasped him
in his arms. D'Artagnan, equally moved, pressed him also
closely to him, whilst tears stood in his eyes. Athos then
took him by the hand and led him into the drawing-room,
where there were several people. Every one arose.

"I present to you," he said, "Monsieur le Chevalier
D'Artagnan, lieutenant of his majesty's musketeers, a
devoted friend and one of the most excellent, brave
gentlemen that I have ever known."

D'Artagnan received the compliments of those who were
present in his own way, and whilst the conversation became
general he looked earnestly at Athos.

Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all! His fine eyes, no
longer surrounded by that dark line which nights of
dissipation pencil too infallibly, seemed larger, more
liquid than ever. His face, a little elongated, had gained
in calm dignity what it had lost in feverish excitement. His
hand, always wonderfully beautiful and strong, was set off
by a ruffle of lace, like certain hands by Titian and
Vandyck. He was less stiff than formerly. His long, dark
hair, softly powdered here and there with silver tendrils,
fell elegantly over his shoulders in wavy curls; his voice
was still youthful, as if belonging to a Hercules of
twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth, which he had
preserved white and sound, gave an indescribable charm to
his smile.

Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the two friends were
longing to be alone, prepared to depart, when a noise of
dogs barking resounded through the courtyard and many
persons said at the same moment:

"Ah! 'tis Raoul, who is come home."

Athos, as the name of Raoul was pronounced, looked
inquisitively at D'Artagnan, in order to see if any
curiosity was painted on his face. But D'Artagnan was still
in confusion and turned around almost mechanically when a
fine young man of fifteen years of age, dressed simply, but
in perfect taste, entered the room, raising, as he came, his
hat, adorned with a long plume of scarlet feathers.

Nevertheless, D'Artagnan was struck by the appearance of
this new personage. It seemed to explain to him the change
in Athos; a resemblance between the boy and the man
explained the mystery of this regenerated existence. He
remained listening and gazing.

"Here you are, home again, Raoul," said the comte.

"Yes, sir," replied the youth, with deep respect, "and I
have performed the commission that you gave me."

"But what's the matter, Raoul?" said Athos, very anxiously.
"You are pale and agitated."

"Sir," replied the young man, "it is on account of an
accident which has happened to our little neighbor."

"To Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" asked Athos, quickly.

"What is it?" cried many persons present.

"She was walking with her nurse Marceline, in the place
where the woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on horseback,
I stopped. She saw me also and in trying to jump from the
end of a pile of wood on which she had mounted, the poor
child fell and was not able to rise again. I fear that she
has badly sprained her ankle."

"Oh, heavens!" cried Athos. "And her mother, Madame de
Saint-Remy, have they yet told her of it?"

"No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at Blois with the Duchess
of Orleans. I am afraid that what was first done was
unskillful, if not worse than useless. I am come, sir, to
ask your advice."

"Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or, rather, take horse and
ride immediately yourself."

Raoul bowed.

"But where is Louise?" asked the comte.

"I have brought her here, sir, and I have deposited her in
charge of Charlotte, who, till better advice comes, has
bathed the foot in cold well-water."

The guests now all took leave of Athos, excepting the old
Duc de Barbe, who, as an old friend of the family of La
Valliere, went to see little Louise and offered to take her
to Blois in his carriage.

"You are right, sir," said Athos. "She will be the sooner
with her mother. As for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your
fault, some giddiness or folly."

"No, sir, I assure you," muttered Raoul, "it is not."

"Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!" cried the young girl,
while Raoul turned pale at the idea of his being perhaps the
cause of her disaster.

"Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to Blois and you must make
your excuses and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy."

The youth looked pleased. He again took in his strong arms
the little girl, whose pretty golden head and smiling face
rested on his shoulder, and placed her gently in the
carriage; then jumping on his horse with the elegance of a
first-rate esquire, after bowing to Athos and D'Artagnan, he
went off close by the door of the carriage, on somebody
inside of which his eyes were riveted.



14

The Castle of Bragelonne.



Whilst this scene was going on, D'Artagnan remained with
open mouth and a confused gaze. Everything had turned out so
differently from what he expected that he was stupefied with
wonder.

Athos, who had been observing him and guessing his thoughts,
took his arm and led him into the garden.

"Whilst supper is being prepared," he said, smiling, "you
will not, my friend, be sorry to have the mystery which so
puzzles you cleared up."

"True, monsieur le comte," replied D'Artagnan, who felt that
by degrees Athos was resuming that great influence which
aristocracy had over him.

Athos smiled.

"First and foremost, dear D'Artagnan, we have no title such
as count here. When I call you `chevalier,' it is in
presenting you to my guests, that they may know who you are.
But to you, D'Artagnan, I am, I hope, still dear Athos, your
comrade, your friend. Do you intend to stand on ceremony
because you are less attached to me than you were?"

"Oh! God forbid!"

"Then let us be as we used to be; let us be open with each
other. You are surprised at what you see here?"

"Extremely."

"But above all things, I am a marvel to you?"

"I confess it."

"I am still young, am I not? Should you not have known me
again, in spite of my eight-and-forty years of age?"

"On the contrary, I do not find you the same person at all."

"I understand," cried Athos, with a gentle blush.
"Everything, D'Artagnan, even folly, has its limit."

"Then your means, it appears, are improved; you have a
capital house -- your own, I presume? You have a park, and
horses, servants."

Athos smiled.

"Yes, I inherited this little property when I quitted the
army, as I told you. The park is twenty acres -- twenty,
comprising kitchen-gardens and a common. I have two horses,
-- I do not count my servant's bobtailed nag. My sporting
dogs consist of two pointers, two harriers and two setters.
But then all this extravagance is not for myself," added
Athos, laughing.

"Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul," said D'Artagnan.

"You guess aright, my friend; this youth is an orphan,
deserted by his mother, who left him in the house of a poor
country priest. I have brought him up. It is Raoul who has
worked in me the change you see; I was dried up like a
miserable tree, isolated, attached to nothing on earth; it
was only a deep affection that could make me take root again
and drag me back to life. This child has caused me to
recover what I had lost. I had no longer any wish to live
for myself, I have lived for him. I have corrected the vices
that I had; I have assumed the virtues that I had not.
Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken, but
I believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as
our degenerate age could display."

The remembrance of Milady recurred to D'Artagnan.

"And you are happy?" he said to his friend.

"As happy as it is allowed to one of God's creatures to be
on this earth; but say out all you think, D'Artagnan, for
you have not yet done so."

"You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you,"
answered D'Artagnan. "I wished to ask you if you ever feel
any emotions of terror resembling ---- "

"Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel
remorse, because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her
punishment. Had she one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do
not feel remorse, because had we allowed her to live she
would have persisted in her work of destruction. But I do
not mean, my friend that we were right in what we did.
Perhaps all blood demands some expiation. Hers had been
accomplished; it remains, possibly, for us to accomplish
ours."

"I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos."

"She had a son, that unhappy woman?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever heard of him?"

"Never."

"He must be about twenty-three years of age," said Athos, in
a low tone. "I often think of that young man, D'Artagnan."

"Strange! for I had forgotten him," said the lieutenant.

Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.

"And Lord de Winter -- do you know anything about him?"

"I know that he is in high favor with Charles I."

"The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed
the blood of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now
-- blood will have blood. And the queen?"

"What queen?"

"Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV."

"She is at the Louvre, as you know."

"Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the
severest cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in
bed. Do you grasp that?" said Athos, shrugging his
shoulders; "the daughter of Henry IV. shivering for want of
a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a home
instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing."

"Have you ever seen the queen of England?" inquired
D'Artagnan.

"No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you
that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici "

"Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such
matters."

"Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right," Athos replied; "but then
there must be some occasion for speaking."

"Porthos wouldn't have waited for it so patiently," said
D'Artagnan, with a smile.

"Every one according to his nature, my dear D'Artagnan.
Porthos, in spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent
qualities. Have you seen him?"

"I left him five days ago," said D'Artagnan, and he
portrayed with Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence
of Porthos in his Chateau of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect
to launch a few arrows of wit at the excellent Monsieur
Mouston.

"I sometimes wonder," replied Athos, smiling at that gayety
which recalled the good old days, "that we could form an
association of men who would be, after twenty years of
separation, still so closely bound together. Friendship
throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D'Artagnan. Believe
me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they
cannot understand it. And Aramis?"

"I have seen him also," said D'Artagnan; "but he seemed to
me cold."

"Ah, you have seen Aramis?" said Athos, turning on
D'Artagnan a searching look. "Why, it is a veritable
pilgrimage, my dear friend, that you are making to the
Temple of Friendship, as the poets would say."

"Why, yes," replied D'Artagnan, with embarrassment.

"Aramis, you know," continued Athos, "is naturally cold, and
then he is always involved in intrigues with women."

"I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one,"
said D'Artagnan.

Athos made no reply.

"He is not curious," thought D'Artagnan.

Athos not only failed to reply, he even changed the subject
of conversation.

"You see," said he, calling D'Artagnan's attention to the
fact that they had come back to the chateau after an hour's
walk, "we have made a tour of my domains."

"All is charming and everything savors of nobility," replied
D'Artagnan.

At this instant they heard the sound of horses' feet.

"'Tis Raoul who has come back," said Athos; "and we can now
hear how the poor child is."

In fact, the young man appeared at the gate, covered with
dust, entered the courtyard, leaped from his horse, which he
consigned to the charge of a groom, and then went to greet
the count and D'Artagnan.

"Monsieur," said Athos, placing his hand on D'Artagnan's
shoulder, "monsieur is the Chevalier D'Artagnan of whom you
have often heard me speak, Raoul."

"Monsieur," said the young man, saluting again and more
profoundly, "monsieur le comte has pronounced your name
before me as an example whenever he wished to speak of an
intrepid and generous gentleman."

That little compliment could not fail to move D'Artagnan. He
extended a hand to Raoul and said:

"My young friend, all the praises that are given me should
be passed on to the count here; for he has educated me in
everything and it is not his fault that his pupil profited
so little from his instructions. But he will make it up in
you I am sure. I like your manner, Raoul, and your
politeness has touched me."

Athos was more delighted than can be told. He looked at
D'Artagnan with an expression of gratitude and then bestowed
on Raoul one of those strange smiles, of which children are
so proud when they receive them.

"Now," said D'Artagnan to himself, noticing that silent play
of countenance, "I am sure of it."

"I hope the accident has been of no consequence?"

"They don't yet know, sir, on account of the swelling; but
the doctor is afraid some tendon has been injured."

At this moment a little boy, half peasant, half foot-boy,
came to announce supper.

Athos led his guest into a dining-room of moderate size, the
windows of which opened on one side on a garden, on the
other on a hot-house full of magnificent flowers.

D'Artagnan glanced at the dinner service. The plate was
magnificent, old, and appertaining to the family. D'Artagnan
stopped to look at a sideboard on which was a superb ewer of
silver.

"That workmanship is divine!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, a chef d'oeuvre of the great Florentine sculptor,
Benvenuto Cellini," replied Athos.

"What battle does it represent?"

"That of Marignan, just at the point where one of my
forefathers is offering his sword to Francis I., who has
broken his. It was on that occasion that my ancestor,
Enguerrand de la Fere, was made a knight of the Order of St.
Michael; besides which, the king, fifteen years afterward,
gave him also this ewer and a sword which you may have seen
formerly in my house, also a lovely specimen of workmanship.
Men were giants in those times," said Athos; "now we are
pigmies in comparison. Let us sit down to supper. Call
Charles," he added, addressing the boy who waited.

"My good Charles, I particularly recommend to your care
Planchet, the laquais of Monsieur D'Artagnan. He likes good
wine; now you have the key of the cellar. He has slept a
long time on a hard bed, so he won't object to a soft one;
take every care of him, I beg of you." Charles bowed and
retired.

"You think of everything," said D'Artagnan; "and I thank you
for Planchet, my dear Athos."

Raoul stared on hearing this name and looked at the count to
be quite sure that it was he whom the lieutenant thus
addressed.

"That name sounds strange to you," said Athos, smiling; "it
was my nom de guerre when Monsieur D'Artagnan, two other
gallant friends and myself performed some feats of arms at
the siege of La Rochelle, under the deceased cardinal and
Monsieur de Bassompierre. My friend is still so kind as to
address me by that old and well beloved appellation, which
makes my heart glad when I hear it."

"'Tis an illustrious name," said the lieutenant, "and had
one day triumphal honors paid to it."

"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Raoul.

"You have not forgotten St. Gervais, Athos, and the napkin
which was converted into a banner?" and he then related to
Raoul the story of the bastion, and Raoul fancied he was
listening to one of those deeds of arms belonging to days of
chivalry, so gloriously recounted by Tasso and Ariosto.

"D'Artagnan does not tell you, Raoul," said Athos, in his
turn, "that he was reckoned one of the finest swordsmen of
his time -- a knuckle of iron, a wrist of steel, a sure eye
and a glance of fire; that's what his adversary met with. He
was eighteen, only three years older than you are, Raoul,
when I saw him set to work, pitted against tried men."

"And did Monsieur D'Artagnan come off the conqueror?" asked
the young man, with glistening eye.

"I killed one man, if I recollect rightly," replied
D'Artagnan, with a look of inquiry directed to Athos;
"another I disarmed or wounded, I don't remember which."

"Wounded!" said Athos; "it was a phenomenon of skill."

The young man would willingly have prolonged this
conversation far into the night, but Athos pointed out to
him that his guest must need repose. D'Artagnan would fain
have declared that he was not fatigued, but Athos insisted
on his retiring to his chamber, conducted thither by Raoul.



15

Athos as a Diplomatist.



D'Artagnan retired to bed -- not to sleep, but to think over
all he had heard that evening. Being naturally goodhearted,
and having had once a liking for Athos, which had grown into
a sincere friendship, he was delighted at thus meeting a man
full of intelligence and moral strength, instead of a
drunkard. He admitted without annoyance the continued
superiority of Athos over himself, devoid as he was of that
jealousy which might have saddened a less generous
disposition; he was delighted also that the high qualities
of Athos appeared to promise favorably for his mission.
Nevertheless, it seemed to him that Athos was not in all
respects sincere and frank. Who was the youth he had adopted
and who bore so striking a resemblance to him? What could
explain Athos's having re-entered the world and the extreme
sobriety he had observed at table? The absence of Grimaud,
whose name had never once been uttered by Athos, gave
D'Artagnan uneasiness. It was evident either that he no
longer possessed the confidence of his friend, or that Athos
was bound by some invisible chain, or that he had been
forewarned of the lieutenant's visit.

He could not help thinking of M. Rochefort, whom he had seen
in Notre Dame; could De Rochefort have forestalled him with
Athos? Again, the moderate fortune which Athos possessed,
concealed as it was, so skillfully, seemed to show a regard
for appearances and to betray a latent ambition which might
be easily aroused. The clear and vigorous intellect of Athos
would render him more open to conviction than a less able
man would be. He would enter into the minister's schemes
with the more ardor, because his natural activity would be
doubled by necessity.

Resolved to seek an explanation on all these points on the
following day, D'Artagnan, in spite of his fatigue, prepared
for an attack and determined that it should take place after
breakfast. He determined to cultivate the good-will of the
youth Raoul and, either whilst fencing with him or when out
shooting, to extract from his simplicity some information
which would connect the Athos of old times with the Athos of
the present. But D'Artagnan at the same time, being a man of
extreme caution, was quite aware what injury he should do
himself, if by any indiscretion or awkwardness he should
betray has manoeuvering to the experienced eye of Athos.
Besides, to tell truth, whilst D'Artagnan was quite disposed
to adopt a subtle course against the cunning of Aramis or
the vanity of Porthos, he was ashamed to equivocate with
Athos, true-hearted, open Athos. It seemed to him that if
Porthos and Aramis deemed him superior to them in the arts
of diplomacy, they would like him all the better for it; but
that Athos, on the contrary, would despise him.

"Ah! why is not Grimaud, the taciturn Grimaud, here?"
thought D'Artagnan, "there are so many things his silence
would have told me; with Grimaud silence was another form of
eloquence!"

There reigned a perfect stillness in the house. D'Artagnan
had heard the door shut and the shutters barred; the dogs
became in their turn silent. At last a nightingale, lost in
a thicket of shrubs, in the midst of its most melodious
cadences had fluted low and lower into stillness and fallen
asleep. Not a sound was heard in the castle, except of a
footstep up and down, in the chamber above -- as he
supposed, the bedroom of Athos.

"He is walking about and thinking," thought D'Artagnan; "but
of what? It is impossible to know; everything else might be
guessed, but not that."

At length Athos went to bed, apparently, for the noise
ceased.

Silence and fatigue together overcame D'Artagnan and sleep
overtook him also. He was not, however, a good sleeper.
Scarcely had dawn gilded his window curtains when he sprang
out of bed and opened the windows. Somebody, he perceived,
was in the courtyard, moving stealthily. True to his custom
of never passing anything over that it was within his power
to know, D'Artagnan looked out of the window and perceived
the close red coat and brown hair of Raoul.

The young man was opening the door of the stable. He then,
with noiseless haste, took out the horse that he had ridden
on the previous evening, saddled and bridled it himself and
led the animal into the alley to the right of the
kitchen-garden, opened a side door which conducted him to a
bridle road, shut it after him, and D'Artagnan saw him pass
by like a dart, bending, as he went, beneath the pendent
flowery branches of maple and acacia. The road, as
D'Artagnan had observed, was the way to Blois.

"So!" thought the Gascon "here's a young blade who has
already his love affair, who doesn't at all agree with Athos
in his hatred to the fair sex. He's not going to hunt, for
he has neither dogs nor arms; he's not going on a message,
for he goes secretly. Why does he go in secret? Is he afraid
of me or of his father? for I am sure the count is his
father. By Jove! I shall know about that soon, for I shall
soon speak out to Athos."

Day was now advanced; all the noises that had ceased the
night before reawakened, one after the other. The bird on
the branch, the dog in his kennel, the sheep in the field,
the boats moored in the Loire, even, became alive and vocal.
The latter, leaving the shore, abandoned themselves gaily to
the current. The Gascon gave a last twirl to his mustache, a
last turn to his hair, brushed, from habit, the brim of his
hat with the sleeve of his doublet, and went downstairs.
Scarcely had he descended the last step of the threshold
when he saw Athos bent down toward the ground, as if he were
looking for a crown-piece in the dust.

"Good-morning, my dear host," cried D'Artagnan.

"Good-day to you; have you slept well?"

"Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are
perhaps a tulip fancier?"

"My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being
so. In the country people alter; one gets to like, without
knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to
spring from the earth, which are despised in cities. I was
looking anxiously for some iris roots I planted here, close
to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled upon this
morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the
world; in bringing the horse out to the water they've
allowed him to walk over the border."

D'Artagnan began to smile.

"Ah! you think so, do you?"

And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of
tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds,
were visible.

"Here are the horse's hoofs again, it seems, Athos," he said
carelessly.

"Yes, indeed, the marks are recent."

"Quite so," replied the lieutenant.

"Who went out this morning?" Athos asked, uneasily. "Has any
horse got loose?"

"Not likely," answered the Gascon; "these marks are
regular."

"Where is Raoul?" asked Athos; "how is it that I have not
seen him?"

"Hush!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, putting his finger on his
lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all
the while.

"Ah, he's gone to Blois; the poor boy ---- "

"Wherefore?"

"Ah, to inquire after the little La Valliere; she has
sprained her foot, you know."

"You think he has?"

"I am sure of it," said Athos; "don't you see that Raoul is
in love?"

"Indeed! with whom -- with a child seven years old?"

"Dear friend, at Raoul's age the heart is so expansive that
it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real.
Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the
prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair,
blue eyes, -- at once saucy and languishing."

"But what say you to Raoul's fancy?"

"Nothing -- I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the
heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in
love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then
Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with
grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was
nothing but a fable."

"It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work,
so he takes his own way of employing himself."

"Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here."

"You will be wise to do so."

"No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as
three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his
little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in
right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La
Valliere have for a long time perceived and been amused at
it; now they begin to look concerned."

"Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy.
Send him away or you will never make a man of him."

"I think I shall send him to Paris."

"So!" thought D'Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the
moment for attack had arrived.

"Suppose," he said, "we roughly chalk out a career for this
young man. I wish to consult you about some thing."

"Do so."

"Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?"

"But are you not still in the service -- you, D'Artagnan?"

"I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no
attractions for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in
my society and in that of Porthos, the exploits of our
youth?"

"Do you propose to me to do so, D'Artagnan?"

"Decidedly and honestly."

"On whose side?" asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent
glance on the countenance of the Gascon.

"Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest ---- "

"And must have a definite answer. Listen, D'Artagnan. There
is but one person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like
me can be useful -- that of the king."

"Exactly," answered the musketeer.

"Yes, but let us understand each other," returned Athos,
seriously. "If by the cause of the king you mean that of
Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not understand each other."

"I don't say exactly," answered the Gascon, confused.

"Come, D'Artagnan, don't let us play a sidelong game; your
hesitation, your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you
are; for that party no one dares openly to recruit, and when
people recruit for it, it is with averted eyes and humble
voice."

"Ah! my dear Athos!"

"You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl
of brave, bold men. I speak of that spiteful and intriguing
Italian -- of the pedant who has tried to put on his own
head a crown which he stole from under a pillow -- of the
scoundrel who calls his party the party of the king -- who
wants to send the princes of the blood to prison, not daring
to kill them, as our great cardinal -- our cardinal did --
of the miser, who weighs his gold pieces and keeps the
clipped ones for fear, though he is rich, of losing them at
play next morning -- of the impudent fellow who insults the
queen, as they say -- so much the worse for her -- and who
is going in three months to make war upon us, in order that
he may retain his pensions; is that the master whom you
propose to me? I thank you, D'Artagnan."

"You are more impetuous than you were," returned D'Artagnan.
"Age has warmed, not chilled your blood. Who informed you
this was the master I propose to you? Devil take it," he
muttered to himself, "don't let me betray my secrets to a
man not inclined to entertain them."

"Well, then," said Athos, "what are your schemes? what do
you propose?"

"Zounds! nothing more than natural. You live on your estate,
happy in golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty
thousand francs income. Aramis has always fifty duchesses
quarreling over the priest, as they quarreled formerly over
the musketeer; but I -- what have I in the world? I have
worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this
inferior rank, without going forward or backward, hardly
half living. In fact, I am dead. Well! when there is some
idea of being resuscitated, you say he's a scoundrel, an
impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I am of
your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means
of living."

Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.

"Good! D'Artagnan is for Mazarin," he said to himself.

From that moment he grew very guarded.

On his side D'Artagnan became more cautious also.

"You spoke to me," Athos resumed, "of Porthos; have you
persuaded him to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I
believe, already."

"Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something
more than we already have."

"What does Porthos wish for?"

"To be a baron."

"Ah, true! I forgot," said Athos, laughing.

"'Tis true!" thought the Gascon, "where has he heard it?
Does he correspond with Aramis? Ah! if I knew that he did I
should know all."

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Raoul.

"Is our little neighbor worse?" asked D'Artagnan, seeing a
look of vexation on the face of the youth.

"Ah, sir!" replied Raoul, "her fall is a very serious one,
and without any ostensible injury, the physician fears she
will be lame for life."

"This is terrible," said Athos.

"And what makes me all the more wretched, sir, is, that I
was the cause of this misfortune."

"How so?" asked Athos.

"It was to run to meet me that she leaped from that pile of
wood."

"There's only one remedy, dear Raoul -- that is, to marry
her as a compensation " remarked D'Artagnan.

"Ah, sir!" answered Raoul, "you joke about a real
misfortune; that is cruel, indeed."

The good understanding between the two friends was not in
the least altered by the morning's skirmish. They
breakfasted with a good appetite, looking now and then at
poor Raoul, who with moist eyes and a full heart, scarcely
ate at all.

After breakfast two letters arrived for Athos, who read them
with profound attention, whilst D'Artagnan could not
restrain himself from jumping up several times on seeing him
read these epistles, in one of which, there being at the
time a very strong light, he perceived the fine writing of
Aramis. The other was in a feminine hand, long, and crossed.

"Come," said D'Artagnan to Raoul, seeing that Athos wished
to be alone, "come, let us take a turn in the fencing
gallery; that will amuse you."

And they both went into a low room where there were foils,
gloves, masks, breastplates, and all the accessories for a
fencing match.

In a quarter of an hour Athos joined them and at the same
moment Charles brought in a letter for D'Artagnan, which a
messenger had just desired might be instantly delivered.

It was now Athos's turn to take a sly look.

D'Artagnan read the letter with apparent calmness and said,
shaking his head:

"See, dear friend, what it is to belong to the army. Faith,
you are indeed right not to return to it. Monsieur de
Treville is ill, so my company can't do without me; there!
my leave is at an end!"

"Do you return to Paris?" asked Athos, quickly.

"Egad! yes; but why don't you come there also?"

Athos colored a little and answered:

"Should I go, I shall be delighted to see you there."

"Halloo, Planchet!" cried the Gascon from the door, "we must
set out in ten minutes; give the horses some hay.

Then turning to Athos he added:

"I seem to miss something here. I am really sorry to go away
without having seen Grimaud."

"Grimaud!" replied Athos. "I'm surprised you have never so
much as asked after him. I have lent him to a friend ---- "

"Who will understand the signs he makes?" returned
D'Artagnan.

"I hope so."

The friends embraced cordially; D'Artagnan pressed Raoul's
hand.

"Will you not come with me?" he said; "I shall pass by
Blois."

Raoul turned toward Athos, who showed him by a secret sign
that he did not wish him to go.

"No, monsieur," replied the young man; "I will remain with
monsieur le comte."

"Adieu, then, to both, my good friends," said D'Artagnan;
"may God preserve you! as we used to say when we said
good-bye to each other in the late cardinal's time."

Athos waved his hand, Raoul bowed, and D'Artagnan and
Planchet set out.

The count followed them with his eyes, his hands resting on
the shoulders of the youth, whose height was almost equal to
his own; but as soon as they were out of sight he said:

"Raoul, we set out to-night for Paris."

"Eh?" cried the young man, turning pale.

"You may go and offer your adieux and mine to Madame de
Saint-Remy. I shall wait for you here till seven."

The young man bent low, with an expression of sorrow and
gratitude mingled, and retired in order to saddle his horse.

As to D'Artagnan, scarcely, on his side, was he out of sight
when he drew from his pocket a letter, which he read over
again:



"Return immediately to Paris. -- J. M ---- ."



"The epistle is laconic," said D'Artagnan; "and if there had
not been a postscript, probably I should not have understood
it; but happily there is a postscript."

And he read that welcome postscript, which made him forget
the abruptness of the letter.



"P. S. -- Go to the king's treasurer, at Blois; tell him
your name and show him this letter; you will receive two
hundred pistoles."



"Assuredly," said D'Artagnan, "I admire this piece of prose.
The cardinal writes better than I thought. Come, Planchet,
let us pay a visit to the king's treasurer and then set
off."

"Toward Paris, sir?"

"Toward Paris."

And they set out at as hard a canter as their horses could
maintain.



16

The Duc de Beaufort.



The circumstances that had hastened the return of D'Artagnan
to Paris were as follows:

One evening, when Mazarin, according to custom, went to
visit the queen, in passing the guard-chamber he heard loud
voices; wishing to know on what topic the soldiers were
conversing, he approached with his wonted wolf-like step,
pushed open the door and put his head close to the chink.

There was a dispute among the guards.

"I tell you," one of them was saying, "that if Coysel
predicted that, 'tis as good as true; I know nothing about
it, but I have heard say that he's not only an astrologer,
but a magician."

"Deuce take it, friend, if he's one of thy friends thou wilt
ruin him in saying so."

"Why?"

"Because he may be tried for it."

"Ah! absurd! they don't burn sorcerers nowadays."

"No? 'Tis not a long time since the late cardinal burnt
Urban Grandier, though."

"My friend, Urban Grandier wasn't a sorcerer, he was a
learned man. He didn't predict the future, he knew the past
-- often a more dangerous thing."

Mazarin nodded an assent, but wishing to know what this
prediction was, about which they disputed, he remained in
the same place.

"I don't say," resumed the guard, "that Coysel is not a
sorcerer, but I say that if his prophecy gets wind, it's a
sure way to prevent it's coming true."

"How so?"

"Why, in this way: if Coysel says loud enough for the
cardinal to hear him, on such or such a day such a prisoner
will escape, 'tis plain that the cardinal will take measures
of precaution and that the prisoner will not escape."

"Good Lord!" said another guard, who might have been thought
asleep on a bench, but who had lost not a syllable of the
conversation, "do you suppose that men can escape their
destiny? If it is written yonder, in Heaven, that the Duc de
Beaufort is to escape, he will escape; and all the
precautions of the cardinal will not prevent it."

Mazarin started. He was an Italian and therefore
superstitious. He walked straight into the midst of the
guards, who on seeing him were silent.

"What were you saying?" he asked with his flattering manner;
"that Monsieur de Beaufort had escaped, were you not?"

"Oh, no, my lord!" said the incredulous soldier. "He's well
guarded now; we only said he would escape."

"Who said so?"

"Repeat your story, Saint Laurent," replied the man, turning
to the originator of the tale.

"My lord," said the guard, "I have simply mentioned the
prophecy I heard from a man named Coysel, who believes that,
be he ever so closely watched and guarded, the Duke of
Beaufort will escape before Whitsuntide."

"Coysel is a madman!" returned the cardinal.

"No," replied the soldier, tenacious in his credulity; "he
has foretold many things which have come to pass; for
instance, that the queen would have a son; that Monsieur
Coligny would be killed in a duel with the Duc de Guise; and
finally, that the coadjutor would be made cardinal. Well!
the queen has not only one son, but two; then, Monsieur de
Coligny was killed, and ---- "

"Yes," said Mazarin, "but the coadjutor is not yet made
cardinal!"

"No, my lord, but he will be," answered the guard.

Mazarin made a grimace, as if he meant to say, "But he does
not wear the cardinal's cap;" then he added:

"So, my friend, it's your opinion that Monsieur de Beaufort
will escape?"

"That's my idea, my lord; and if your eminence were to offer
to make me at this moment governor of the castle of
Vincennes, I should refuse it. After Whitsuntide it would be
another thing."

There is nothing so convincing as a firm conviction. It has
its own effect upon the most incredulous; and far from being
incredulous, Mazarin was superstitious. He went away
thoughtful and anxious and returned to his own room, where
he summoned Bernouin and desired him to fetch thither in the
morning the special guard he had placed over Monsieur de
Beaufort and to awaken him whenever he should arrive.

The guard had, in fact, touched the cardinal in the
tenderest point. During the whole five years in which the
Duc de Beaufort had been in prison not a day had passed in
which the cardinal had not felt a secret dread of his
escape. It was not possible, as he knew well, to confine for
the whole of his life the grandson of Henry IV., especially
when this young prince was scarcely thirty years of age. But
however and whensoever he did escape, what hatred he must
cherish against him to whom he owed his long imprisonment;
who had taken him, rich, brave, glorious, beloved by women,
feared by men, to cut off his life's best, happiest years;
for it is not life, it is merely existence, in prison!
Meantime, Mazarin redoubled his surveillance over the duke.
But like the miser in the fable, he could not sleep for
thinking of his treasure. Often he awoke in the night,
suddenly, dreaming that he had been robbed of Monsieur de
Beaufort. Then he inquired about him and had the vexation of
hearing that the prisoner played, drank, sang, but that
whilst playing, drinking, singing, he often stopped short to
vow that Mazarin should pay dear for all the amusements he
had forced him to enter into at Vincennes.

So much did this one idea haunt the cardinal even in his
sleep, that when at seven in the morning Bernouin came to
arouse him, his first words were: "Well, what's the matter?
Has Monsieur de Beaufort escaped from Vincennes?"

"I do not think so, my lord," said Bernouin; "but you will
hear about him, for La Ramee is here and awaits the commands
of your eminence."

"Tell him to come in," said Mazarin, arranging his pillows,
so that he might receive the visitor sitting up in bed.

The officer entered, a large fat man, with an open
physiognomy. His air of perfect serenity made Mazarin
uneasy.

"Approach, sir," said the cardinal.

The officer obeyed.

"Do you know what they are saying here?"

"No, your eminence."

"Well, they say that Monsieur de Beaufort is going to escape
from Vincennes, if he has not done so already."

The officer's face expressed complete stupefaction. He
opened at once his little eyes and his great mouth, to
inhale better the joke his eminence deigned to address to
him, and ended by a burst of laughter, so violent that his
great limbs shook in hilarity as they would have done in an
ague.

"Escape! my lord -- escape! Your eminence does not then know
where Monsieur de Beaufort is?"

"Yes, I do, sir; in the donjon of Vincennes."

"Yes, sir; in a room, the walls of which are seven feet
thick, with grated windows, each bar as thick as my arm."

"Sir," replied Mazarin, "with perseverance one may penetrate
through a wall; with a watch-spring one may saw through an
iron bar."

"Then my lord does not know that there are eight guards
about him, four in his chamber, four in the antechamber, and
that they never leave him."

"But he leaves his room, he plays at tennis at the Mall?"

"Sir, those amusements are allowed; but if your eminence
wishes it, we will discontinue the permission."

"No, no!" cried Mazarin, fearing that should his prisoner
ever leave his prison he would be the more exasperated
against him if he thus retrenched his amusement. He then
asked with whom he played.

"My lord, either with the officers of the guard, with the
other prisoners, or with me."

"But does he not approach the walls while playing?"

"Your eminence doesn't know those walls; they are sixty feet
high and I doubt if Monsieur de Beaufort is sufficiently
weary of life to risk his neck by jumping off."

"Hum!" said the cardinal, beginning to feel more
comfortable. "You mean to say, then, my dear Monsieur la
Ramee ---- "

"That unless Monsieur de Beaufort can contrive to
metamorphose himself into a little bird, I will continue
answerable for him."

"Take care! you assert a great deal," said Mazarin.
"Monsieur de Beaufort told the guards who took him to
Vincennes that he had often thought what he should do in
case he were put into prison, and that he had found out
forty ways of escaping."

"My lord, if among these forty there had been one good way
he would have been out long ago."

"Come, come; not such a fool as I fancied!" thought Mazarin.

"Besides, my lord must remember that Monsieur de Chavigny is
governor of Vincennes," continued La Ramee, "and that
Monsieur de Chavigny is not friendly to Monsieur de
Beaufort."

"Yes, but Monsieur de Chavigny is sometimes absent."

"When he is absent I am there."

"But when you leave him, for instance?"

"Oh! when I leave him, I place in my stead a bold fellow who
aspires to be his majesty's special guard. I promise you he
keeps a good watch over the prisoner. During the three weeks
that he has been with me, I have only had to reproach him
with one thing -- being too severe with the prisoners."

"And who is this Cerberus?"

"A certain Monsieur Grimaud, my lord."

"And what was he before he went to Vincennes?"

"He was in the country, as I was told by the person who
recommended him to me."

"And who recommended this man to you?"

"The steward of the Duc de Grammont."

"He is not a gossip, I hope?"

"Lord a mercy, my lord! I thought for a long time that he
was dumb; he answers only by signs. It seems his former
master accustomed him to that."

"Well, dear Monsieur la Ramee," replied the cardinal "let
him prove a true and thankful keeper and we will shut our
eyes upon his rural misdeeds and put on his back a uniform
to make him respectable, and in the pockets of that uniform
some pistoles to drink to the king's health."

Mazarin was large in promises, -- quite unlike the virtuous
Monsieur Grimaud so bepraised by La Ramee; for he said
nothing and did much.

It was now nine o'clock. The cardinal, therefore, got up,
perfumed himself, dressed, and went to the queen to tell her
what had detained him. The queen, who was scarcely less
afraid of Monsieur de Beaufort than the cardinal himself,
and who was almost as superstitious as he was, made him
repeat word for word all La Ramee's praises of his deputy.
Then, when the cardinal had ended:

"Alas, sir! why have we not a Grimaud near every prince?"

"Patience!" replied Mazarin, with his Italian smile; "that
may happen one day; but in the meantime ---- "

"Well, in the meantime?"

"I shall still take precautions."

And he wrote to D'Artagnan to hasten his return.



17

Describes how the Duc de Beaufort amused his Leisure Hours
in the Donjon of Vincennes.



The captive who was the source of so much alarm to the
cardinal and whose means of escape disturbed the repose of
the whole court, was wholly unconscious of the terror he
caused at the Palais Royal.

He had found himself so strictly guarded that he soon
perceived the fruitlessness of any attempt at escape. His
vengeance, therefore, consisted in coining curses on the
head of Mazarin; he even tried to make some verses on him,
but soon gave up the attempt, for Monsieur de Beaufort had
not only not received from Heaven the gift of versifying, he
had the greatest difficulty in expressing himself in prose.

The duke was the grandson of Henry VI. and Gabrielle
d'Estrees -- as good-natured, as brave, as proud, and above
all, as Gascon as his ancestor, but less elaborately
educated. After having been for some time after the death of
Louis XIII. the favorite, the confidant, the first man, in
short, at the court, he had been obliged to yield his place
to Mazarin and so became the second in influence and favor;
and eventually, as he was stupid enough to be vexed at this
change of position, the queen had had him arrested and sent
to Vincennes in charge of Guitant, who made his appearance
in these pages in the beginning of this history and whom we
shall see again. It is understood, of course, that when we
say "the queen," Mazarin is meant.

During the five years of this seclusion, which would have
improved and matured the intellect of any other man, M. de
Beaufort, had he not affected to brave the cardinal, despise
princes, and walk alone without adherents or disciples,
would either have regained his liberty or made partisans.
But these considerations never occurred to the duke and
every day the cardinal received fresh accounts of him which
were as unpleasant as possible to the minister.

After having failed in poetry, Monsieur de Beaufort tried
drawing. He drew portraits, with a piece of coal, of the
cardinal; and as his talents did not enable him to produce a
very good likeness, he wrote under the picture that there
might be little doubt regarding the original: "Portrait of
the Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin." Monsieur de Chavigny, the
governor of Vincennes, waited upon the duke to request that
he would amuse himself in some other way, or that at all
events, if he drew likenesses, he would not put mottoes
underneath them. The next day the prisoner's room was full
of pictures and mottoes. Monsieur de Beaufort, in common
with many other prisoners, was bent upon doing things that
were prohibited; and the only resource the governor had was,
one day when the duke was playing at tennis, to efface all
these drawings, consisting chiefly of profiles. M. de
Beaufort did not venture to draw the cardinal's fat face.

The duke thanked Monsieur de Chavigny for having, as he
said, cleaned his drawing-paper for him; he then divided the
walls of his room into compartments and dedicated each of
these compartments to some incident in Mazarin's life. In
one was depicted the "Illustrious Coxcomb" receiving a
shower of blows from Cardinal Bentivoglio, whose servant he
had been; another, the "Illustrious Mazarin" acting the part
of Ignatius Loyola in a tragedy of that name; a third, the
"Illustrious Mazarin" stealing the portfolio of prime
minister from Monsieur de Chavigny, who had expected to have
it; a fourth, the "Illustrious Coxcomb Mazarin" refusing to
give Laporte, the young king's valet, clean sheets, and
saving that "it was quite enough for the king of France to
have clean sheets every three months."

The governor, of course, thought proper to threaten his
prisoner that if he did not give up drawing such pictures he
should be obliged to deprive him of all the means of amusing
himself in that manner. To this Monsieur de Beaufort replied
that since every opportunity of distinguishing himself in
arms was taken from him, he wished to make himself
celebrated in the arts; since he could not be a Bayard, he
would become a Raphael or a Michael Angelo. Nevertheless,
one day when Monsieur de Beaufort was walking in the meadow
his fire was put out, his charcoal all removed, taken away;
and thus his means of drawing utterly destroyed.

The poor duke swore, fell into a rage, yelled, and declared
that they wished to starve him to death as they had starved
the Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior of Vendome; but he
refused to promise that he would not make any more drawings
and remained without any fire in the room all the winter.

His next act was to purchase a dog from one of his keepers.
With this animal, which he called Pistache, he was often
shut up for hours alone, superintending, as every one
supposed, its education. At last, when Pistache was
sufficiently well trained, Monsieur de Beaufort invited the
governor and officers of Vincennes to attend a
representation which he was going to have in his apartment

The party assembled, the room was lighted with waxlights,
and the prisoner, with a bit of plaster he had taken out of
the wall of his room, had traced a long white line,
representing a cord, on the floor. Pistache, on a signal
from his master, placed himself on this line, raised himself
on his hind paws, and holding in his front paws a wand with
which clothes used to be beaten, he began to dance upon the
line with as many contortions as a rope-dancer. Having been
several times up and down it, he gave the wand back to his
master and began without hesitation to perform the same
evolutions over again.

The intelligent creature was received with loud applause.

The first part of the entertainment being concluded Pistache
was desired to say what o'clock it was; he was shown
Monsieur de Chavigny's watch; it was then half-past six; the
dog raised and dropped his paw six times; the seventh he let
it remain upraised. Nothing could be better done; a sun-dial
could not have shown the hour with greater precision.

Then the question was put to him who was the best jailer in
all the prisons in France.

The dog performed three evolutions around the circle and
laid himself, with the deepest respect, at the feet of
Monsieur de Chavigny, who at first seemed inclined to like
the joke and laughed long and loud, but a frown succeeded,
and he bit his lips with vexation.

Then the duke put to Pistache this difficult question, who
was the greatest thief in the world?

Pistache went again around the circle, but stopped at no
one, and at last went to the door and began to scratch and
bark.

"See, gentlemen," said M. de Beaufort, "this wonderful
animal, not finding here what I ask for, seeks it out of
doors; you shall, however, have his answer. Pistache, my
friend, come here. Is not the greatest thief in the world,
Monsieur (the king's secretary) Le Camus, who came to Paris
with twenty francs in his pocket and who now possesses ten
millions?"

The dog shook his head.

"Then is it not," resumed the duke, "the Superintendent
Emery, who gave his son, when he was married, three hundred
thousand francs and a house, compared to which the Tuileries
are a heap of ruins and the Louvre a paltry building?"

The dog again shook his head as if to say "no."

"Then," said the prisoner, "let's think who it can be. Can
it be, can it possibly be, the `Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin
de Piscina,' hey?"

Pistache made violent signs that it was, by raising and
lowering his head eight or ten times successively.

"Gentlemen, you see," said the duke to those present, who
dared not even smile, "that it is the `Illustrious Coxcomb'
who is the greatest thief in the world; at least, according
to Pistache."

"Let us go on to another of his exercises."

"Gentlemen!" -- there was a profound silence in the room
when the duke again addressed them -- "do you not remember
that the Duc de Guise taught all the dogs in Paris to jump
for Mademoiselle de Pons, whom he styled `the fairest of the
fair?' Pistache is going to show you how superior he is to
all other dogs. Monsieur de Chavigny, be so good as to lend
me your cane."

Monsieur de Chavigny handed his cane to Monsieur de
Beaufort. Monsieur de Beaufort placed it horizontally at the
height of one foot.

"Now, Pistache, my good dog, jump the height of this cane
for Madame de Montbazon."

"But," interposed Monsieur de Chavigny, "it seems to me that
Pistache is only doing what other dogs have done when they
jumped for Mademoiselle de Pons."

"Stop," said the duke, "Pistache, jump for the queen." And
he raised his cane six inches higher.

The dog sprang, and in spite of the height jumped lightly
over it.

"And now," said the duke, raising it still six inches
higher, "jump for the king."

The dog obeyed and jumped quickly over the cane.

"Now, then," said the duke, and as he spoke, lowered the
cane almost level with the ground; "Pistache, my friend,
jump for the `Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de Piscina.'"

The dog turned his back to the cane.

"What," asked the duke, "what do you mean?" and he gave him
the cane again, first making a semicircle from the head to
the tail of Pistache. "Jump then, Monsieur Pistache."

But Pistache, as at first, turned round on his legs and
stood with his back to the cane.

Monsieur de Beaufort made the experiment a third time, but
by this time Pistache's patience was exhausted; he threw
himself furiously upon the cane, wrested it from the hands
of the prince and broke it with his teeth.

Monsieur de Beaufort took the pieces out of his mouth and
presented them with great formality to Monsieur de Chavigny,
saying that for that evening the entertainment was ended,
but in three months it should be repeated, when Pistache
would have learned a few new tricks.

Three days afterward Pistache was found dead -- poisoned.

Then the duke said openly that his dog had been killed by a
drug with which they meant to poison him; and one day after
dinner he went to bed, calling out that he had pains in his
stomach and that Mazarin had poisoned him.

This fresh impertinence reached the ears of the cardinal and
alarmed him greatly. The donjon of Vincennes was considered
very unhealthy and Madame de Rambouillet had said that the
room in which the Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior de
Vendome had died was worth its weight in arsenic -- a bon
mot which had great success. So it was ordered the prisoner
was henceforth to eat nothing that had not previously been
tasted, and La Ramee was in consequence placed near him as
taster.

Every kind of revenge was practiced upon the duke by the
governor in return for the insults of the innocent Pistache.
De Chavigny, who, according to report, was a son of
Richelieu's, and had been a creature of the late cardinal's,
understood tyranny. He took from the duke all the steel
knives and silver forks and replaced them with silver knives
and wooden forks, pretending that as he had been informed
that the duke was to pass all his life at Vincennes, he was
afraid of his prisoner attempting suicide. A fortnight
afterward the duke, going to the tennis court, found two
rows of trees about the size of his little finger planted by
the roadside; he asked what they were for and was told that
they were to shade him from the sun on some future day. One
morning the gardener went to him and told him, as if to
please him, that he was going to plant a bed of asparagus
for his especial use. Now, since, as every one knows,
asparagus takes four years in coming to perfection, this
civility infuriated Monsieur de Beaufort.

At last his patience was exhausted. He assembled his
keepers, and notwithstanding his well-known difficulty of
utterance, addressed them as follows:

"Gentlemen! will you permit a grandson of Henry IV. to be
overwhelmed with insults and ignominy?

"Odds fish! as my grandfather used to say, I once reigned in
Paris! do you know that? I had the king and Monsieur the
whole of one day in my care. The queen at that time liked me
and called me the most honest man in the kingdom. Gentlemen
and citizens, set me free; I shall go to the Louvre and
strangle Mazarin. You shall be my body-guard. I will make
you all captains, with good pensions! Odds fish! On! march
forward!"

But eloquent as he might be, the eloquence of the grandson
of Henry IV. did not touch those hearts of stone; not one
man stirred, so Monsieur de Beaufort was obliged to be
satisfied with calling them all kinds of rascals underneath
the sun.

Sometimes, when Monsieur de Chavigny paid him a visit, the
duke used to ask him what he should think if he saw an army
of Parisians, all fully armed, appear at Vincennes to
deliver him from prison.

"My lord," answered De Chavigny, with a low bow, "I have on
the ramparts twenty pieces of artillery and in my casemates
thirty thousand guns. I should bombard the troops till not
one grain of gunpowder was unexploded."

"Yes, but after you had fired off your thirty thousand guns
they would take the donjon; the donjon being taken, I should
be obliged to let them hang you -- at which I should be most
unhappy, certainly."

And in his turn the duke bowed low to Monsieur de Chavigny.

"For myself, on the other hand, my lord," returned the
governor, "when the first rebel should pass the threshold of
my postern doors I should be obliged to kill you with my own
hand, since you were confided peculiarly to my care and as I
am obliged to give you up, dead or alive."

And once more he bowed low before his highness.

These bitter-sweet pleasantries lasted ten minutes,
sometimes longer, but always finished thus:

Monsieur de Chavigny, turning toward the door, used to call
out: "Halloo! La Ramee!"

La Ramee came into the room.

"La Ramee, I recommend Monsieur le Duc to you, particularly;
treat him as a man of his rank and family ought to be
treated; that is, never leave him alone an instant."

La Ramee became, therefore, the duke's dinner guest by
compulsion -- an eternal keeper, the shadow of his person;
but La Ramee -- gay, frank, convivial, fond of play, a great
hand at tennis, had one defect in the duke's eyes -- his
incorruptibility.

Now, although La Ramee appreciated, as of a certain value,
the honor of being shut up with a prisoner of so great
importance, still the pleasure of living in intimacy with
the grandson of Henry IV. hardly compensated for the loss of
that which he had experienced in going from time to time to
visit his family.

One may be a jailer or a keeper and at the same time a good
father and husband. La Ramee adored his wife and children,
whom now he could only catch a glimpse of from the top of
the wall, when in order to please him they used to walk on
the opposite side of the moat. 'Twas too brief an enjoyment,
and La Ramee felt that the gayety of heart he had regarded
as the cause of health (of which it was perhaps rather the
result) would not long survive such a mode of life.

He accepted, therefore, with delight, an offer made to him
by his friend the steward of the Duc de Grammont, to give
him a substitute; he also spoke of it to Monsieur de
Chavigny, who promised that he would not oppose it in any
way -- that is, if he approved of the person proposed.

We consider it useless to draw a physical or moral portrait
of Grimaud; if, as we hope, our readers have not wholly
forgotten the first part of this work, they must have
preserved a clear idea of that estimable individual, who is
wholly unchanged, except that he is twenty years older, an
advance in life that has made him only more silent;
although, since the change that had been working in himself,
Athos had given Grimaud permission to speak.

But Grimaud had for twelve or fifteen years preserved
habitual silence, and a habit of fifteen or twenty years'
duration becomes second nature.



18

Grimaud begins his Functions.



Grimaud thereupon presented himself with his smooth exterior
at the donjon of Vincennes. Now Monsieur de Chavigny piqued
himself on his infallible penetration; for that which almost
proved that he was the son of Richelieu was his everlasting
pretension; he examined attentively the countenance of the
applicant for place and fancied that the contracted
eyebrows, thin lips, hooked nose, and prominent cheek-bones
of Grimaud were favorable signs. He addressed about twelve
words to him; Grimaud answered in four.

"Here's a promising fellow and it is I who have found out
his merits," said Monsieur de Chavigny. "Go," he added, "and
make yourself agreeable to Monsieur la Ramee, and tell him
that you suit me in all respects."

Grimaud had every quality that could attract a man on duty
who wishes to have a deputy. So, after a thousand questions
which met with only a word in reply, La Ramee, fascinated by
this sobriety in speech, rubbed his hands and engaged
Grimaud.

"My orders?" asked Grimaud.

"They are these; never to leave the prisoner alone; to keep
away from him every pointed or cutting instrument, and to
prevent his conversing any length of time with the keepers."

"Those are all?" asked Grimaud.

"All now," replied La Ramee.

"Good," answered Grimaud; and he went right to the prisoner.

The duke was in the act of combing his beard, which he had
allowed to grow, as well as his hair, in order to reproach
Mazarin with his wretched appearance and condition. But
having some days previously seen from the top of the donjon
Madame de Montbazon pass in her carriage, and still
cherishing an affection for that beautiful woman, he did not
wish to be to her what he wished to be to Mazarin, and in
the hope of seeing her again, had asked for a leaden comb,
which was allowed him. The comb was to be a leaden one,
because his beard, like that of most fair people, was rather
red; he therefore dyed it thus whilst combing it.

As Grimaud entered he saw this comb on the tea-table; he
took it up, and as he took it he made a low bow.

The duke looked at this strange figure with surprise. The
figure put the comb in its pocket.

"Ho! hey! what's that?" cried the duke. "Who is this
creature?"

Grimaud did not answer, but bowed a second time.

"Art thou dumb?" cried the duke.

Grimaud made a sign that he was not.

"What art thou, then? Answer! I command thee!" said the
duke.

"A keeper," replied Grimaud.

"A keeper!" reiterated the duke; "there was nothing wanting
in my collection, except this gallows-bird. Halloo! La
Ramee! some one!"

La Ramee ran in haste to obey the call.

"Who is this wretch who takes my comb and puts it in his
pocket?" asked the duke.

"One of your guards, my prince; a man of talent and merit,
whom you will like, as I and Monsieur de Chavigny do, I am
sure."

"Why does he take my comb?"

"Why do you take my lord's comb?" asked La Ramee.

Grimaud drew the comb from his pocket and passing his
fingers over the largest teeth, pronounced this one word,
"Pointed."

"True," said La Ramee.

"What does the animal say?" asked the duke.

"That the king has forbidden your lordship to have any
pointed instrument."

"Are you mad, La Ramee? You yourself gave me this comb."

"I was very wrong, my lord, for in giving it to you I acted
in opposition to my orders."

The duke looked furiously at Grimaud.

"I perceive that this creature will be my particular
aversion," he muttered.

Grimaud, nevertheless, was resolved for certain reasons not
at once to come to a full rupture with the prisoner; he
wanted to inspire, not a sudden repugnance, but a good,
sound, steady hatred; he retired, therefore, and gave place
to four guards, who, having breakfasted, could attend on the
prisoner.

A fresh practical joke now occurred to the duke. He had
asked for crawfish for his breakfast on the following
morning; he intended to pass the day in making a small
gallows and hang one of the finest of these fish in the
middle of his room -- the red color evidently conveying an
allusion to the cardinal -- so that he might have the
pleasure of hanging Mazarin in effigy without being accused
of having hung anything more significant than a crawfish.

The day was employed in preparations for the execution.
Every one grows childish in prison, but the character of
Monsieur de Beaufort was particularly disposed to become so.
In the course of his morning's walk he collected two or
three small branches from a tree and found a small piece of
broken glass, a discovery that quite delighted him. When he
came home he formed his handkerchief into a loop.

Nothing of all this escaped Grimaud, but La Ramee looked on
with the curiosity of a father who thinks that he may
perhaps get a cheap idea concerning a new toy for his
children. The guards looked on it with indifference. When
everything was ready, the gallows hung in the middle of the
room, the loop made, and when the duke had cast a glance
upon the plate of crawfish, in order to select the finest
specimen among them, he looked around for his piece of
glass; it had disappeared.

"Who has taken my piece of glass?" asked the duke, frowning.
Grimaud made a sign to denote that he had done so.

"What! thou again! Why didst thou take it?"

"Yes -- why?" asked La Ramee.

Grimaud, who held the piece of glass in his hand, said:
"Sharp."

"True, my lord!" exclaimed La Ramee. "Ah! deuce take it! we
have a precious fellow here!"

"Monsieur Grimaud!" said the duke, "for your sake I beg of
you, never come within the reach of my fist!"

"Hush! hush!" cried La Ramee, "give me your gibbet, my lord.
I will shape it out for you with my knife."

And he took the gibbet and shaped it out as neatly as
possible.

"That's it," said the duke, "now make me a little hole in
the floor whilst I go and fetch the culprit."

La Ramee knelt down and made a hole in the floor; meanwhile
the duke hung the crawfish up by a thread. Then he placed
the gibbet in the middle of the room, bursting with
laughter.

La Ramee laughed also and the guards laughed in chorus;
Grimaud, however, did not even smile. He approached La Ramee
and showing him the crawfish hung up by the thread:

"Cardinal," he said.

"Hung by order of his Highness the Duc de Beaufort!" cried
the prisoner, laughing violently, "and by Master Jacques
Chrysostom La Ramee, the king's commissioner."

La Ramee uttered a cry of horror and rushed toward the
gibbet, which he broke at once and threw the pieces out of
the window. He was going to throw the crawfish out also,
when Grimaud snatched it from his hands.

"Good to eat!" he said, and put it in his pocket.

This scene so enchanted the duke that at the moment he
forgave Grimaud for his part in it; but on reflection he
hated him more and more, being convinced he had some evil
motive for his conduct.

But the story of the crab made a great noise through the
interior of the donjon and even outside. Monsieur de
Chavigny, who at heart detested the cardinal, took pains to
tell the story to two or three friends, who put it into
immediate circulation.

The prisoner happened to remark among the guards one man
with a very good countenance; and he favored this man the
more as Grimaud became the more and more odious to him. One
morning he took this man on one side and had succeeded in
speaking to him, when Grimaud entered and seeing what was
going on approached the duke respectfully, but took the
guard by the arm.

"Go away," he said.

The guard obeyed.

"You are insupportable!" cried the duke; "I shall beat you."

Grimaud bowed.

"I will break every bone in your body!" cried the duke.

Grimaud bowed, but stepped back.

"Mr. Spy," cried the duke, more and more enraged, "I will
strangle you with my own hands."

And he extended his hands toward Grimaud, who merely thrust
the guard out and shut the door behind him. At the same time
he felt the duke's arms on his shoulders like two iron
claws; but instead either of calling out or defending
himself, he placed his forefinger on his lips and said in a
low tone:

"Hush!" smiling as he uttered the word.

A gesture, a smile and a word from Grimaud, all at once,
were so unusual that his highness stopped short, astounded.

Grimaud took advantage of that instant to draw from his vest
a charming little note with an aristocratic seal, and
presented it to the duke without a word.

The duke, more and more bewildered, let Grimaud loose and
took the note.

"From Madame de Montbazon?" he cried.

Grimaud nodded assent.

The duke tore open the note, passed his hands over his eyes,
for he was dazzled and confused, and read:



"My Dear Duke, -- You may entirely confide in the brave lad
who will give you this note; he has consented to enter the
service of your keeper and to shut himself up at Vincennes
with you, in order to prepare and assist your escape, which
we are contriving. The moment of your deliverance is at
hand; have patience and courage and remember that in spite
of time and absence all your friends continue to cherish for
you the sentiments they have so long professed and truly
entertained.

"Yours wholly and most affectionately

"Marie de Montbazon.



"P.S. -- I sign my full name, for I should be vain if I
could suppose that after five years of absence you would
remember my initials."



The poor duke became perfectly giddy. What for five years he
had been wanting -- a faithful servant, a friend, a helping
hand -- seemed to have fallen from Heaven just when he
expected it the least.

"Oh, dearest Marie! she thinks of me, then, after five years
of separation! Heavens! there is constancy!" Then turning to
Grimaud, he said:

"And thou, my brave fellow, thou consentest thus to aid me?"

Grimaud signified his assent.

"And you have come here with that purpose?"

Grimaud repeated the sign.

"And I was ready to strangle you!" cried the duke.

Grimaud smiled.

"Wait, then," said the duke, fumbling in his pocket. "Wait,"
he continued, renewing his fruitless search; "it shall not
be said that such devotion to a grandson of Henry IV. went
without recompense."

The duke's endeavors evinced the best intention in the
world, but one of the precautions taken at Vincennes was
that of allowing prisoners to keep no money. Whereupon
Grimaud, observing the duke's disappointment, drew from his
pocket a purse filled with gold and handed it to him.

"Here is what you are looking for," he said.

The duke opened the purse and wanted to empty it into
Grimaud's hands, but Grimaud shook his head.

"Thank you, monseigneur," he said, drawing back; "I am
paid."

The duke went from one surprise to another. He held out his
hand. Grimaud drew near and kissed it respectfully. The
grand manner of Athos had left its mark on Grimaud.

"What shall we do? and when? and how proceed?"

"It is now eleven," answered Grimaud. "Let my lord at two
o'clock ask leave to make up a game at tennis with La Ramee
and let him send two or three balls over the ramparts."

"And then?"

"Your highness will approach the walls and call out to a man
who works in the moat to send them back again."

"I understand," said the duke.

Grimaud made a sign that he was going away.

"Ah!" cried the duke, "will you not accept any money from
me?"

"I wish my lord would make me one promise."

"What! speak!"

"'Tis this: when we escape together, that I shall go
everywhere and be always first; for if my lord should be
overtaken and caught, there's every chance of his being
brought back to prison, whereas if I am caught the least
that can befall me is to be -- hung."

"True, on my honor as a gentleman it shall be as thou dost
suggest."

"Now," resumed Grimaud, "I've only one thing more to ask --
that your highness will continue to detest me."

"I'll try," said the duke.

At this moment La Ramee, after the interview we have
described with the cardinal, entered the room. The duke had
thrown himself, as he was wont to do in moments of dullness
and vexation, on his bed. La Ramee cast an inquiring look
around him and observing the same signs of antipathy between
the prisoner and his guardian he smiled in token of his
inward satisfaction. Then turning to Grimaud:

"Very good, my friend, very good. You have been spoken of in
a promising quarter and you will soon, I hope, have news
that will be agreeable to you."

Grimaud saluted in his politest manner and withdrew, as was
his custom on the entrance of his superior.

"Well, my lord," said La Ramee, with his rude laugh, "you
still set yourself against this poor fellow?"

"So! 'tis you, La Ramee; in faith, 'tis time you came back
again. I threw myself on the bed and turned my nose to the
wall, that I mightn't break my promise and strangle
Grimaud."

"I doubt, however," said La Ramee, in sprightly allusion to
the silence of his subordinate, "if he has said anything
disagreeable to your highness."

"Pardieu! you are right -- a mute from the East! I swear it
was time for you to come back, La Ramee, and I was eager to
see you again."

"Monseigneur is too good," said La Ramee, flattered by the
compliment.

"Yes," continued the duke, "really, I feel bored today
beyond the power of description."

"Then let us have a match in the tennis court," exclaimed La
Ramee.

"If you wish it."

"I am at your service, my lord."

"I protest, my dear La Ramee," said the duke, "that you are
a charming fellow and that I would stay forever at Vincennes
to have the pleasure of your society."

"My lord," replied La Ramee, "I think if it depended on the
cardinal your wishes would be fulfilled."

"What do you mean? Have you seen him lately?"

"He sent for me to-day."

"Really! to speak to you about me?"

"Of what else do you imagine he would speak to me? Really,
my lord, you are his nightmare."

The duke smiled with bitterness.

"Ah, La Ramee! if you would but accept my offers! I would
make your fortune."

"How? you would no sooner have left prison than your goods
would be confiscated."

"I shall no sooner be out of prison than I shall be master
of Paris."

"Pshaw! pshaw! I cannot hear such things said as that; this
is a fine conversation with an officer of the king! I see,
my lord, I shall be obliged to fetch a second Grimaud!"

"Very well, let us say no more about it. So you and the
cardinal have been talking about me? La Ramee, some day when
he sends for you, you must let me put on your clothes; I
will go in your stead; I will strangle him, and upon my
honor, if that is made a condition I will return to prison."

"Monseigneur, I see well that I must call Grimaud."

"Well, I am wrong. And what did the cuistre [pettifogger]
say about me?"

"I admit the word, monseigneur, because it rhymes with
ministre [minister]. What did he say to me? He told me to
watch you."

"And why so? why watch me?" asked the duke uneasily.

"Because an astrologer had predicted that you would escape."

"Ah! an astrologer predicted that?" said the duke, starting
in spite of himself.

"Oh, mon Dieu! yes! those imbeciles of magicians can only
imagine things to torment honest people."

"And what did you reply to his most illustrious eminence?"

"That if the astrologer in question made almanacs I would
advise him not to buy one."

"Why not?"

"Because before you could escape you would have to be turned
into a bird."

"Unfortunately, that is true. Let us go and have a game at
tennis, La Ramee."

"My lord -- I beg your highness's pardon -- but I must beg
for half an hour's leave of absence."

"Why?"

"Because Monseigneur Mazarin is a prouder man than his
highness, though not of such high birth: he forgot to ask me
to breakfast."

"Well, shall I send for some breakfast here?"

"No, my lord; I must tell you that the confectioner who
lived opposite the castle -- Daddy Marteau, as they called
him ---- "

"Well?"

"Well, he sold his business a week ago to a confectioner
from Paris, an invalid, ordered country air for his health."

"Well, what have I to do with that?"

"Why, good Lord! this man, your highness, when he saw me
stop before his shop, where he has a display of things which
would make your mouth water, my lord, asked me to get him
the custom of the prisoners in the donjon. `I bought,' said
he, `the business of my predecessor on the strength of his
assurance that he supplied the castle; whereas, on my honor,
Monsieur de Chavigny, though I've been here a week, has not
ordered so much as a tartlet.' `But,' I then replied,
`probably Monsieur de Chavigny is afraid your pastry is not
good.' `My pastry not good! Well, Monsieur La Ramee, you
shall judge of it yourself and at once.' `I cannot,' I
replied; `it is absolutely necessary for me to return to the
chateau.' `Very well,' said he, `go and attend to your
affairs, since you seem to be in a hurry, but come back in
half an hour.' `In half an hour?' `Yes, have you
breakfasted?' `Faith, no.' `Well, here is a pate that will
be ready for you, with a bottle of old Burgundy.' So, you
see, my lord, since I am hungry, I would, with your
highness's leave ---- " And La Ramee bent low.

"Go, then, animal," said the duke; "but remember, I only
allow you half an hour."

"May I promise your custom to the successor of Father
Marteau, my lord?"

"Yes, if he does not put mushrooms in his pies; thou knowest
that mushrooms from the wood of Vincennes are fatal to my
family."

La Ramee went out, but in five minutes one of the officers
of the guard entered in compliance with the strict orders of
the cardinal that the prisoner should never be left alone a
moment.

But during these five minutes the duke had had time to read
again the note from Madame de Montbazon, which proved to the
prisoner that his friends were concerting plans for his
deliverance, but in what way he knew not.

But his confidence in Grimaud, whose petty persecutions he
now perceived were only a blind, increased, and he conceived
the highest opinion of his intellect and resolved to trust
entirely to his guidance.



19

In which the Contents of the Pates made by the Successor of
Father Marteau are described.



In half an hour La Ramee returned, full of glee, like most
men who have eaten, and more especially drank to their
heart's content. The pates were excellent, the wine
delicious.

The weather was fine and the game at tennis took place in
the open air.

At two o'clock the tennis balls began, according to
Grimaud's directions, to take the direction of the moat,
much to the joy of La Ramee, who marked fifteen whenever the
duke sent a ball into the moat; and very soon balls were
wanting, so many had gone over. La Ramee then proposed to
send some one to pick them up, but the duke remarked that it
would be losing time; and going near the rampart himself and
looking over, he saw a man working in one of the numerous
little gardens cleared out by the peasants on the opposite
side of the moat.

"Hey, friend!" cried the duke.

The man raised his head and the duke was about to utter a
cry of surprise. The peasant, the gardener, was Rochefort,
whom he believed to be in the Bastile.

"Well? Who's up there?" said the man.

"Be so good as to collect and throw us back our balls," said
the duke.

The gardener nodded and began to fling up the balls, which
were picked up by La Ramee and the guard. One, however, fell
at the duke's feet, and seeing that it was intended for him,
he put it into his pocket.

La Ramee was in ecstasies at having beaten a prince of the
blood.

The duke went indoors and retired to bed, where he spent,
indeed, the greater part of every day, as they had taken his
books away. La Ramee carried off all his clothes, in order
to be certain that the duke would not stir. However, the
duke contrived to hide the ball under his bolster and as
soon as the door was closed he tore off the cover of the
ball with his teeth and found underneath the following
letter:



My Lord, -- Your friends are watching over you and the hour
of your deliverance is at hand. Ask day after to-morrow to
have a pie supplied you by the new confectioner opposite the
castle, and who is no other than Noirmont, your former
maitre d'hotel. Do not open the pie till you are alone. I
hope you will be satisfied with its contents.

"Your highness's most devoted servant,

"In the Bastile, as elsewhere,

"Comte de Rochefort.



The duke, who had latterly been allowed a fire, burned the
letter, but kept the ball, and went to bed, hiding the ball
under his bolster. La Ramee entered; he smiled kindly on the
prisoner, for he was an excellent man and had taken a great
liking for the captive prince. He endeavored to cheer him up
in his solitude.

"Ah, my friend!" cried the duke, "you are so good; if I
could but do as you do, and eat pates and drink Burgundy at
the house of Father Marteau's successor."

"'Tis true, my lord," answered La Ramee, "that his pates are
famous and his wine magnificent."

"In any case," said the duke, "his cellar and kitchen might
easily excel those of Monsieur de Chavigny."

"Well, my lord," said La Ramee, falling into the trap, "what
is there to prevent your trying them? Besides, I have
promised him your patronage."

"You are right," said the duke. "If I am to remain here
permanently, as Monsieur Mazarin has kindly given me to
understand, I must provide myself with a diversion for my
old age, I must turn gourmand."

"My lord," said La Ramee, "if you will take a bit of good
advice, don't put that off till you are old."

"Good!" said the Duc de Beaufort to himself, "every man in
order that he may lose his heart and soul, must receive from
celestial bounty one of the seven capital sins, perhaps two;
it seems that Master La Ramee's is gluttony. Let us then
take advantage of it." Then, aloud:

"Well, my dear La Ramee! the day after to-morrow is a
holiday."

"Yes, my lord -- Pentecost."

"Will you give me a lesson the day after to-morrow?"

"In what?"

"In gastronomy?"

"Willingly, my lord."

"But tete-a-tete. Send the guards to take their meal in the
canteen of Monsieur de Chavigny; we'll have a supper here
under your direction."

"Hum!" said La Ramee.

The proposal was seductive, but La Ramee was an old stager,
acquainted with all the traps a prisoner was likely to set.
Monsieur de Beaufort had said that he had forty ways of
getting out of prison. Did this proposed breakfast cover
some stratagem? He reflected, but he remembered that he
himself would have charge of the food and the wine and
therefore that no powder could be mixed with the food, no
drug with the wine. As to getting him drunk, the duke
couldn't hope to do that, and he laughed at the mere thought
of it. Then an idea came to him which harmonized everything.

The duke had followed with anxiety La Ramee's unspoken
soliloquy, reading it from point to point upon his face. But
presently the exempt's face suddenly brightened.

"Well," he asked, "that will do, will it not?"

"Yes, my lord, on one condition."

"What?"

"That Grimaud shall wait on us at table."

Nothing could be more agreeable to the duke, however, he had
presence of mind enough to exclaim:

"To the devil with your Grimaud! He will spoil the feast."

"I will direct him to stand behind your chair, and since he
doesn't speak, your highness will neither see nor hear him
and with a little effort can imagine him a hundred miles
away."

"Do you know, my friend, I find one thing very evident in
all this, you distrust me."

"My lord, the day after to-morrow is Pentecost."

"Well, what is Pentecost to me? Are you afraid that the Holy
Spirit will come as a tongue of fire to open the doors of my
prison?"

"No, my lord; but I have already told you what that damned
magician predicted."

"And what was it?"

"That the day of Pentecost would not pass without your
highness being out of Vincennes."

"You believe in sorcerers, then, you fool?"

"I ---I mind them no more than that ---- " and he snapped
his fingers; "but it is my Lord Giulio who cares about them;
as an Italian he is superstitious."

The duke shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, then," with well acted good-humor, "I allow Grimaud,
but no one else; you must manage it all. Order whatever you
like for supper -- the only thing I specify is one of those
pies; and tell the confectioner that I will promise him my
custom if he excels this time in his pies -- not only now,
but when I leave my prison."

"Then you think you will some day leave it?" said La Ramee.

"The devil!" replied the prince; "surely, at the death of
Mazarin. I am fifteen years younger than he is. At
Vincennes, 'tis true, one lives faster ---- "

"My lord," replied La Ramee, "my lord ---- "

"Or dies sooner, for it comes to the same thing."

La Ramee was going out. He stopped, however, at the door for
an instant.

"Whom does your highness wish me to send to you?"

"Any one, except Grimaud."

"The officer of the guard, then, with his chessboard?"

"Yes."

Five minutes afterward the officer entered and the duke
seemed to be immersed in the sublime combinations of chess.

A strange thing is the mind, and it is wonderful what
revolutions may be wrought in it by a sign, a word, a hope.
The duke had been five years in prison, and now to him,
looking back upon them, those five years, which had passed
so slowly, seemed not so long a time as were the two days,
the forty-eight hours, which still parted him from the time
fixed for his escape. Besides, there was one thing that
engaged his most anxious thought -- in what way was the
escape to be effected? They had told him to hope for it, but
had not told him what was to be hidden in the mysterious
pate. And what friends awaited him without? He had friends,
then, after five years in prison? If that were so he was
indeed a highly favored prince. He forgot that besides his
friends of his own sex, a woman, strange to say, had
remembered him. It is true that she had not, perhaps, been
scupulously faithful to him, but she had remembered him;
that was something.

So the duke had more than enough to think about; accordingly
he fared at chess as he had fared at tennis; he made blunder
upon blunder and the officer with whom he played found him
easy game.

But his successive defeats did service to the duke in one
way -- they killed time for him till eight o'clock in the
evening; then would come night, and with night, sleep. So,
at least, the duke believed; but sleep is a capricious
fairy, and it is precisely when one invokes her presence
that she is most likely to keep him waiting. The duke waited
until midnight, turning on his mattress like St. Laurence on
his gridiron. Finally he slept.

But at daybreak he awoke. Wild dreams had disturbed his
repose. He dreamed that he was endowed with wings -- he
wished to fly away. For a time these wings supported him,
but when he reached a certain height this new aid failed
him. His wings were broken and he seemed to sink into a
bottomless abyss, whence he awoke, bathed in perspiration
and nearly as much overcome as if he had really fallen. He
fell asleep again and another vision appeared. He was in a
subterranean passage by which he was to leave Vincennes.
Grimaud was walking before him with a lantern. By degrees
the passage narrowed, yet the duke continued his course. At
last it became so narrow that the fugitive tried in vain to
proceed. The sides of the walls seem to close in, even to
press against him. He made fruitless efforts to go on; it
was impossible. Nevertheless, he still saw Grimaud with his
lantern in front, advancing. He wished to call out to him
but could not utter a word. Then at the other extremity he
heard the footsteps of those who were pursuing him. These
steps came on, came fast. He was discovered; all hope of
flight was gone. Still the walls seemed to be closing on
him; they appeared to be in concert with his enemies. At
last he heard the voice of La Ramee. La Ramee took his hand
and laughed aloud. He was captured again, and conducted to
the low and vaulted chamber, in which Ornano, Puylaurens,
and his uncle had died. Their three graves were there,
rising above the ground, and a fourth was also there,
yawning for its ghastly tenant.

The duke was obliged to make as many efforts to awake as he
had done to go to sleep; and La Ramee found him so pale and
fatigued that he inquired whether he was ill.

"In fact," said one of the guards who had remained in the
chamber and had been kept awake by a toothache, brought on
by the dampness of the atmosphere, "my lord has had a very
restless night and two or three times, while dreaming, he
called for help."

"What is the matter with your highness?" asked La Ramee.

"'Tis your fault, you simpleton," answered the duke. "With
your idle nonsense yesterday about escaping, you worried me
so that I dreamed that I was trying to escape and broke my
neck in doing so."

La Ramee laughed.

"Come," he said, "'tis a warning from Heaven. Never commit
such an imprudence as to try to escape, except in your
dreams."

"And you are right, my dear La Ramee," said the duke, wiping
away the sweat that stood on his brow, wide awake though he
was; "after this I will think of nothing but eating and
drinking."

"Hush!" said La Ramee; and one by one he sent away the
guards, on various pretexts.

"Well?" asked the duke when they were alone.

"Well!" replied La Ramee, "your supper is ordered."

"Ah! and what is it to be? Monsieur, my majordomo, will
there be a pie?"

"I should think so, indeed -- almost as high as a tower."

"You told him it was for me?"

"Yes, and he said he would do his best to please your
highness."

"Good!" exclaimed the duke, rubbing his hands.

"Devil take it, my lord! what a gourmand you are growing; I
haven't seen you with so cheerful a face these five years."

The duke saw that he had not controlled himself as he ought,
but at that moment, as if he had listened at the door and
comprehended the urgent need of diverting La Ramee's ideas,
Grimaud entered and made a sign to La Ramee that he had
something to say to him.

La Ramee drew near to Grimaud, who spoke to him in a low
voice.

The duke meanwhile recovered his self-control.

"I have already forbidden that man," he said, "to come in
here without my permission."

"You must pardon him, my lord," said La Ramee, "for I
directed him to come."

"And why did you so direct when you know that he displeases
me?"

"My lord will remember that it was agreed between us that he
should wait upon us at that famous supper. My lord has
forgotten the supper."

"No, but I have forgotten Monsieur Grimaud."

"My lord understands that there can be no supper unless he
is allowed to be present."

"Go on, then; have it your own way."

"Come here, my lad," said La Ramee, "and hear what I have to
say."

Grimaud approached, with a very sullen expression on his
face.

La Ramee continued: "My lord has done me the honor to invite
me to a supper to-morrow en tete-a-tete."

Grimaud made a sign which meant that he didn't see what that
had to do with him.

"Yes, yes," said La Ramee, "the matter concerns you, for you
will have the honor to serve us; and besides, however good
an appetite we may have and however great our thirst, there
will be something left on the plates and in the bottles, and
that something will be yours."

Grimaud bowed in thanks.

"And now," said La Ramee, "I must ask your highness's
pardon, but it seems that Monsieur de Chavigny is to be away
for a few days and he has sent me word that he has certain
directions to give me before his departure."

The duke tried to exchange a glance with Grimaud, but there
was no glance in Grimaud's eyes.

"Go, then," said the duke, "and return as soon as possible."

"Does your highness wish to take revenge for the game of
tennis yesterday?"

Grimaud intimated by a scarcely perceptible nod that he
should consent.

"Yes," said the duke, "but take care, my dear La Ramee, for
I propose to beat you badly."

La Ramee went out. Grimaud looked after him, and when the
door was closed he drew out of his pocket a pencil and a
sheet of paper.

"Write, my lord," he said.

"And what?"

Grimaud dictated.

"All is ready for to-morrow evening. Keep watch from seven
to nine. Have two riding horses ready. We shall descend by
the first window in the gallery."

"What next?"

"Sign your name, my lord."

The duke signed.

"Now, my lord, give me, if you have not lost it, the ball --
that which contained the letter."

The duke took it from under his pillow and gave it to
Grimaud. Grimaud gave a grim smile.

"Well?" asked the duke.

"Well, my lord, I sew up the paper in the ball and you, in
your game of tennis, will send the ball into the ditch."

"But will it not be lost?"

"Oh no; there will be some one at hand to pick it up."

"A gardener?"

Grimaud nodded.

"The same as yesterday?"

Another nod on the part of Grimaud.

"The Count de Rochefort?"

Grimaud nodded the third time.

"Come, now," said the duke, "give some particulars of the
plan for our escape."

"That is forbidden me," said Grimaud, "until the last
moment."

"Who will be waiting for me beyond the ditch?"

"I know nothing about it, my lord."

"But at least, if you don't want to see me turn crazy, tell
what that famous pate will contain."

"Two poniards, a knotted rope and a poire d'angoisse."*



*This poire d'angoisse was a famous gag, in the form of a
pear, which, being thrust into the mouth, by the aid of a
spring, dilated, so as to distend the jaws to their greatest
width.



"Yes, I understand."

"My lord observes that there will be enough to go around."

"We shall take to ourselves the poniards and the rope,"
replied the duke.

"And make La Ramee eat the pear," answered Grimaud.

"My dear Grimaud, thou speakest seldom, but when thou dost,
one must do thee justice -- thy words are words of gold."



20

One of Marie Michon's Adventures.



Whilst these projects were being formed by the Duc de
Beaufort and Grimaud, the Comte de la Fere and the Vicomte
de Bragelonne were entering Paris by the Rue du Faubourg
Saint Marcel.

They stopped at the sign of the Fox, in the Rue du Vieux
Colombier, a tavern known for many years by Athos, and asked
for two bedrooms.

"You must dress yourself, Raoul," said Athos, "I am going to
present you to some one."

"To-day, monsieur?" asked the young man.

"In half an hour."

The young man bowed. Perhaps, not being endowed with the
endurance of Athos, who seemed to be made of iron, he would
have preferred a bath in the river Seine of which he had
heard so much, and afterward his bed; but the Comte de la
Fere had spoken and he had no thought but to obey.

"By the way," said Athos, "take some pains with your toilet,
Raoul; I want you to be approved."

"I hope, sir," replied the youth, smiling, "that there's no
idea of a marriage for me; you know of my engagement to
Louise?"

Athos, in his turn, smiled also.

"No, don't be alarmed, although it is to a lady that I am
going to present you, and I am anxious that you should love
her ---- "

The young man looked at the count with a certain uneasiness,
but at a smile from Athos he was quickly reassured.

"How old is she?" inquired the Vicomte de Bragelonne.

"My dear Raoul, learn, once for all, that that is a question
which is never asked. When you can find out a woman's age by
her face, it is useless to ask it; when you cannot do so, it
is indiscreet."

"Is she beautiful?"

"Sixteen years ago she was deemed not only the prettiest,
but the most graceful woman in France."

This reply reassured the vicomte. A woman who had been a
reigning beauty a year before he was born could not be the
subject of any scheme for him. He retired to his toilet.
When he reappeared, Athos received him with the same
paternal smile as that which he had often bestowed on
D'Artagnan, but a more profound tenderness for Raoul was now
visibly impressed upon his face.

Athos cast a glance at his feet, hands and hair -- those
three marks of race. The youth's dark hair was neatly parted
and hung in curls, forming a sort of dark frame around his
face; such was the fashion of the day. Gloves of gray kid,
matching the hat, well displayed the form of a slender and
elegant hand; whilst his boots, similar in color to the hat
and gloves, confined feet small as those of a boy twelve
years old.

"Come," murmured Athos, "if she is not proud of him, she
must be hard to please."

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. The two travelers
proceeded to the Rue Saint Dominique and stopped at the door
of a magnificent hotel, surmounted with the arms of De
Luynes.

"'Tis here," said Athos.

He entered the hotel and ascended the front steps, and
addressing a footman who waited there in a grand livery,
asked if the Duchess de Chevreuse was visible and if she
could receive the Comte de la Fere?

The servant returned with a message to say, that, though the
duchess had not the honor of knowing Monsieur de la Fere,
she would receive him.

Athos followed the footman, who led him through a long
succession of apartments and paused at length before a
closed door. Athos made a sign to the Vicomte de Bragelonne
to remain where he was.

The footman opened the door and announced Monsieur le Comte
de la Fere.

Madame de Chevreuse, whose name appears so often in our
story "The Three Musketeers," without her actually having
appeared in any scene, was still a beautiful woman. Although
about forty-four or forty-five years old, she might have
passed for thirty-five. She still had her rich fair hair;
her large, animated, intelligent eyes, so often opened by
intrigue, so often closed by the blindness of love. She had
still her nymph-like form, so that when her back was turned
she still was not unlike the girl who had jumped, with Anne
of Austria, over the moat of the Tuileries in 1563. In all
other respects she was the same mad creature who threw over
her amours such an air of originality as to make them
proverbial for eccentricity in her family.

She was in a little boudoir, hung with blue damask, adorned
by red flowers, with a foliage of gold, looking upon a
garden; and reclined upon a sofa, her head supported on the
rich tapestry which covered it. She held a book in her hand
and her arm was supported by a cushion.

At the footman's announcement she raised herself a little
and peeped out, with some curiosity.

Athos appeared.

He was dressed in violet-tinted velvet, trimmed with silk of
the same color. His shoulder-knots were of burnished silver,
his mantle had no gold nor embroidery on it; a simple plume
of violet feathers adorned his hat; his boots were of black
leather, and at his girdle hung that sword with a
magnificent hilt that Porthos had so often admired in the
Rue Feron. Splendid lace adorned the falling collar of his
shirt, and lace fell also over the top of his boots.

In his whole person he bore such an impress of high degree,
that Madame de Chevreuse half rose from her seat when she
saw him and made him a sign to sit down near her.

Athos bowed and obeyed. The footman was withdrawing, but
Athos stopped him by a sign.

"Madame," he said to the duchess, "I have had the boldness
to present myself at your hotel without being known to you;
it has succeeded, since you deign to receive me. I have now
the boldness to ask you for an interview of half an hour."

"I grant it, monsieur," replied Madame de Chevreuse with her
most gracious smile.

"But that is not all, madame. Oh, I am very presuming, I am
aware. The interview for which I ask is of us two alone, and
I very earnestly wish that it may not be interrupted."

"I am not at home to any one," said the Duchess de Chevreuse
to the footman. "You may go."

The footman went out

There ensued a brief silence, during which these two
persons, who at first sight recognized each other so clearly
as of noble race, examined each other without embarrassment
on either side.

The duchess was the first to speak.

"Well, sir, I am waiting with impatience to hear what you
wish to say to me."

"And I, madame," replied Athos, "am looking with
admiration."

"Sir," said Madame de Chevreuse, "you must excuse me, but I
long to know to whom I am talking. You belong to the court,
doubtless, yet I have never seen you at court. Have you, by
any chance, been in the Bastile?"

"No, madame, I have not; but very likely I am on the road to
it."

"Ah! then tell me who you are, and get along with you upon
your journey," replied the duchess, with the gayety which
made her so charming, "for I am sufficiently in bad odor
already, without compromising myself still more."

"Who I am, madame? My name has been mentioned to you -- the
Comte de la Fere; you do not know that name. I once bore
another, which you knew, but you have certainly forgotten
it."

"Tell it me, sir."

"Formerly," said the count, "I was Athos."

Madame de Chevreuse looked astonished. The name was not
wholly forgotten, but mixed up and confused with ancient
recollections.

"Athos?" said she; "wait a moment."

And she placed her hands on her brow, as if to force the
fugitive ideas it contained to concentration in a moment.

"Shall I help you, madame?" asked Athos.

"Yes, do," said the duchess.

"This Athos was connected with three young musketeers, named
Porthos, D'Artagnan, and ---- "

He stopped short.

"And Aramis," said the duchess, quickly.

"And Aramis; I see you have not forgotten the name."

"No," she said; "poor Aramis; a charming man, elegant,
discreet, and a writer of poetical verses. I am afraid he
has turned out ill," she added.

"He has; he is an abbe."

"Ah, what a misfortune!" exclaimed the duchess, playing
carelessly with her fan. "Indeed, sir, I thank you; you have
recalled one of the most agreeable recollections of my
youth."

"Will you permit me, then, to recall another to you?"

"Relating to him?"

"Yes and no."

"Faith!" said Madame de Chevreuse, "say on. With a man like
you I fear nothing."

Athos bowed. "Aramis," he continued, "was intimate with a
young needlewoman from Tours, a cousin of his, named Marie
Michon."

"Ah, I knew her!" cried the duchess. "It was to her he wrote
from the siege of Rochelle, to warn her of a plot against
the Duke of Buckingham."

"Exactly so; will you allow me to speak to you of her?"

"If," replied the duchess, with a meaning look, "you do not
say too much against her."

"I should be ungrateful," said Athos, "and I regard
ingratitude, not as a fault or a crime, but as a vice, which
is much worse."

"You ungrateful to Marie Michon, monsieur?" said Madame de
Chevreuse, trying to read in Athos's eyes. "But how can that
be? You never knew her."

"Eh, madame, who knows?" said Athos. "There is a popular
proverb to the effect that it is only mountains that never
meet; and popular proverbs contain sometimes a wonderful
amount of truth."

"Oh, go on, monsieur, go on!" said Madame de Chevreuse
eagerly; "you can't imagine how much this conversation
interests me."

"You encourage me," said Athos, "I will continue, then. That
cousin of Aramis, that Marie Michon, that needlewoman,
notwithstanding her low condition, had acquaintances in the
highest rank; she called the grandest ladies of the court
her friend, and the queen -- proud as she is, in her double
character as Austrian and as Spaniard -- called her her
sister."

"Alas!" said Madame de Chevreuse, with a slight sigh and a
little movement of her eyebrows that was peculiarly her own,
"since that time everything has changed."

"And the queen had reason for her affection, for Marie was
devoted to her -- devoted to that degree that she served her
as medium of intercourse with her brother, the king of
Spain."

"Which," interrupted the duchess, "is now brought up against
her as a great crime."

"And therefore," continued Athos, "the cardinal -- the true
cardinal, the other one -- determined one fine morning to
arrest poor Marie Michon and send her to the Chateau de
Loches. Fortunately the affair was not managed so secretly
but that it became known to the queen. The case had been
provided for: if Marie Michon should be threatened with any
danger the queen was to send her a prayer-book bound in
green velvet."

"That is true, monsieur, you are well informed."

"One morning the green book was brought to her by the Prince
de Marsillac. There was no time to lose. Happily Marie and a
follower of hers named Kitty could disguise themselves
admirably in men's clothes. The prince procured for Marie
Michon the dress of a cavalier and for Kitty that of a
lackey; he sent them two excellent horses, and the fugitives
went out hastily from Tours, shaping their course toward
Spain, trembling at the least noise, following unfrequented
roads, and asking for hospitality when they found themselves
where there was no inn."

"Why, really, it was all exactly as you say!" cried Madame
de Chevreuse, clapping her hands. "It would indeed be
strange if ---- " she checked herself.

"If I should follow the two fugitives to the end of their
journey?" said Athos. "No, madame, I will not thus waste
your time. We will accompany them only to a little village
in Limousin, lying between Tulle and Angouleme -- a little
village called Roche-l'Abeille."

Madame de Chevreuse uttered a cry of surprise, and looked at
Athos with an expression of astonishment that made the old
musketeer smile.

"Wait, madame," continued Athos, "what remains for me to
tell you is even more strange than what I have narrated."

"Monsieur," said Madame de Chevreuse, "I believe you are a
sorcerer; I am prepared for anything. But really -- No
matter, go on."

"The journey of that day had been long and wearing; it was a
cold day, the eleventh of October, there was no inn or
chateau in the village and the homes of the peasants were
poor and unattractive. Marie Michon was a very aristocratic
person; like her sister the queen, she had been accustomed
to pleasing perfumes and fine linen; she resolved,
therefore, to seek hospitality of the priest."

Athos paused.

"Oh, continue!" said the duchess. "I have told you that I am
prepared for anything."

"The two travelers knocked at the door. It was late; the
priest, who had gone to bed, cried out to them to come in.
They entered, for the door was not locked -- there is much
confidence among villagers. A lamp burned in the chamber
occupied by the priest. Marie Michon, who made the most
charming cavalier in the world, pushed open the door, put
her head in and asked for hospitality. `Willingly, my young
cavalier,' said the priest, `if you will be content with the
remains of my supper and with half my chamber.'

"The two travelers consulted for a moment. The priest heard
a burst of laughter and then the master, or rather, the
mistress, replied: `Thank you, monsieur le cure, I accept.'
`Sup, then, and make as little noise as possible,' said the
priest, `for I, too, have been on the go all day and shall
not be sorry to sleep to-night.'"

Madame de Chevreuse evidently went from surprise to
astonishment, and from astonishment to stupefaction. Her
face, as she looked at Athos, had taken on an expression
that cannot be described. It could be seen that she had
wished to speak, but she had remained silent through fear of
losing one of her companion's words.

"What happened then?" she asked.

"Then?" said Athos. "Ah, I have come now to what is most
difficult."

"Speak, speak! One can say anything to me. Besides, it
doesn't concern me; it relates to Mademoiselle Marie
Michon."

"Ah, that is true," said Athos. "Well, then, Marie Michon
had supper with her follower, and then, in accordance with
the permission given her, she entered the chamber of her
host, Kitty meanwhile taking possession of an armchair in
the room first entered, where they had taken their supper."

"Really, monsieur," said Madame de Chevreuse, "unless you
are the devil in person I don't know how you could become
acquainted with all these details."

"A charming woman was that Marie Michon," resumed Athos,
"one of those wild creatures who are constantly conceiving
the strangest ideas. Now, thinking that her host was a
priest, that coquette took it into her head that it would be
a happy souvenir for her old age, among the many happy
souvenirs she already possessed, if she could win that of
having damned an abbe."

"Count," said the duchess, "upon my word, you frighten me."

"Alas!" continued Athos, "the poor abbe was not a St.
Ambroise, and I repeat, Marie Michon was an adorable
creature."

"Monsieur!" cried the duchess, seizing Athos's hands, "tell
me this moment how you know all these details, or I will
send to the convent of the Vieux Augustins for a monk to
come and exorcise you."

Athos laughed. "Nothing is easier, madame. A cavalier,
charged with an important mission, had come an hour before
your arrival, seeking hospitality, at the very moment that
the cure, summoned to the bedside of a dying person, left
not only his house but the village, for the entire night.
The priest having all confidence in his guest, who, besides,
was a nobleman, had left to him his house, his supper and
his chamber. And therefore Marie came seeking hospitality
from the guest of the good abbe and not from the good abbe
himself."

"And that cavalier, that guest, that nobleman who arrived
before she came?"

"It was I, the Comte de la Fere," said Athos, rising and
bowing respectfully to the Duchess de Chevreuse.

The duchess remained a moment stupefied; then, suddenly
bursting into laughter:

"Ah! upon my word," said she, "it is very droll, and that
mad Marie Michon fared better than she expected. Sit down,
dear count, and go on with your story."

"At this point I have to accuse myself of a fault, madame. I
have told you that I was traveling on an important mission.
At daybreak I left the chamber without noise, leaving my
charming companion asleep. In the front room the follower
was also still asleep, her head leaning back on the chair,
in all respects worthy of her mistress. Her pretty face
arrested my attention; I approached and recognized that
little Kitty whom our friend Aramis had placed with her. In
that way I discovered that the charming traveler was ---- "

"Marie Michon!" said Madame de Chevreuse, hastily.

"Marie Michon," continued Athos. "Then I went out of the
house; I proceeded to the stable and found my horse saddled
and my lackey ready. We set forth on our journey."

"And have you never revisited that village?" eagerly asked
Madame de Chevreuse.

"A year after, madame."

"Well?"

"I wanted to see the good cure again. I found him much
preoccupied with an event that he could not at all
comprehend. A week before he had received, in a cradle, a
beautiful little boy three months old, with a purse filled
with gold and a note containing these simple words: `11
October, 1633.'"

"It was the date of that strange adventure," interrupted
Madame de Chevreuse.

"Yes, but he couldn't understand what it meant, for he had
spent that night with a dying person and Marie Michon had
left his house before his return."

"You must know, monsieur, that Marie Michon, when she
returned to France in 1643, immediately sought for
information about that child; as a fugitive she could not
take care of it, but on her return she wished to have it
near her."

"And what said the abbe?" asked Athos.

"That a nobleman whom he did not know had wished to take
charge of it, had answered for its future, and had taken it
away."

"That was true."

"Ah! I see! That nobleman was you; it was his father!"

"Hush! do not speak so loud, madame; he is there."

"He is there! my son! the son of Marie Michon! But I must
see him instantly."

"Take care, madame," said Athos, "for he knows neither his
father nor his mother."

"You have kept the secret! you have brought him to see me,
thinking to make me happy. Oh, thanks! sir, thanks!" cried
Madame de Chevreuse, seizing his hand and trying to put it
to her lips; "you have a noble heart."

"I bring him to you, madame," said Athos, withdrawing his
hand, "hoping that in your turn you will do something for
him; till now I have watched over his education and I have
made him, I hope, an accomplished gentleman; but I am now
obliged to return to the dangerous and wandering life of
party faction. To-morrow I plunge into an adventurous affair
in which I may be killed. Then it will devolve on you to
push him on in that world where he is called on to occupy a
place."

"Rest assured," cried the duchess, "I shall do what I can. I
have but little influence now, but all that I have shall
most assuredly be his. As to his title and fortune ---- "

"As to that, madame, I have made over to him the estate of
Bragelonne, my inheritance, which will give him ten thousand
francs a year and the title of vicomte."

"Upon my soul, monsieur," said the duchess, "you are a true
nobleman! But I am eager to see our young vicomte. Where is
he?"

"There, in the salon. I will have him come in, if you really
wish it."

Athos moved toward the door; the duchess held him back.

"Is he handsome?" she asked.

Athos smiled.

"He resembles his mother."

So he opened the door and beckoned the young man in.

The duchess could not restrain a cry of joy on seeing so
handsome a young cavalier, so far surpassing all that her
maternal pride had been able to conceive.

"Vicomte, come here," said Athos; "the duchess permits you
to kiss her hand."

The youth approached with his charming smile and his head
bare, and kneeling down, kissed the hand of the Duchess de
Chevreuse.

"Sir," he said, turning to Athos, "was it not in compassion
to my timidity that you told me that this lady was the
Duchess de Chevreuse, and is she not the queen?"

"No, vicomte," said Madame de Chevreuse, taking his hand and
making him sit near her, while she looked at him with eyes
sparkling with pleasure; "no, unhappily, I am not the queen.
If I were I should do for you at once the most that you
deserve. But let us see; whatever I may be," she added,
hardly restraining herself from kissing that pure brow, "let
us see what profession you wish to follow."

Athos, standing, looked at them both with indescribable
pleasure.

"Madame," answered the youth in his sweet voice, "it seems
to me that there is only one career for a gentleman -- that
of the army. I have been brought up by monsieur le comte
with the intention, I believe, of making me a soldier; and
he gave me reason to hope that at Paris he would present me
to some one who would recommend me to the favor of the
prince."

"Yes, I understand it well. Personally, I am on bad terms
with him, on account of the quarrels between Madame de
Montbazon, my mother-in-law, and Madame de Longueville. But
the Prince de Marsillac! Yes, indeed, that's the right
thing. The Prince de Marsillac -- my old friend -- will
recommend our young friend to Madame de Longueville, who
will give him a letter to her brother, the prince, who loves
her too tenderly not to do what she wishes immediately."

"Well, that will do charmingly," said the count; "but may I
beg that the greatest haste may be made, for I have reasons
for wishing the vicomte not to sleep longer than to-morrow
night in Paris!"

"Do you wish it known that you are interested about him,
monsieur le comte?"

"Better for him in future that he should be supposed never
to have seen me."

"Oh, sir!" cried Raoul.

"You know, Bragelonne," said Athos, "I never speak without
reflection."

"Well, comte, I am going instantly," interrupted the
duchess, "to send for the Prince de Marsillac, who is
happily, in Paris just now. What are you going to do this
evening?"

"We intend to visit the Abbe Scarron, for whom I have a
letter of introduction and at whose house I expect to meet
some of my friends."

"'Tis well; I will go there also, for a few minutes," said
the duchess; "do not quit his salon until you have seen me."

Athos bowed and prepared to leave.

"Well, monsieur le comte," said the duchess, smiling, "does
one leave so solemnly his old friends?"

"Ah," murmured Athos, kissing her hand, "had I only sooner
known that Marie Michon was so charming a creature!" And he
withdrew, sighing.



21

The Abbe Scarron.



There was once in the Rue des Tournelles a house known by
all the sedan chairmen and footmen of Paris, and yet,
nevertheless, this house was neither that of a great lord
nor of a rich man. There was neither dining, nor playing at
cards, nor dancing in that house. Nevertheless, it was the
rendezvous of the great world and all Paris went there. It
was the abode of the little Abbe Scarron.

In the home of the witty abbe dwelt incessant laughter;
there all the items of the day had their source and were so
quickly transformed, misrepresented, metamorphosed, some
into epigrams, some into falsehoods, that every one was
anxious to pass an hour with little Scarron, listening to
what he said, reporting it to others.

The diminutive Abbe Scarron, who, however, was an abbe only
because he owned an abbey, and not because he was in orders,
had formerly been one of the gayest prebendaries in the town
of Mans, which he inhabited. On a day of the carnival he had
taken a notion to provide an unusual entertainment for that
good town, of which he was the life and soul. He had made
his valet cover him with honey; then, opening a feather bed,
he had rolled in it and had thus become the most grotesque
fowl it is possible to imagine. He then began to visit his
friends of both sexes, in that strange costume. At first he
had been followed through astonishment, then with derisive
shouts, then the porters had insulted him, then children had
thrown stones at him, and finally he was obliged to run, to
escape the missiles. As soon as he took to flight every one
pursued him, until, pressed on all sides, Scarron found no
way of escaping his escort, except by throwing himself into
the river; but the water was icy cold. Scarron was heated,
the cold seized on him, and when he reached the farther bank
he found himself crippled.

Every means had been employed in vain to restore the use of
his limbs. He had been subjected to a severe disciplinary
course of medicine, at length he sent away all his doctors,
declaring that he preferred the disease to the treatment,
and came to Paris, where the fame of his wit had preceded
him. There he had a chair made on his own plan, and one day,
visiting Anne of Austria in this chair, she asked him,
charmed as she was with his wit, if he did not wish for a
title.

"Yes, your majesty, there is a title which I covet much,"
replied Scarron.

"And what is that?"

"That of being your invalid," answered Scarron.

So he was called the queen's invalid, with a pension of
fifteen hundred francs.

From that lucky moment Scarron led a happy life, spending
both income and principal. One day, however, an emissary of
the cardinal's gave him to understand that he was wrong in
receiving the coadjutor so often.

"And why?" asked Scarron; "is he not a man of good birth?"

"Certainly."

"Agreeable?"

"Undeniably."

"Witty?"

"He has, unfortunately, too much wit."

"Well, then, why do you wish me to give up seeing such a
man?"

"Because he is an enemy."

"Of whom?"

"Of the cardinal."

"What?" answered Scarron, "I continue to receive Monsieur
Gilles Despreaux, who thinks ill of me, and you wish me to
give up seeing the coadjutor, because he thinks ill of
another man. Impossible!"

The conversation had rested there and Scarron, through sheer
obstinacy, had seen Monsieur de Gondy only the more
frequently.

Now, the very morning of which we speak was that of his
quarter-day payment, and Scarron, as usual, had sent his
servant to get his money at the pension-office, but the man
had returned and said that the government had no more money
to give Monsieur Scarron.

It was on Thursday, the abbe's reception day; people went
there in crowds. The cardinal's refusal to pay the pension
was known about the town in half an hour and he was abused
with wit and vehemence.

In the Rue Saint Honore Athos fell in with two gentlemen
whom he did not know, on horseback like himself, followed by
a lackey like himself, and going in the same direction that
he was. One of them, hat in hand, said to him:

"Would you believe it, monsieur? that contemptible Mazarin
has stopped poor Scarron's pension."

"That is unreasonable," said Athos, saluting in his turn the
two cavaliers. And they separated with courteous gestures.

"It happens well that we are going there this evening," said
Athos to the vicomte; "we will pay our compliments to that
poor man."

"What, then, is this Monsieur Scarron, who thus puts all
Paris in commotion? Is he some minister out of office?"

"Oh, no, not at all, vicomte," Athos replied; "he is simply
a gentleman of great genius who has fallen into disgrace
with the cardinal through having written certain verses
against him."

"Do gentlemen, then, make verses?" asked Raoul, naively, "I
thought it was derogatory."

"So it is, my dear vicomte," said Athos, laughing, "to make
bad ones; but to make good ones increases fame -- witness
Monsieur de Rotrou. Nevertheless," he continued, in the tone
of one who gives wholesome advice, "I think it is better not
to make them."

"Then," said Raoul, "this Monsieur Scarron is a poet?"

"Yes; you are warned, vicomte. Consider well what you do in
that house. Talk only by gestures, or rather always listen."

"Yes, monsieur," replied Raoul.

"You will see me talking with one of my friends, the Abbe
d'Herblay, of whom you have often heard me speak."

"I remember him, monsieur."

"Come near to us from time to time, as if to speak; but do
not speak, and do not listen. That little stratagem may
serve to keep off interlopers."

"Very well, monsieur; I will obey you at all points."

Athos made two visits in Paris; at seven o'clock he and
Raoul directed their steps to the Rue des Tournelles; it was
stopped by porters, horses and footmen. Athos forced his way
through and entered, followed by the young man. The first
person that struck him on his entrance was Aramis, planted
near a great chair on castors, very large, covered with a
canopy of tapestry, under which there moved, enveloped in a
quilt of brocade, a little face, youngish, very merry,
somewhat pallid, whilst its eyes never ceased to express a
sentiment at once lively, intellectual, and amiable. This
was the Abbe Scarron, always laughing, joking, complimenting
-- yet suffering -- and toying nervously with a small
switch.

Around this kind of rolling tent pressed a crowd of
gentlemen and ladies. The room was neatly, comfortably
furnished. Large valances of silk, embroidered with flowers
of gay colors, which were rather faded, fell from the wide
windows; the fittings of the room were simple, but in
excellent taste. Two well trained servingmen were in
attendance on the company. On perceiving Athos, Aramis
advanced toward him, took him by the hand and presented him
to Scarron. Raoul remained silent, for he was not prepared
for the dignity of the bel esprit.

After some minutes the door opened and a footman announced
Mademoiselle Paulet.

Athos touched the shoulder of the vicomte.

"Look at this lady, Raoul, she is an historic personage; it
was to visit her King Henry IV. was going when he was
assassinated."

Every one thronged around Mademoiselle Paulet, for she was
always very much the fashion. She was a tall woman, with a
slender figure and a forest of golden curls, such as Raphael
was fond of and Titian has painted all his Magdalens with.
This fawn-colored hair, or, perhaps the sort of ascendancy
which she had over other women, gave her the name of "La
Lionne." Mademoiselle Paulet took her accustomed seat, but
before sitting down, she cast, in all her queen-like
grandeur, a look around the room, and her eyes rested on
Raoul.

Athos smiled.

"Mademoiselle Paulet has observed you, vicomte; go and bow
to her; don't try to appear anything but what you are, a
true country youth; on no account speak to her of Henry IV."

"When shall we two walk together?" Athos then said to
Aramis.

"Presently -- there are not a sufficient number of people
here yet; we shall be remarked."

At this moment the door opened and in walked the coadjutor.

At this name every one looked around, for his was already a
very celebrated name. Athos did the same. He knew the Abbe
de Gondy only by report.

He saw a little dark man, ill made and awkward with his
hands in everything -- except drawing a sword and firing a
pistol -- with something haughty and contemptuous in his
face.

Scarron turned around toward him and came to meet him in his
chair.

"Well," said the coadjutor, on seeing him, "you are in
disgrace, then, abbe?"

This was the orthodox phrase. It had been said that evening
a hundred times -- and Scarron was at his hundredth bon mot
on the subject; he was very nearly at the end of his
humoristic tether, but one despairing effort saved him.

"Monsieur, the Cardinal Mazarin has been so kind as to think
of me," he said.

"But how can you continue to receive us?" asked the
coadjutor; "if your income is lessened I shall be obliged to
make you a canon of Notre Dame."

"Oh, no!" cried Scarron, "I should compromise you too much."

"Perhaps you have resources of which we are ignorant?"

"I shall borrow from the queen."

"But her majesty has no property," interposed Aramis.

At this moment the door opened and Madame de Chevreuse was
announced. Every one arose. Scarron turned his chair toward
the door, Raoul blushed, Athos made a sign to Aramis, who
went and hid himself in the enclosure of a window.

In the midst of all the compliments that awaited her on her
entrance, the duchess seemed to be looking for some one; at
last she found out Raoul and her eyes sparkled; she
perceived Athos and became thoughtful; she saw Aramis in the
seclusion of the window and gave a start of surprise behind
her fan.

"Apropos," she said, as if to drive away thoughts that
pursued her in spite of herself, "how is poor Voiture, do
you know, Scarron?"

"What, is Monsieur Voiture ill?" inquired a gentleman who
had spoken to Athos in the Rue Saint Honore; "what is the
matter with him?"

"He was acting, but forgot to take the precaution to have a
change of linen ready after the performance," said the
coadjutor, "so he took cold and is about to die."

"Is he then so ill, dear Voiture?" asked Aramis, half hidden
by the window curtain.

"Die!" cried Mademoiselle Paulet, bitterly, "he! Why, he is
surrounded by sultanas, like a Turk. Madame de Saintot has
hastened to him with broth; La Renaudot warms his sheets;
the Marquise de Rambouillet sends him his tisanes."

"You don't like him, my dear Parthenie," said Scarron.

"What an injustice, my dear invalid! I hate him so little
that I should be delighted to order masses for the repose of
his soul."

"You are not called `Lionne' for nothing," observed Madame
de Chevreuse, "your teeth are terrible."

"You are unjust to a great poet, it seems to me," Raoul
ventured to say.

"A great poet! come, one may easily see, vicomte, that you
are lately from the provinces and have never so much as seen
him. A great poet! he is scarcely five feet high."

"Bravo bravo!" cried a tall man with an enormous mustache
and a long rapier, "bravo, fair Paulet, it is high time to
put little Voiture in his right place. For my part, I always
thought his poetry detestable, and I think I know something
about poetry."

"Who is this officer," inquired Raoul of Athos, "who is
speaking?"

"Monsieur de Scudery, the author of `Clelie,' and of `Le
Grand Cyrus,' which were composed partly by him and partly
by his sister, who is now talking to that pretty person
yonder, near Monsieur Scarron."

Raoul turned and saw two faces just arrived. One was
perfectly charming, delicate, pensive, shaded by beautiful
dark hair, and eyes soft as velvet, like those lovely
flowers, the heartsease, in which shine out the golden
petals. The other, of mature age, seemed to have the former
one under her charge, and was cold, dry and yellow -- the
true type of a duenna or a devotee.

Raoul resolved not to quit the room without having spoken to
the beautiful girl with the soft eyes, who by a strange
fancy, although she bore no resemblance, reminded him of his
poor little Louise, whom he had left in the Chateau de la
Valliere and whom, in the midst of all the party, he had
never for one moment quite forgotten. Meantime Aramis had
drawn near to the coadjutor, who, smiling all the while,
contrived to drop some words into his ear. Aramis,
notwithstanding his self-control, could not refrain from a
slight movement of surprise.

"Laugh, then," said Monsieur de Retz; "they are looking at
us." And leaving Aramis he went to talk with Madame de
Chevreuse, who was in the midst of a large group.

Aramis affected a laugh, to divert the attention of certain
curious listeners, and perceiving that Athos had betaken
himself to the embrasure of a window and remained there, he
proceeded to join him, throwing out a few words carelessly
as he moved through the room.

As soon as the two friends met they began a conversation
which was emphasized by frequent gesticulation.

Raoul then approached them as Athos had directed him to do.

"'Tis a rondeau by Monsieur Voiture that monsieur l'abbe is
repeating to me." said Athos in a loud voice, "and I confess
I think it incomparable."

Raoul stayed only a few minutes near them and then mingled
with the group round Madame de Chevreuse.

"Well, then?" asked Athos, in a low tone.

"It is to be to-morrow," said Aramis hastily.

"At what time?"

"Six o'clock."

"Where?"

"At Saint Mande."

"Who told you?"

"The Count de Rochefort."

Some one drew near.

"And then philosophic ideas are wholly wanting in Voiture's
works, but I am of the same opinion as the coadjutor -- he
is a poet, a true poet." Aramis spoke so as to be heard by
everybody.

"And I, too," murmured the young lady with the velvet eyes.
"I have the misfortune also to admire his poetry
exceedingly."

"Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor," said Raoul, blushing,
"to tell me the name of that young lady whose opinion seems
so different from that of others of the company."

"Ah! my young vicomte," replied Scarron, "I suppose you wish
to propose to her an alliance offensive and defensive."

Raoul blushed again.

"You asked the name of that young lady. She is called the
fair Indian."

"Excuse me, sir," returned Raoul, blushing still more
deeply, "I know no more than I did before. Alas! I am from
the country."

"Which means that you know very little about the nonsense
which here flows down our streets. So much the better, young
man! so much the better! Don't try to understand it -- you
will only lose your time."

"You forgive me, then, sir," said Raoul, "and you will deign
to tell me who is the person that you call the young
Indian?"

"Certainly; one of the most charming persons that lives --
Mademoiselle Frances d'Aubigne."

"Does she belong to the family of the celebrated Agrippa,
the friend of Henry IV.?"

"His granddaughter. She comes from Martinique, so I call her
the beautiful Indian."

Raoul looked surprised and his eyes met those of the young
lady, who smiled.

The company went on speaking of the poet Voiture.

"Monsieur," said Mademoiselle d'Aubigne to Scarron, as if
she wished to join in the conversation he was engaged in
with Raoul, "do you not admire Monsieur Voiture's friends?
Listen how they pull him to pieces even whilst they praise
him; one takes away from him all claim to good sense,
another robs him of his poetry, a third of his originality,
another of his humor, another of his independence of
character, a sixth -- but, good heavens! what will they
leave him? as Mademoiselle de Scudery remarks."

Scarron and Raoul laughed. The fair Indian, astonished at
the sensation her observation produced, looked down and
resumed her air of naivete.

Athos, still within the inclosure of the window, watched
this scene with a smile of disdain on his lips.

"Tell the Comte de la Fere to come to me," said Madame de
Chevreuse, "I want to speak to him."

"And I," said the coadjutor, "want it to be thought that I
do not speak to him. I admire, I love him -- for I know his
former adventures -- but I shall not speak to him until the
day after to-morrow."

"And why day after to-morrow?" asked Madame de Chevreuse.

"You will know that to-morrow evening," said the coadjutor,
smiling.

"Really, my dear Gondy," said the duchess, "you remind one
of the Apocalypse. Monsieur d'Herblay," she added, turning
toward Aramis, "will you be my servant once more this
evening?"

"How can you doubt it?" replied Aramis; "this evening,
to-morrow, always; command me."

"I will, then. Go and look for the Comte de la Fere; I wish
to speak with him."

Aramis found Athos and brought him.

"Monsieur le comte," said the duchess, giving him a letter,
"here is what I promised you; our young friend will be
extremely well received."

"Madame, he is very happy in owing any obligation to you."

"You have no reason to envy him on that score, for I owe to
you the pleasure of knowing him," replied the witty woman,
with a smile which recalled Marie Michon to Aramis and to
Athos.

As she uttered that bon mot, she arose and asked for her
carriage. Mademoiselle Paulet had already gone; Mademoiselle
de Scudery was going.

"Vicomte," said Athos to Raoul, "follow the duchess; beg her
to do you the favor to take your arm in going downstairs,
and thank her as you descend."

The fair Indian approached Scarron.

"You are going already?" he said.

"One of the last, as you see; if you hear anything of
Monsieur Voiture, be so kind as to send me word to-morrow."

"Oh!" said Scarron, "he may die now."

"Why?" asked the young girl with the velvet eyes.

"Certainly; his panegyric has been uttered."

They parted, laughing, she turning back to gaze at the poor
paralytic man with interest, he looking after her with eyes
of love.

One by one the several groups broke up. Scarron seemed not
to observe that certain of his guests had talked
mysteriously, that letters had passed from hand to hand and
that the assembly had seemed to have a secret purpose quite
apart from the literary discussion carried on with so much
ostentation. What was all that to Scarron? At his house
rebellion could be planned with impunity, for, as we have
said, since that morning he had ceased to be "the queen's
invalid."

As to Raoul, he had attended the duchess to her carriage,
where, as she took her seat, she gave him her hand to kiss;
then, by one of those wild caprices which made her so
adorable and at the same time so dangerous, she had suddenly
put her arm around his neck and kissed his forehead, saying:

"Vicomte, may my good wishes and this kiss bring you good
fortune!"

Then she had pushed him away and directed the coachman to
stop at the Hotel de Luynes. The carriage had started,
Madame de Chevreuse had made a parting gesture to the young
man, and Raoul had returned in a state of stupefaction.

Athos surmised what had taken place and smiled. "Come,
vicomte," he said, "it is time for you to go to bed; you
will start in the morning for the army of monsieur le
prince. Sleep well your last night as citizen."

"I am to be a soldier then?" said the young man. "Oh,
monsieur, I thank you with all my heart."

"Adieu, count," said the Abbe d'Herblay; "I return to my
convent."

"Adieu, abbe," said the coadjutor, "I am to preach to-morrow
and have twenty texts to examine this evening."

"Adieu, gentlemen," said the count; "I am going to sleep
twenty-four hours; I am just falling down with fatigue."

The three men saluted one another, whilst exchanging a last
look.

Scarron followed their movements with a glance from the
corner of his eye.

"Not one of them will do as he says," he murmured, with his
little monkey smile; "but they may do as they please, the
brave gentlemen! Who knows if they will not manage to
restore to me my pension? They can move their arms, they
can, and that is much. Alas, I have only my tongue, but I
will try to show that it is good for something. Ho, there,
Champenois! here, it is eleven o'clock. Come and roll me to
bed. Really, that Demoiselle d'Aubigne is very charming!"

So the invalid disappeared soon afterward and went into his
sleeping-room; and one by one the lights in the salon of the
Rue des Tournelles were extinguished.



22

Saint Denis.



The day had begun to break when Athos arose and dressed
himself. It was plain, by a paleness still greater than
usual, and by those traces which loss of sleep leaves on the
face, that he must have passed almost the whole of the night
without sleeping. Contrary to the custom of a man so firm
and decided, there was this morning in his personal
appearance something tardy and irresolute.

He was occupied with the preparations for Raoul's departure
and was seeking to gain time. In the first place he himself
furbished a sword, which he drew from its perfumed leather
sheath; he examined it to see if its hilt was well guarded
and if the blade was firmly attached to the hilt. Then he
placed at the bottom of the valise belonging to the young
man a small bag of louis, called Olivain, the lackey who had
followed him from Blois, and made him pack the valise under
his own eyes, watchful to see that everything should be put
in which might be useful to a young man entering on his
first campaign.

At length, after occupying about an hour in these
preparations, he opened the door of the room in which the
vicomte slept, and entered.

The sun, already high, penetrated into the room through the
window, the curtains of which Raoul had neglected to close
on the previous evening. He was still sleeping, his head
gracefully reposing on his arm.

Athos approached and hung over the youth in an attitude full
of tender melancholy; he looked long on this young man,
whose smiling mouth and half closed eyes bespoke soft dreams
and lightest slumber, as if his guardian angel watched over
him with solicitude and affection. By degrees Athos gave
himself up to the charms of his reverie in the proximity of
youth, so pure, so fresh. His own youth seemed to reappear,
bringing with it all those savoury remembrances, which are
like perfumes more than thoughts. Between the past and the
present was an ineffable abyss. But imagination has the
wings of an angel of light and travels safely through or
over the seas where we have been almost shipwrecked, the
darkness in which our illusions are lost, the precipice
whence our happiness has been hurled and swallowed up. He
remembered that all the first part of his life had been
embittered by a woman and he thought with alarm of the
influence love might assume over so fine, and at the same
time so vigorous an organization as that of Raoul.

In recalling all he had been through, he foresaw all that
Raoul might suffer; and the expression of the deep and
tender compassion which throbbed in his heart was pictured
in the moist eye with which he gazed on the young man.

At this moment Raoul awoke, without a cloud on his face
without weariness or lassitude; his eyes were fixed on those
of Athos and perhaps he comprehended all that passed in the
heart of the man who was awaiting his awakening as a lover
awaits the awakening of his mistress, for his glance, in
return, had all the tenderness of love.

"You are there, sir?" he said, respectfully.

"Yes, Raoul," replied the count.

"And you did not awaken me?"

"I wished to leave you still to enjoy some moments of sleep,
my child; you must be fatigued from yesterday."

"Oh, sir, how good you are!"

Athos smiled.

"How do you feel this morning?" he inquired.

"Perfectly well; quite rested, sir."

"You are still growing," Athos continued, with that charming
and paternal interest felt by a grown man for a youth.

"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Raoul, ashamed of so
much attention; "in an instant I shall be dressed."

Athos then called Olivain.

"Everything," said Olivain to Athos, "has been done
according to your directions; the horses are waiting."

"And I was asleep," cried Raoul, "whilst you, sir, you had
the kindness to attend to all these details. Truly, sir, you
overwhelm me with benefits!"

"Therefore you love me a little, I hope," replied Athos, in
a tone of emotion.

"Oh, sir! God knows how much I love, revere you."

"See that you forget nothing," said Athos, appearing to look
about him, that he might hide his emotion.

"No, indeed, sir," answered Raoul.

The servant then approached Athos and said, hesitatingly:

"Monsieur le vicomte has no sword."

"'Tis well," said Athos, "I will take care of that."

They went downstairs, Raoul looking every now and then at
the count to see if the moment of farewell was at hand, but
Athos was silent. When they reached the steps Raoul saw
three horses.

"Oh, sir! then you are going with me?"

"I will accompany you a portion of the way," said Athos.

Joy shone in Raoul's eyes and he leaped lightly to his
saddle.

Athos mounted more slowly, after speaking in a low voice to
the lackey, who, instead of following them immediately,
returned to their rooms. Raoul, delighted at the count's
companionship, perceived, or affected to perceive nothing of
this byplay.

They set out, passing over the Pont Neuf; they pursued their
way along the quay then called L'Abreuvoir Pepin, and went
along by the walls of the Grand Chatelet. They proceeded to
the Rue Saint Denis.

After passing through the Porte Saint Denis, Athos looked at
Raoul's way of riding and observed:

"Take care, Raoul! I have already often told you of this;
you must not forget it, for it is a great defect in a rider.
See! your horse is tired already, he froths at the mouth,
whilst mine looks as if he had only just left the stable.
You hold the bit too tight and so make his mouth hard, so
that you will not be able to make him manoeuvre quickly. The
safety of a cavalier often depends on the prompt obedience
of his horse. In a week, remember, you will no longer be
performing your manoeuvres for practice, but on a field of
battle."

Then suddenly, in order not to give too uncomfortable an
importance to this observation:

"See, Raoul!" he resumed; "what a fine plain for partridge
shooting."

The young man stored in his mind the admonition whilst he
admired the delicate tenderness with which it was bestowed.

"I have remarked also another thing," said Athos, "which is,
that in firing off your pistol you hold your arm too far
outstretched. This tension lessens the accuracy of the aim.
So in twelve times you thrice missed the mark."

"Which you, sir, struck twelve times," answered Raoul,
smiling.

"Because I bent my arm and rested my hand on my elbow -- so;
do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes, sir. I have fired since in that manner and have been
quite successful."

"What a cold wind!" resumed Athos; "a wintry blast. Apropos,
if you fire -- and you will do so, for you are recommended
to a young general who is very fond of powder -- remember
that in single combat, which often takes place in the
cavalry, never to fire the first shot. He who fires the
first shot rarely hits his man, for he fires with the
apprehension of being disarmed, before an armed foe; then,
whilst he fires, make your horse rear; that manoeuvre has
saved my life several times."

"I shall do so, if only in gratitude ---- "

"Eh!" cried Athos, "are not those fellows poachers they have
arrested yonder? They are. Then another important thing,
Raoul: should you be wounded in a battle, and fall from your
horse, if you have any strength left, disentangle yourself
from the line that your regiment has formed; otherwise, it
may be driven back and you will be trampled to death by the
horses. At all events, should you be wounded, write to me
that very instant, or get some one at once to write to me.
We are judges of wounds, we old soldiers," Athos added,
smiling.

"Thank you, sir," answered the young man, much moved.

They arrived that very moment at the gate of the town,
guarded by two sentinels.

"Here comes a young gentleman," said one of them, "who seems
as if he were going to join the army."

"How do you make that out?" inquired Athos.

"By his manner, sir, and his age; he's the second to-day."

"Has a young man, such as I am, gone through this morning,
then?" asked Raoul.

"Faith, yes, with a haughty presence, a fine equipage; such
as the son of a noble house would have."

"He will be my companion on the journey, sir," cried Raoul.
"Alas! he cannot make me forget what I shall have lost!"

Thus talking, they traversed the streets, full of people on
account of the fete, and arrived opposite the old cathedral,
where first mass was going on.

"Let us alight; Raoul," said Athos. "Olivain, take care of
our horses and give me my sword."

The two gentlemen then went into the church. Athos gave
Raoul some of the holy water. A love as tender as that of a
lover for his mistress dwells, undoubtedly, in some paternal
hearts toward a son.

Athos said a word to one of the vergers, who bowed and
proceeded toward the basement.

"Come, Raoul," he said, "let us follow this man."

The verger opened the iron grating that guarded the royal
tombs and stood on the topmost step, whilst Athos and Raoul
descended. The sepulchral depths of the descent were dimly
lighted by a silver lamp on the lowest step; and just below
this lamp there was laid, wrapped in a flowing mantle of
violet velvet, worked with fleurs-de-lis of gold, a
catafalque resting on trestles of oak. The young man,
prepared for this scene by the state of his own feelings,
which were mournful, and by the majesty of the cathedral
which he had passed through, descended in a slow and solemn
manner and stood with head uncovered before these mortal
spoils of the last king, who was not to be placed by the
side of his forefathers until his successor should take his
place there; and who appeared to abide on that spot, that he
might thus address human pride, so sure to be exalted by the
glories of a throne: "Dust of the earth! Here I await thee!"

There was profound silence.

Then Athos raised his hand and pointing to the coffin:

"This temporary sepulture is," he said, "that of a man who
was of feeble mind, yet one whose reign was full of great
events; because over this king watched the spirit of another
man, even as this lamp keeps vigil over this coffin and
illumines it. He whose intellect was thus supreme, Raoul,
was the actual sovereign; the other, nothing but a phantom
to whom he lent a soul; and yet, so powerful is majesty
amongst us, this man has not even the honor of a tomb at the
feet of him in whose service his life was worn away.
Remember, Raoul, this! If Richelieu made the king, by
comparison, seem small, he made royalty great. The Palace of
the Louvre contains two things -- the king, who must die,
and royalty, which never dies. The minister, so feared, so
hated by his master, has descended into the tomb, drawing
after him the king, whom he would not leave alone on earth,
lest his work should be destroyed. So blind were his
contemporaries that they regarded the cardinal's death as a
deliverance; and I, even I, opposed the designs of the great
man who held the destinies of France within the hollow of
his hand. Raoul, learn how to distinguish the king from
royalty; the king is but a man; royalty is the gift of God.
Whenever you hesitate as to whom you ought to serve, abandon
the exterior, the material appearance for the invisible
principle, for the invisible principle is everything. Raoul,
I seem to read your future destiny as through a cloud. It
will be happier, I think, than ours has been. Different in
your fate from us, you will have a king without a minister,
whom you may serve, love, respect. Should the king prove a
tyrant, for power begets tyranny, serve, love, respect
royalty, that Divine right, that celestial spark which makes
this dust still powerful and holy, so that we -- gentlemen,
nevertheless, of rank and condition -- are as nothing in
comparison with the cold corpse there extended."

"I shall adore God, sir," said Raoul, "respect royalty and
ever serve the king. And if death be my lot, I hope to die
for the king, for royalty and for God. Have I, sir,
comprehended your instructions?"

Athos smiled.

"Yours is a noble nature." he said; "here is your sword."

Raoul bent his knee to the ground.

"It was worn by my father, a loyal gentleman. I have worn it
in my turn and it has sometimes not been disgraced when the
hilt was in my hand and the sheath at my side. Should your
hand still be too weak to use this sword, Raoul, so much the
better. You will have the more time to learn to draw it only
when it ought to be used."

"Sir," replied Raoul, putting the sword to his lips as he
received it from the count, "I owe you everything and yet
this sword is the most precious gift you have yet made me. I
will wear it, I swear to you, as a grateful man should do."

"'Tis well; arise, vicomte, embrace me."

Raoul arose and threw himself with emotion into the count's
arms.

"Adieu," faltered the count, who felt his heart die away
within him; "adieu, and think of me."

"Oh! for ever and ever!" cried the youth; "oh! I swear to
you, sir, should any harm befall me, your name will be the
last name that I shall utter, the remembrance of you my last
thought."

Athos hastened upstairs to conceal his emotion, and regained
with hurried steps the porch where Olivain was waiting with
the horses.

"Olivain," said Athos, showing the servant Raoul's
shoulder-belt, "tighten the buckle of the sword, it falls
too low. You will accompany monsieur le vicomte till Grimaud
rejoins you. You know, Raoul, Grimaud is an old and zealous
servant; he will follow you."

"Yes, sir," answered Raoul.

"Now to horse, that I may see you depart!"

Raoul obeyed.

"Adieu, Raoul," said the count; "adieu, my dearest boy!"

"Adieu, sir, adieu, my beloved protector."

Athos waved his hand -- he dared not trust himself to speak:
and Raoul went away, his head uncovered. Athos remained
motionless, looking after him until he turned the corner of
the street.

Then the count threw the bridle of his horse into the hands
of a peasant, remounted the steps, went into the cathedral,
there to kneel down in the darkest corner and pray.



23

One of the Forty Methods of Escape of the Duc de Beaufort.



Meanwhile time was passing on for the prisoner, as well as
for those who were preparing his escape; only for him it
passed more slowly. Unlike other men, who enter with ardor
upon a perilous resolution and grow cold as the moment of
execution approaches, the Duc de Beaufort, whose buoyant
courage had become a proverb, seemed to push time before him
and sought most eagerly to hasten the hour of action. In his
escape alone, apart from his plans for the future, which, it
must be admitted, were for the present sufficiently vague
and uncertain, there was a beginning of vengeance which
filled his heart. In the first place his escape would be a
serious misfortune to Monsieur de Chavigny, whom he hated
for the petty persecutions he owed to him. It would be a
still worse affair for Mazarin, whom he execrated for the
greater offences he had committed. It may be observed that
there was a proper proportion in his sentiments toward the
governor of the prison and the minister -- toward the
subordinate and the master.

Then Monsieur de Beaufort, who was so familiar with the
interior of the Palais Royal, though he did not know the
relations existing between the queen and the cardinal,
pictured to himself, in his prison, all that dramatic
excitement which would ensue when the rumor should run from
the minister's cabinet to the chamber of Anne of Austria:
"Monsieur de Beaufort has escaped!" Whilst saying that to
himself, Monsieur de Beaufort smiled pleasantly and imagined
himself already outside, breathing the air of the plains and
the forests, pressing a strong horse between his knees and
crying out in a loud voice, "I am free!"

It is true that on coming to himself he found that he was
still within four walls; he saw La Ramee twirling his thumbs
ten feet from him, and his guards laughing and drinking in
the ante-chamber. The only thing that was pleasant to him in
that odious tableau -- such is the instability of the human
mind -- was the sullen face of Grimaud, for whom he had at
first conceived such a hatred and who now was all his hope.
Grimaud seemed to him an Antinous. It is needless to say
that this transformation was visible only to the prisoner's
feverish imagination. Grimaud was still the same, and
therefore he retained the entire confidence of his superior,
La Ramee, who now relied upon him more than he did upon
himself, for, as we have said, La Ramee felt at the bottom
of his heart a certain weakness for Monsieur de Beaufort.

And so the good La Ramee made a festivity of the little
supper with his prisoner. He had but one fault -- he was a
gourmand; he had found the pates good, the wine excellent.
Now the successor of Pere Marteau had promised him a pate of
pheasant instead of a pate of fowl, and Chambertin wine
instead of Macon. All this, set off by the presence of that
excellent prince, who was so good-natured, who invented so
droll tricks against Monsieur de Chavigny and so fine jokes
against Mazarin, made for La Ramee the approaching Pentecost
one of the four great feasts of the year. He therefore
looked forward to six o'clock with as much impatience as the
duke himself.

Since daybreak La Ramee had been occupied with the
preparations, and trusting no one but himself, he had
visited personally the successor of Pere Marteau. The latter
had surpassed himself; he showed La Ramee a monstrous pate,
ornamented with Monsieur de Beaufort's coat-of-arms. It was
empty as yet, but a pheasant and two partridges were lying
near it. La Ramee's mouth watered and he returned to the
duke's chamber rubbing his hands. To crown his happiness,
Monsieur de Chavigny had started on a journey that morning
and in his absence La Ramee was deputy-governor of the
chateau.

As for Grimaud, he seemed more sullen than ever.

In the course of the forenoon Monsieur de Beaufort had a
game of tennis with La Ramee; a sign from Grimaud put him on
the alert. Grimaud, going in advance, followed the course
which they were to take in the evening. The game was played
in an inclosure called the little court of the chateau, a
place quite deserted except when Monsieur de Beaufort was
playing; and even then the precaution seemed superfluous,
the wall was so high.

There were three gates to open before reaching the
inclosure, each by a different key. When they arrived
Grimaud went carelessly and sat down by a loophole in the
wall, letting his legs dangle outside. It was evident that
there the rope ladder was to be attached.

This manoeuvre, transparent to the Duc de Beaufort, was
quite unintelligible to La Ramee.

The game at tennis, which, upon a sign from Grimaud,
Monsieur de Beaufort had consented to play, began in the
afternoon. The duke was in full strength and beat La Ramee
completely.

Four of the guards, who were constantly near the prisoner,
assisted in picking up the tennis balls. When the game was
over, the duke, laughing at La Ramee for his bad play,
offered these men two louis d'or to go and drink his health,
with their four other comrades.

The guards asked permission of La Ramee, who gave it to
them, but not till the evening, however; until then he had
business and the prisoner was not to be left alone.

Six o'clock came and, although they were not to sit down to
table until seven o'clock, dinner was ready and served up.
Upon a sideboard appeared the colossal pie with the duke's
arms on it, and seemingly cooked to a turn, as far as one
could judge by the golden color which illuminated the crust.

The rest of the dinner was to come.

Every one was impatient, La Ramee to sit down to table, the
guards to go and drink, the duke to escape.

Grimaud alone was calm as ever. One might have fancied that
Athos had educated him with the express forethought of such
a great event.

There were moments when, looking at Grimaud, the duke asked
himself if he was not dreaming and if that marble figure was
really at his service and would grow animated when the
moment came for action.

La Ramee sent away the guards, desiring them to drink to the
duke's health, and as soon as they were gone shut all the
doors, put the keys in his pocket and showed the table to
the prince with an air that signified:

"Whenever my lord pleases."

The prince looked at Grimaud, Grimaud looked at the clock;
it was hardly a quarter-past six. The escape was fixed to
take place at seven o'clock; there was therefore
three-quarters of an hour to wait.

The duke, in order to pass away another quarter of an hour,
pretended to be reading something that interested him and
muttered that he wished they would allow him to finish his
chapter. La Ramee went up to him and looked over his
shoulder to see what sort of a book it was that had so
singular an influence over the prisoner as to make him put
off taking his dinner.

It was "Caesar's Commentaries," which La Ramee had lent him,
contrary to the orders of the governor; and La Ramee
resolved never again to disobey these injunctions.

Meantime he uncorked the bottles and went to smell if the
pie was good.

At half-past six the duke arose and said very gravely:

"Certainly, Caesar was the greatest man of ancient times."

"You think so, my lord?" answered La Ramee.

"Yes."

"Well, as for me, I prefer Hannibal."

"And why, pray, Master La Ramee?" asked the duke.

"Because he left no Commentaries," replied La Ramee, with
his coarse laugh.

The duke vouchsafed no reply, but sitting down at the table
made a sign that La Ramee should seat himself opposite.
There is nothing so expressive as the face of an epicure who
finds himself before a well spread table, so La Ramee, when
receiving his plate of soup from Grimaud, presented a type
of perfect bliss.

The duke smiled.

"Zounds!" he said; "I don't suppose there is a more
contented man at this moment in all the kingdom than
yourself!"

"You are right, my lord duke," answered the officer; "I
don't know any pleasanter sight on earth than a well covered
table; and when, added to that, he who does the honors is
the grandson of Henry IV., you will, my lord duke, easily
comprehend that the honor fairly doubles the pleasure one
enjoys."

The duke, in his turn, bowed, and an imperceptible smile
appeared on the face of Grimaud, who kept behind La Ramee.

"My dear La Ramee," said the duke, "you are the only man to
turn such faultless compliments."

"No, my lord duke," replied La Ramee, in the fullness of his
heart; "I say what I think; there is no compliment in what I
say to you ---- "

"Then you are attached to me?" asked the duke.

"To own the truth, I should be inconsolable if you were to
leave Vincennes."

"A droll way of showing your affliction." The duke meant to
say "affection."

"But, my lord," returned La Ramee, "what would you do if you
got out? Every folly you committed would embroil you with
the court and they would put you into the Bastile, instead
of Vincennes. Now, Monsieur de Chavigny is not amiable, I
allow, but Monsieur du Tremblay is considerably worse."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the duke, who from time to time looked
at the clock, the fingers of which seemed to move with
sickening slowness.

"But what can you expect from the brother of a capuchin
monk, brought up in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah, my
lord, it is a great happiness that the queen, who always
wished you well, had a fancy to send you here, where there's
a promenade and a tennis court, good air, and a good table."

"In short," answered the duke, "if I comprehend you aright,
La Ramee, I am ungrateful for having ever thought of leaving
this place?"

"Oh! my lord duke, 'tis the height of ingratitude; but your
highness has never seriously thought of it?"

"Yes," returned the duke, "I must confess I sometimes think
of it."

"Still by one of your forty methods, your highness?"

"Yes, yes, indeed."

"My lord," said La Ramee, "now we are quite at our ease and
enjoying ourselves, pray tell me one of those forty ways
invented by your highness."

"Willingly," answered the duke, "give me the pie!"

"I am listening," said La Ramee, leaning back in his
armchair and raising his glass of Madeira to his lips, and
winking his eye that he might see the sun through the rich
liquid that he was about to taste.

The duke glanced at the clock. In ten minutes it would
strike seven.

Grimaud placed the pie before the duke, who took a knife
with a silver blade to raise the upper crust; but La Ramee,
who was afraid of any harm happening to this fine work of
art, passed his knife, which had an iron blade, to the duke.

"Thank you, La Ramee," said the prisoner.

"Well, my lord! this famous invention of yours?"

"Must I tell you," replied the duke, "on what I most reckon
and what I determine to try first?"

"Yes, that's the thing, my lord!" cried his custodian,
gaily.

"Well, I should hope, in the first instance, to have for
keeper an honest fellow like you."

"And you have me, my lord. Well?"

"Having, then, a keeper like La Ramee, I should try also to
have introduced to him by some friend or other a man who
would be devoted to me, who would assist me in my flight."

"Come, come," said La Ramee, "that's not a bad idea."

"Capital, isn't it? for instance, the former servingman of
some brave gentleman, an enemy himself to Mazarin, as every
gentleman ought to be."

"Hush! don't let us talk politics, my lord."

"Then my keeper would begin to trust this man and to depend
upon him, and I should have news from those without the
prison walls."

"Ah, yes! but how can the news be brought to you?"

"Nothing easier; in a game of tennis, for example."

"In a game of tennis?" asked La Ramee, giving more serious
attention to the duke's words.

"Yes; see, I send a ball into the moat; a man is there who
picks it up; the ball contains a letter. Instead of
returning the ball to me when I call for it from the top of
the wall, he throws me another; that other ball contains a
letter. Thus we have exchanged ideas and no one has seen us
do it."

"The devil it does! The devil it does!" said La Ramee,
scratching his head; "you are in the wrong to tell me that,
my lord. I shall have to watch the men who pick up balls."

The duke smiled.

"But," resumed La Ramee, "that is only a way of
corresponding."

"And that is a great deal, it seems to me."

"But not enough."

"Pardon me; for instance, I say to my friends, Be on a
certain day, on a certain hour, at the other side of the
moat with two horses."

"Well, what then?" La Ramee began to be uneasy; "unless the
horses have wings to mount the ramparts and come and fetch
you."

"That's not needed. I have," replied the duke, "a way of
descending from the ramparts."

"What?"

"A rope ladder."

"Yes, but," answered La Ramee, trying to laugh, "a ladder of
ropes can't be sent around a ball, like a letter."

"No, but it may be sent in something else."

"In something else -- in something else? In what?"

"In a pate, for example."

"In a pate?" said La Ramee.

"Yes. Let us suppose one thing," replied the duke "let us
suppose, for instance, that my maitre d'hotel, Noirmont, has
purchased the shop of Pere Marteau ---- "

"Well?" said La Ramee, shuddering.

"Well, La Ramee, who is a gourmand, sees his pates, thinks
them more attractive than those of Pere Marteau and proposes
to me that I shall try them. I consent on condition that La
Ramee tries them with me. That we may be more at our ease,
La Ramee removes the guards, keeping only Grimaud to wait on
us. Grimaud is the man whom a friend has sent to second me
in everything. The moment for my escape is fixed -- seven
o'clock. Well, at a few minutes to seven ---- "

"At a few minutes to seven?" cried La Ramee, cold sweat upon
his brow.

"At a few minutes to seven," returned the duke (suiting the
action to the words), "I raise the crust of the pie; I find
in it two poniards, a ladder of rope, and a gag. I point one
of the poniards at La Ramee's breast and I say to him, `My
friend, I am sorry for it, but if thou stirrest, if thou
utterest one cry, thou art a dead man!'"

The duke, in pronouncing these words, suited, as we have
said, the action to the words. He was standing near the
officer and he directed the point of the poniard in such a
manner, close to La Ramee's heart, that there could be no
doubt in the mind of that individual as to his
determination. Meanwhile, Grimaud, still mute as ever, drew
from the pie the other poniard, the rope ladder and the gag.

La Ramee followed all these objects with his eyes, his alarm
every moment increasing.

"Oh, my lord," he cried, with an expression of stupefaction
in his face; "you haven't the heart to kill me!"

"No; not if thou dost not oppose my flight."

"But, my lord, if I allow you to escape I am a ruined man."

"I will compensate thee for the loss of thy place."

"You are determined to leave the chateau?"

"By Heaven and earth! This night I am determined to be
free."

"And if I defend myself, or call, or cry out?"

"I will kill thee, on the honor of a gentleman."

At this moment the clock struck.

"Seven o'clock!" said Grimaud, who had not spoken a word.

La Ramee made one movement, in order to satisfy his
conscience. The duke frowned, the officer felt the point of
the poniard, which, having penetrated through his clothes,
was close to his heart.

"Let us dispatch," said the duke.

"My lord, one last favor."

"What? speak, make haste."

"Bind my arms, my lord, fast."

"Why bind thee?"

"That I may not be considered as your accomplice."

"Your hands?" asked Grimaud.

"Not before me, behind me."

"But with what?" asked the duke.

"With your belt, my lord!" replied La Ramee.

The duke undid his belt and gave it to Grimaud, who tied La
Ramee in such a way as to satisfy him.

"Your feet, too," said Grimaud.

La Ramee stretched out his legs, Grimaud took a table-cloth,
tore it into strips and tied La Ramee's feet together.

"Now, my lord," said the poor man, "let me have the poire
d'angoisse. I ask for it; without it I should be tried in a
court of justice because I did not raise the alarm. Thrust
it into my mouth, my lord, thrust it in."

Grimaud prepared to comply with this request, when the
officer made a sign as if he had something to say.

"Speak," said the duke.

"Now, my lord, do not forget, if any harm happens to me on
your account, that I have a wife and four children."

"Rest assured; put the gag in, Grimaud."

In a second La Ramee was gagged and laid prostrate. Two or
three chairs were thrown down as if there had been a
struggle. Grimaud then took from the pocket of the officer
all the keys it contained and first opened the door of the
room in which they were, then shut it and double-locked it,
and both he and the duke proceeded rapidly down the gallery
which led to the little inclosure. At last they reached the
tennis court. It was completely deserted. No sentinels, no
one at any of the windows. The duke ran to the rampart and
perceived on the other side of the ditch, three cavaliers
with two riding horses. The duke exchanged a signal with
them. It was indeed for him that they were there.

Grimaud, meantime, undid the means of escape.

This was not, however, a rope ladder, but a ball of silk
cord, with a narrow board which was to pass between the
legs, the ball to unwind itself by the weight of the person
who sat astride upon the board.

"Go!" said the duke.

"First, my lord?" inquired Grimaud.

"Certainly. If I am caught, I risk nothing but being taken
back again to prison. If they catch thee, thou wilt be
hung."

"True," replied Grimaud.

And instantly, Grimaud, sitting upon the board as if on
horseback, commenced his perilous descent.

The duke followed him with his eyes, with involuntary
terror. He had gone down about three-quarters of the length
of the wall when the cord broke. Grimaud fell --
precipitated into the moat.

The duke uttered a cry, but Grimaud did not give a single
moan. He must have been dreadfully hurt, for he did not stir
from the place where he fell.

Immediately one of the men who were waiting slipped down
into the moat, tied under Grimaud's shoulders the end of a
cord, and the remaining two, who held the other end, drew
Grimaud to them.

"Descend, my lord," said the man in the moat. "There are
only fifteen feet more from the top down here, and the grass
is soft."

The duke had already begun to descend. His task was the more
difficult, as there was no board to support him. He was
obliged to let himself down by his hands and from a height
of fifty feet. But as we have said he was active, strong,
and full of presence of mind. In less than five minutes he
arrived at the end of the cord. He was then only fifteen
feet from the ground, as the gentlemen below had told him.
He let go the rope and fell upon his feet, without receiving
any injury.

He instantly began to climb up the slope of the moat, on the
top of which he met De Rochefort. The other two gentlemen
were unknown to him. Grimaud, in a swoon, was tied securely
to a horse.

"Gentlemen," said the duke, "I will thank you later; now we
have not a moment to lose. On, then! on! those who love me,
follow me!"

And he jumped on his horse and set off at full gallop,
snuffing the fresh air in his triumph and shouting out, with
an expression of face which it would be impossible to
describe:

"Free! free! free!"



24

The timely Arrival of D'Artagnan in Paris.



At Blois, D'Artagnan received the money paid to him by
Mazarin for any future service he might render the cardinal.

From Blois to Paris was a journey of four days for ordinary
travelers, but D'Artagnan arrived on the third day at the
Barriere Saint Denis. In turning the corner of the Rue
Montmartre, in order to reach the Rue Tiquetonne and the
Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had appointed Porthos to
meet him, he saw at one of the windows of the hotel, that
friend himself dressed in a sky-blue waistcoat, embroidered
with silver, and gaping, till he showed every one of his
white teeth; whilst the people passing by admiringly gazed
at this gentleman, so handsome and so rich, who seemed to
weary of his riches and his greatness.

D'Artagnan and Planchet had hardly turned the corner when
Porthos recognized them.

"Eh! D'Artagnan!" he cried. "Thank God you have come!"

"Eh! good-day, dear friend!" replied D'Artagnan.

Porthos came down at once to the threshold of the hotel.

"Ah, my dear friend!" he cried, "what bad stabling for my
horses here."

"Indeed!" said D'Artagnan; "I am most unhappy to hear it, on
account of those fine animals."

"And I, also -- I was also wretchedly off," he answered,
moving backward and forward as he spoke; "and had it not
been for the hostess," he added, with his air of vulgar
self-complacency, "who is very agreeable and understands a
joke, I should have got a lodging elsewhere."

The pretty Madeleine, who had approached during this
colloquy, stepped back and turned pale as death on hearing
Porthos's words, for she thought the scene with the Swiss
was about to be repeated. But to her great surprise
D'Artagnan remained perfectly calm, and instead of being
angry he laughed, and said to Porthos:

"Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue Tiquetonne is not like
that of Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I will soon
conduct you to one much better."

"When will you do that?"

"Immediately, I hope."

"Ah! so much the better!"

To that exclamation of Porthos's succeeded a groaning, low
and profound, which seemed to come from behind a door.
D'Artagnan, who had just dismounted, then saw, outlined
against the wall, the enormous stomach of Musqueton, whose
down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of distress.

"And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, are out of place in
this poor hotel, are you not?" asked D'Artagnan, in that
rallying tone which may indicate either compassion or
mockery.

"He finds the cooking detestable," replied Porthos.

"Why, then, doesn't he attend to it himself, as at
Chantilly?"

"Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had there, the ponds of
monsieur le prince, where I could catch those beautiful
carp, nor the forests of his highness to provide me with
partridges. As for the cellar, I have searched every part
and poor stuff I found."

"Monsieur Mouston," said D'Artagnan, "I should indeed
condole with you had I not at this moment something very
pressing to attend to."

Then taking Porthos aside:

"My dear Du Vallon," he said, "here you are in full dress
most fortunately, for I am going to take you to the
cardinal's."

"Gracious me! really!" exclaimed Porthos, opening his great
wondering eyes.

"Yes, my friend."

"A presentation? indeed!"

"Does that alarm you?"

"No, but it agitates me."

"Oh! don't be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal
of another kind. This one will not oppress you by his
dignity."

"'Tis the same thing -- you understand me, D'Artagnan -- a
court."

"There's no court now. Alas!"

"The queen!"

"I was going to say, there's no longer a queen. The queen!
Rest assured, we shall not see her."

"And you say that we are going from here to the Palais
Royal?"

"Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall
borrow one of your horses."

"Certainly; all the four are at your service."

"Oh, I need only one of them for the time being."

"Shall we take our valets?"

"Yes, you may as well take Musqueton. As to Planchet, he has
certain reasons for not going to court."

"And what are they?"

"Oh, he doesn't stand well with his eminence."

"Mouston," said Porthos, "saddle Vulcan and Bayard."

"And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?"

"No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus or Superbe; we are
going with some ceremony."

"Ah," said Musqueton, breathing more freely, "you are only
going, then, to make a visit?"

"Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid
risk, put the pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on
my saddle, already loaded."

Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn't understand visits of
ceremony made under arms.

"Indeed," said Porthos, looking complacently at his old
lackey as he went away, "you are right, D'Artagnan; Mouston
will do; Mouston has a very fine appearance."

D'Artagnan smiled.

"But you, my friend -- are you not going to change your
dress?"

"No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to
show the cardinal my haste to obey his commands."

They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Musqueton on
Phoebus, and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter
to seven. The streets were crowded, for it was the day of
Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at these two
cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox,
the other so covered with dust that he looked as if he had
but just come off a field of battle.

Musqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of
Don Quixote was then the fashion, they said that he was
Sancho, who, after having lost one master, had found two.

On reaching the palace, D'Artagnan sent to his eminence the
letter in which he had been ordered to return without delay.
He was soon ordered to the presence of the cardinal.

"Courage!" he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. "Do
not be intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is
closed forever. We have only the vulture to deal with. Hold
yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St.
Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might
give him a poor idea of you."

"Good!" answered Porthos. "Good!"

Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and
benefices, of which he was trying to reduce the number. He
saw D'Artagnan and Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet
showed no joy in his countenance.

"Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very
prompt. 'Tis well. Welcome to ye."

"Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence's service, as
well as Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used
to conceal his nobility under the name of Porthos."

Porthos bowed to the cardinal.

"A magnificent cavalier," remarked Mazarin.

Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and
drew himself up with a movement full of dignity.

"The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord," said
D'Artagnan.

Porthos bowed to his friend.

Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times,
Frederick of Prussia used to be. He admired the strong
hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye of Porthos. He
seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration
and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He
remembered that the old association of musketeers was
composed of four persons.

"And your two other friends?" he asked.

Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to
put in a word in his turn; D'Artagnan checked him by a
glance from the corner of his eye.

"They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later."

Mazarin coughed a little.

"And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service
willingly?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for
Monsieur de Bracieux is rich."

"Rich!" said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired
with a great respect.

"Fifty thousand francs a year," said Porthos.

These were the first words he had spoken.

"From pure zeal?" resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile;
"from pure zeal and devotion then?"

"My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?" said
D'Artagnan.

"Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?" asked Mazarin, supporting
his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.

"I," replied the Gascon, "I believe in devotion as a word at
one's baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before
one's proper name; every one is naturally more or less
devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one's
devotion something to gain."

"And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have
at the end of his devotion?"

"Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates:
that of Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the
Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my
lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected
into a barony."

"Only that?" said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on
seeing that he could pay for Porthos's devotion without
opening his purse; "only that? That can be managed."

"I shall be baron!" explained Porthos, stepping forward.

"I told you so," said D'Artagnan, checking him with his
hand; "and now his eminence confirms it."

"And you, Monsieur D'Artagnan, what do you want?"

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "it is twenty years since
Cardinal de Richelieu made me lieutenant."

"Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should
make you captain."

D'Artagnan bowed.

"Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we
will see. Now, Monsieur de Vallon," said Mazarin, "what
service do you prefer, in the town or in the country?"

Porthos opened his mouth to reply.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "Monsieur de Vallon is like me,
he prefers service extraordinary -- that is to say,
enterprises that are considered mad and impossible."

That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell
into meditation.

"And yet," he said, "I must admit that I sent for you to
appoint you to quiet service; I have certain apprehensions
-- well, what is the meaning of that?"

In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the
same time the door of the study was burst open and a man,
covered with dust, rushed into it, exclaiming:

"My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!"

Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him
and he drew back, pushing his chair on the castors.
D'Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to plant themselves
between the person entering and the cardinal.

"Well, sir," exclaimed Mazarin, "what's the matter? and why
do you rush in here, as if you were about to penetrate a
crowded market-place?"

"My lord," replied the messenger, "I wish to speak to your
eminence in secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in
the guards, on duty at the donjon of Vincennes."

Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the
messenger that he had something of importance to say, made a
sign that D'Artagnan and Porthos should give place.

D'Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.

"Speak, monsieur, speak at once!" said Mazarin "What is the
matter?"

"The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has
contrived to escape from the Chateau of Vincennes."

Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had
brought the news. He fell back, almost fainting, in his
chair.

"Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?"

"My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace."

"And you did not fire on him?"

"He was out of range."

"Monsieur de Chavigny -- where was he?"

"Absent."

"And La Ramee?"

"Was found locked up in the prisoner's room, a gag in his
mouth and a poniard near him."

"But the man who was under him?"

"Was an accomplice of the duke's and escaped along with
him."

Mazarin groaned.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal,
"it seems to me that your eminence is losing precious time.
It may still be possible to overtake the prisoner. France is
large; the nearest frontier is sixty leagues distant."

"And who is to pursue him?" cried Mazarin.

"I, pardieu!"

"And you would arrest him?"

"Why not?"

"You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?"

"If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I
would seize him by the horns and would bring him in."

"So would I," said Porthos.

"So would you!" said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at
those two men. "But the duke will not yield himself without
a furious battle."

"Very well," said D'Artagnan, his eyes aflame, "battle! It
is a long time since we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?"

"Battle!" cried Porthos.

"And you think you can catch him?"

"Yes, if we are better mounted than he."

"Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him."

"You command us, my lord, to do so?"

"And I sign my orders," said Mazarin, taking a piece of
paper and writing some lines; "Monsieur du Vallon, your
barony is on the back of the Duc de Beaufort's horse; you
have nothing to do but to overtake it. As for you, my dear
lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring him back
to me, dead or alive, you may ask all you wish."

"To horse, Porthos!" said D'Artagnan, taking his friend by
the hand.

"Here I am," smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.

They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the
guards they found on their road, and crying out, "To arms!
To arms!" and immediately put spur to horse, which set off
along the Rue Saint Honore with the speed of the whirlwind.

"Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!" said the
Gascon.

"Yes, my captain."

As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and
the street dogs followed the cavaliers, barking. At the
corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean, D'Artagnan upset a man;
it was too insignificant an occurrence to delay people so
eager to get on. The troop continued its course as though
their steeds had wings.

Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we
shall see that this apparently slight incident came near
endangering the monarchy.



25

An Adventure on the High Road.



The musketeers rode the whole length of the Faubourg Saint
Antoine and of the road to Vincennes, and soon found
themselves out of the town, then in a forest and then within
sight of a village.

The horses seemed to become more lively with each successive
step; their nostrils reddened like glowing furnaces.
D'Artagnan, freely applying his spurs, was in advance of
Porthos two feet at the most; Musqueton followed two lengths
behind; the guards were scattered according to the varying
excellence of their respective mounts.

From the top of an eminence D'Artagnan perceived a group of
people collected on the other side of the moat, in front of
that part of the donjon which looks toward Saint Maur. He
rode on, convinced that in this direction he would gain
intelligence of the fugitive. In five minutes he had arrived
at the place, where the guards joined him, coming up one by
one.

The several members of that group were much excited. They
looked at the cord, still hanging from the loophole and
broken at about twenty feet from the ground. Their eyes
measured the height and they exchanged conjectures. On the
top of the wall sentinels went and came with a frightened
air.

A few soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, drove away idlers
from the place where the duke had mounted his horse.
D'Artagnan went straight to the sergeant.

"My officer," said the sergeant, "it is not permitted to
stop here."

"That prohibition is not for me," said D'Artagnan. "Have the
fugitives been pursued?"

"Yes, my officer; unfortunately, they are well mounted."

"How many are there?"

"Four, and a fifth whom they carried away wounded."

"Four!" said D'Artagnan, looking at Porthos. "Do you hear,
baron? They are only four!"

A joyous smile lighted Porthos's face.

"How long a start have they?"

"Two hours and a quarter, my officer."

"Two hours and a quarter -- that is nothing; we are well
mounted, are we not, Porthos?"

Porthos breathed a sigh; he thought of what was in store for
his poor horses.

"Very good," said D'Artagnan; "and now in what direction did
they set out?"

"That I am forbidden to tell."

D'Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. "Order of the
king," he said.

"Speak to the governor, then."

"And where is the governor?"

"In the country."

Anger mounted to D'Artagnan's face; he frowned and his
cheeks were colored.

"Ah, you scoundrel!" he said to the sergeant, "I believe you
are impudent to me! Wait!"

He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one
hand and with the other took a pistol from his holsters and
cocked it.

"Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will
blow out your brains!"

The sergeant saw that D'Artagnan was in earnest. "The
Vendomois road," he replied.

"And by what gate did they go out?"

"By the Saint Maur gate."

"If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged
to-morrow."

"And if you catch up with them you won't come back to hang
me," murmured the sergeant.

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort
and started.

"This way, gentlemen, this way!" he cried, directing his
course toward the gate that had been pointed out.

But, now that the duke had escaped, the concierge had seen
fit to fasten the gate with a double lock. It was necessary
to compel him to open it, as the sergeant had been compelled
to speak, and this took another ten minutes. This last
obstacle having been overcome, the troop pursued their
course with their accustomed ardor; but some of the horses
could no longer sustain this pace; three of them stopped
after an hour's gallop, and one fell down.

D'Artagnan, who never turned his head, did not perceive it.
Porthos told him of it in his calm manner.

"If only we two arrive," said D'Artagnan, "it will be
enough, since the duke's troop are only four in number."

"That is true," said Porthos

And he spurred his courser on.

At the end of another two hours the horses had gone twelve
leagues without stopping; their legs began to tremble, and
the foam they shed whitened the doublets of their masters.

"Let us rest here an instant to give these poor creatures
breathing time," said Porthos.

"Let us rather kill them! yes, kill them!" cried D'Artagnan;
"I see fresh tracks; 'tis not a quarter of an hour since
they passed this place."

In fact, the road was trodden by horses' feet, visible even
in the approaching gloom of evening.

They set out; after a run of two leagues, Musqueton's horse
sank.

"Gracious me!" said Porthos, "there's Phoebus ruined."

"The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles."

"I'm above that."

"Let us set out again, at full gallop."

"Yes, if we can."

But at last the lieutenant's horse refused to go on; he
could not breathe; one last spur, instead of making him
advance, made him fall.

"The devil!" exclaimed Porthos; "there's Vulcan foundered."

"Zounds!" cried D'Artagnan, "then we must stop! Give me your
horse, Porthos. What the devil are you doing?"

"By Jove, I am falling, or rather, Bayard is falling,"
answered Porthos.

All three then cried: "All's over."

"Hush!" said D'Artagnan.

"What is it?"

"I hear a horse."

"It belongs to one of our companions, who is overtaking us."

"No," said D'Artagnan, "it is in advance."

"That is another thing," said Porthos; and he listened
toward the quarter indicated by D'Artagnan.

"Monsieur," said Musqueton, who, abandoning his horse on the
high road, had come on foot to rejoin his master, "Phoebus
could no longer hold out and ---- "

"Silence!" said Porthos.

In fact, at that moment a second neighing was borne to them
on the night wind.

"It is five hundred feet from here, in advance," said
D'Artagnan.

"True, monsieur," said Musqueton; "and five hundred feet
from here is a small hunting-house."

"Musqueton, thy pistols," said D'Artagnan.

"I have them at hand, monsieur."

"Porthos, take yours from your holsters."

"I have them."

"Good!" said D'Artagnan, seizing his own; "now you
understand, Porthos?"

"Not too well."

"We are out on the king's service."

"Well?"

"For the king's service we need horses."

"That is true," said Porthos.

"Then not a word, but set to work!"

They went on through the darkness, silent as phantoms; they
saw a light glimmering in the midst of some trees.

"Yonder is the house, Porthos," said the Gascon; "let me do
what I please and do you what I do."

They glided from tree to tree till they arrived at twenty
steps from the house unperceived and saw by means of a
lantern suspended under a hut, four fine horses. A groom was
rubbing them down; near them were saddles and bridles.

D'Artagnan approached quickly, making a sign to his two
companions to remain a few steps behind.

"I buy those horses," he said to the groom.

The groom turned toward him with a look of surprise, but
made no reply.

"Didn't you hear, fellow?"

"Yes, I heard."

"Why, then, didn't you reply?"

"Because these horses are not to be sold," was the reply.

"I take them, then," said the lieutenant.

And he took hold of one within his reach; his two companions
did the same thing.

"Sir," cried the groom, "they have traversed six leagues and
have only been unsaddled half an hour."

"Half an hour's rest is enough " replied the Gascon.

The groom cried aloud for help. A kind of steward appeared,
just as D'Artagnan and his companions were prepared to
mount. The steward attempted to expostulate.

"My dear friend," cried the lieutenant, "if you say a word I
will blow out your brains."

"But, sir," answered the steward, "do you know that these
horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon?"

"So much the better; they must be good animals, then."

"Sir, I shall call my people."

"And I, mine; I've ten guards behind me, don't you hear them
gallop? and I'm one of the king's musketeers. Come, Porthos;
come, Musqueton."

They all mounted the horses as quickly as possible.

"Halloo! hi! hi!" cried the steward; "the house servants,
with the carbines!"

"On! on!" cried D'Artagnan; "there'll be firing! on!"

They all set off, swift as the wind.

"Here!" cried the steward, "here!" whilst the groom ran to a
neighboring building.

"Take care of your horses!" cried D'Artagnan to him.

"Fire!" replied the steward.

A gleam, like a flash of lightning, illumined the road, and
with the flash was heard the whistling of balls, which were
fired wildly in the air.

"They fire like grooms," said Porthos. "In the time of the
cardinal people fired better than that, do you remember the
road to Crevecoeur, Musqueton?"

"Ah, sir! my left side still pains me!"

"Are you sure we are on the right track, lieutenant?"

"Egad, didn't you hear? these horses belong to Monsieur de
Montbazon; well, Monsieur de Montbazon is the husband of
Madame de Montbazon ---- "

"And ---- "

"And Madame de Montbazon is the mistress of the Duc de
Beaufort."

"Ah! I understand," replied Porthos; "she has ordered relays
of horses."

"Exactly so."

"And we are pursuing the duke with the very horses he has
just left?"

"My dear Porthos, you are really a man of most superior
understanding," said D'Artagnan, with a look as if he spoke
against his conviction.

"Pooh!" replied Porthos, "I am what I am."

They rode on for an hour, till the horses were covered with
foam and dust.

"Zounds! what is yonder?" cried D'Artagnan.

"You are very lucky if you see anything such a night as
this," said Porthos.

"Something bright."

"I, too," cried Musqueton, "saw them also."

"Ah! ah! have we overtaken them?"

"Good! a dead horse!" said D'Artagnan, pulling up his horse,
which shied; "it seems their horses, too, are breaking down,
as well as ours."

"I seem to hear the noise of a troop of horsemen," exclaimed
Porthos, leaning over his horse's mane.

"Impossible."

"They appear to be numerous."

"Then 'tis something else."

"Another horse!" said Porthos.

"Dead?"

"No, dying."

"Saddled?"

"Yes, saddled and bridled."

"Then we are upon the fugitives."

"Courage, we have them!"

"But if they are numerous," observed Musqueton, "'tis not we
who have them, but they who have us."

"Nonsense!" cried D'Artagnan, "they'll suppose us to be
stronger than themselves, as we're in pursuit; they'll be
afraid and will disperse."

"Certainly," remarked Porthos.

"Ah! do you see?" cried the lieutenant.

"The lights again! this time I, too, saw them," said
Porthos.

"On! on! forward! forward!" cried D'Artagnan, in his
stentorian voice; "we shall laugh over all this in five
minutes."

And they darted on anew. The horses, excited by pain and
emulation, raced over the dark road, in the midst of which
was now seen a moving mass, denser and more obscure than the
rest of the horizon.



26

The Rencontre.



They rode on in this way for ten minutes. Suddenly two dark
forms seemed to separate from the mass, advanced, grew in
size, and as they loomed up larger and larger, assumed the
appearance of two horsemen.

"Aha!" cried D'Artagnan, "they're coming toward us."

"So much the worse for them," said Porthos.

"Who goes there?" cried a hoarse voice.

The three horsemen made no reply, stopped not, and all that
was heard was the noise of swords drawn from the scabbards
and the cocking of the pistols with which the two phantoms
were armed.

"Bridle in mouth!" said D'Artagnan.

Porthos understood him and he and the lieutenant each drew
with the left hand a pistol from their bolsters and cocked
it in their turn.

"Who goes there?" was asked a second time. "Not a step
forward, or you're dead men."

"Stuff!" cried Porthos, almost choked with dust and chewing
his bridle as a horse chews his bit. "Stuff and nonsense; we
have seen plenty of dead men in our time."

Hearing these words, the two shadows blockaded the road and
by the light of the stars might be seen the shining of their
arms.

"Back!" shouted D'Artagnan, "or you are dead!"

Two shots were the reply to this threat; but the assailants
attacked their foes with such velocity that in a moment they
were upon them; a third pistol-shot was heard, aimed by
D'Artagnan, and one of his adversaries fell. As for Porthos,
he assaulted the foe with such violence that, although his
sword was thrust aside, the enemy was thrown off his horse
and fell about ten steps from it.

"Finish, Mouston, finish the work!" cried Porthos. And he
darted on beside his friend, who had already begun a fresh
pursuit.

"Well?" said Porthos.

"I've broken my man's skull," cried D'Artagnan. "And you
---- "

"I've only thrown the fellow down, but hark!"

Another shot of a carbine was heard. It was Musqueton, who
was obeying his master's command.

"On! on!" cried D'Artagnan; "all goes well! we have the
first throw."

"Ha! ha!" answered Porthos, "behold, other players appear."

And in fact, two other cavaliers made their appearance,
detached, as it seemed, from the principal group; they again
disputed the road.

This time the lieutenant did not wait for the opposite party
to speak.

"Stand aside!" he cried; "stand off the road!"

"What do you want?" asked a voice.

"The duke!" Porthos and D'Artagnan roared out both at once.

A burst of laughter was the answer, but finished with a
groan. D'Artagnan had, with his sword, cut in two the poor
wretch who had laughed.

At the same time Porthos and his adversary fired on each
other and D'Artagnan turned to him.

"Bravo! you've killed him, I think."

"No, wounded his horse only."

"What would you have, my dear fellow? One doesn't hit the
bull's-eye every time; it is something to hit inside the
ring. Ho! parbleau! what is the matter with my horse?"

"Your horse is falling," said Porthos, reining in his own.

In truth, the lieutenant's horse stumbled and fell on his
knees; then a rattling in his throat was heard and he lay
down to die. He had received in the chest the bullet of
D'Artagnan's first adversary. D'Artagnan swore loud enough
to be heard in the skies.

"Does your honor want a horse?" asked Musqueton.

"Zounds! want one!" cried the Gascon.

"Here's one, your honor ---- "

"How the devil hast thou two horses?" asked D'Artagnan,
jumping on one of them.

"Their masters are dead! I thought they might be useful, so
I took them."

Meantime Porthos had reloaded his pistols.

"Be on the qui vive!" cried D'Artagnan. "Here are two other
cavaliers."

As he spoke, two horsemen advanced at full speed.

"Ho! your honor!" cried Musqueton, "the man you upset is
getting up."

"Why didn't thou do as thou didst to the first man?" said
Porthos.

"I held the horses, my hands were full, your honor."

A shot was fired that moment; Musqueton shrieked with pain.

"Ah, sir! I'm hit in the other side! exactly opposite the
other! This hurt is just the fellow of the one I had on the
road to Amiens."

Porthos turned around like a lion, plunged on the dismounted
cavalier, who tried to draw his sword; but before it was out
of the scabbard, Porthos, with the hilt of his had struck
him such a terrible blow on the head that he fell like an ox
beneath the butcher's knife.

Musqueton, groaning, slipped from his horse, his wound not
allowing him to keep the saddle.

On perceiving the cavaliers, D'Artagnan had stopped and
charged his pistol afresh; besides, his horse, he found, had
a carbine on the bow of the saddle.

"Here I am!" exclaimed Porthos. "Shall we wait, or shall we
charge?"

"Let us charge them," answered the Gascon.

"Charge!" cried Porthos.

They spurred on their horses; the other cavaliers were only
twenty steps from them.

"For the king!" cried D'Artagnan.

"The king has no authority here!" answered a deep voice,
which seemed to proceed from a cloud, so enveloped was the
cavalier in a whirlwind of dust.

"'Tis well, we will see if the king's name is not a passport
everywhere," replied the Gascon.

"See!" answered the voice.

Two shots were fired at once, one by D'Artagnan, the other
by the adversary of Porthos. D'Artagnan's ball took off his
enemy's hat. The ball fired by Porthos's foe went through
the throat of his horse, which fell, groaning.

"For the last time, where are you going?"

"To the devil!" answered D'Artagnan.

"Good! you may be easy, then -- you'll get there."

D'Artagnan then saw a musket-barrel leveled at him; he had
no time to draw from his holsters. He recalled a bit of
advice which Athos had once given him, and made his horse
rear.

The ball struck the animal full in front. D'Artagnan felt
his horse giving way under him and with his wonderful
agility threw himself to one side.

"Ah! this," cried the voice, the tone of which was at once
polished and jeering, "this is nothing but a butchery of
horses and not a combat between men. To the sword, sir! the
sword!"

And he jumped off his horse.

"To the swords! be it so!" replied D'Artagnan; "that is
exactly what I want."

D'Artagnan, in two steps, was engaged with the foe, whom,
according to custom, he attacked impetuously, but he met
this time with a skill and a strength of arm that gave him
pause. Twice he was obliged to step back; his opponent
stirred not one inch. D'Artagnan returned and again attacked
him.

Twice or thrice thrusts were attempted on both sides,
without effect; sparks were emitted from the swords like
water spouting forth.

At last D'Artagnan thought it was time to try one of his
favorite feints in fencing. He brought it to bear,
skillfully executed it with the rapidity of lightning, and
struck the blow with a force which he fancied would prove
irresistible.

The blow was parried.

"'Sdeath!" he cried, with his Gascon accent.

At this exclamation his adversary bounded back and, bending
his bare head, tried to distinguish in the gloom the
features of the lieutenant.

As to D'Artagnan, afraid of some feint, he still stood on
the defensive.

"Have a care," cried Porthos to his opponent; "I've still
two pistols charged."

"The more reason you should fire the first!" cried his foe.

Porthos fired; the flash threw a gleam of light over the
field of battle.

As the light shone on them a cry was heard from the other
two combatants.

"Athos!" exclaimed D'Artagnan.

"D'Artagnan!" ejaculated Athos.

Athos raised his sword; D'Artagnan lowered his.

"Aramis!" cried Athos, "don't fire!"

"Ah! ha! is it you, Aramis?" said Porthos.

And he threw away his pistol.

Aramis pushed his back into his saddle-bags and sheathed his
sword.

"My son!" exclaimed Athos, extending his hand to D'Artagnan.

This was the name which he gave him in former days, in their
moments of tender intimacy.

"Athos!" cried D'Artagnan, wringing his hands. "So you
defend him! And I, who have sworn to take him dead or alive,
I am dishonored -- and by you!"

"Kill me!" replied Athos, uncovering his breast, "if your
honor requires my death."

"Oh! woe is me! woe is me!" cried the lieutenant; "there's
only one man in the world who could stay my hand; by a
fatality that very man bars my way. What shall I say to the
cardinal?"

"You can tell him, sir," answered a voice which was the
voice of high command in the battle-field, "that he sent
against me the only two men capable of getting the better of
four men; of fighting man to man, without discomfiture,
against the Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d'Herblay,
and of surrendering only to fifty men!

"The prince!" exclaimed at the same moment Athos and Aramis,
unmasking as they addressed the Duc de Beaufort, whilst
D'Artagnan and Porthos stepped backward.

"Fifty cavaliers!" cried the Gascon and Porthos.

"Look around you, gentlemen, if you doubt the fact," said
the duke.

The two friends looked to the right, to the left; they were
encompassed by a troop of horsemen.

"Hearing the noise of the fight," resumed the duke, "I
fancied you had about twenty men with you, so I came back
with those around me, tired of always running away, and
wishing to draw my sword in my own cause; but you are only
two."

"Yes, my lord; but, as you have said, two that are a match
for twenty," said Athos.

"Come, gentlemen, your swords," said the duke.

"Our swords!" cried D'Artagnan, raising his head and
regaining his self-possession. "Never!"

"Never!" added Porthos.

Some of the men moved toward them.

"One moment, my lord," whispered Athos, and he said
something in a low voice.

"As you will," replied the duke. "I am too much indebted to
you to refuse your first request. Gentlemen," he said to his
escort, "withdraw. Monsieur d'Artagnan, Monsieur du Vallon,
you are free."

The order was obeyed; D'Artagnan and Porthos then found
themselves in the centre of a large circle.

"Now, D'Herblay," said Athos, "dismount and come here."

Aramis dismounted and went to Porthos, whilst Athos
approached D'Artagnan.

All four once more together.

"Friends!" said Athos, "do you regret you have not shed our
blood?"

"No," replied D'Artagnan; "I regret to see that we, hitherto
united, are opposed to each other. Ah! nothing will ever go
well with us hereafter!"

"Oh, Heaven! No, all is over!" said Porthos.

"Well, be on our side now," resumed Aramis.

"Silence, D'Herblay!" cried Athos; "such proposals are not
to be made to gentlemen such as these. 'Tis a matter of
conscience with them, as with us."

"Meantime, here we are, enemies!" said Porthos. "Gramercy!
who would ever have thought it?"

D'Artagnan only sighed.

Athos looked at them both and took their hands in his.

"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a serious business and my
heart bleeds as if you had pierced it through and through.
Yes, we are severed; there is the great, the distressing
truth! But we have not as yet declared war; perhaps we shall
have to make certain conditions, therefore a solemn
conference is indispensable."

"For my own part, I demand it," said Aramis.

"I accept it," interposed D'Artagnan, proudly.

Porthos bowed, as if in assent.

"Let us choose a place of rendezvous," continued Athos, "and
in a last interview arrange our mutual position and the
conduct we are to maintain toward each other."

"Good!" the other three exclaimed.

"Well, then, the place?"

"Will the Place Royale suit you?" asked D'Artagnan.

"In Paris?"

"Yes."

Athos and Aramis looked at each other.

"The Place Royale -- be it so!" replied Athos.

"When?"

"To-morrow evening, if you like!"

"At what hour?"

"At ten in the evening, if that suits you; by that time we
shall have returned."

"Good."

"There," continued Athos, "either peace or war will be
decided; honor, at all events, will be maintained!"

"Alas!" murmured D'Artagnan, "our honor as soldiers is lost
to us forever!"

"D'Artagnan," said Athos, gravely, "I assure you that you do
me wrong in dwelling so upon that. What I think of is, that
we have crossed swords as enemies. Yes," he continued, sadly
shaking his head, "Yes, it is as you said, misfortune,
indeed, has overtaken us. Come, Aramis."

"And we, Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "will return, carrying
our shame to the cardinal."

"And tell him," cried a voice, "that I am not too old yet
for a man of action."

D'Artagnan recognized the voice of De Rochefort.

"Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?" asked the duke.

"Bear witness that we have done all that we could."

"That shall be testified to, rest assured. Adieu! we shall
meet soon, I trust, in Paris, where you shall have your
revenge." The duke, as he spoke, kissed his hand, spurred
his horse into a gallop and disappeared, followed by his
troop, who were soon lost in distance and darkness.

D'Artagnan and Porthos were now alone with a man who held by
the bridles two horses; they thought it was Musqueton and
went up to him.

"What do I see?" cried the lieutenant. "Grimaud, is it
thou?"

Grimaud signified that he was not mistaken.

"And whose horses are these?" cried D'Artagnan.

"Who has given them to us?" said Porthos.

"The Comte de la Fere."

"Athos! Athos!" muttered D'Artagnan; "you think of every
one; you are indeed a nobleman! Whither art thou going,
Grimaud?"

"To join the Vicomte de Bragelonne in Flanders, your honor."

They were taking the road toward Paris, when groans, which
seemed to proceed from a ditch, attracted their attention.

"What is that?" asked D'Artagnan.

"It is I -- Musqueton," said a mournful voice, whilst a sort
of shadow arose out of the side of the road.

Porthos ran to him. "Art thou dangerously wounded, my dear
Musqueton?" he said.

"No, sir, but I am severely."

"What can we do?" said D'Artagnan; "we must return to
Paris."

"I will take care of Musqueton," said Grimaud; and he gave
his arm to his old comrade, whose eyes were full of tears,
nor could Grimaud tell whether the tears were caused by
wounds or by the pleasure of seeing him again.

D'Artagnan and Porthos went on, meantime, to Paris. They
were passed by a sort of courier, covered with dust, the
bearer of a letter from the duke to the cardinal, giving
testimony to the valor of D'Artagnan and Porthos.

Mazarin had passed a very bad night when this letter was
brought to him, announcing that the duke was free and that
he would henceforth raise up mortal strife against him.

"What consoles me," said the cardinal after reading the
letter, "is that, at least, in this chase, D'Artagnan has
done me one good turn -- he has destroyed Broussel. This
Gascon is a precious fellow; even his misadventures are of
use."

The cardinal referred to that man whom D'Artagnan upset at
the corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean in Paris, and who was
no other than the Councillor Broussel.



27

The four old Friends prepare to meet again.



"Well," said Porthos, seated in the courtyard of the Hotel
de la Chevrette, to D'Artagnan, who, with a long and
melancholy face, had returned from the Palais Royal; "did he
receive you ungraciously, my dear friend?"

"I'faith, yes! a brute, that cardinal. What are you eating
there, Porthos?"

"I am dipping a biscuit in a glass of Spanish wine; do the
same."

"You are right. Gimblou, a glass of wine."

"Well, how has all gone off?"

"Zounds! you know there's only one way of saying things, so
I went in and said, `My lord, we were not the strongest
party.'

"`Yes, I know that,' he said, `but give me the particulars.'

"You know, Porthos, I could not give him the particulars
without naming our friends; to name them would be to commit
them to ruin, so I merely said they were fifty and we were
two.

"`There was firing, nevertheless, I heard,' he said; `and
your swords -- they saw the light of day, I presume?'

"`That is, the night, my lord,' I answered.

"`Ah!' cried the cardinal, `I thought you were a Gascon, my
friend?'

"`I am a Gascon,' said I, `only when I succeed.' The answer
pleased him and he laughed.

"`That will teach me,' he said, `to have my guards provided
with better horses; for if they had been able to keep up
with you and if each one of them had done as much as you and
your friend, you would have kept your word and would have
brought him back to me dead or alive.'"

"Well, there's nothing bad in that, it seems to me," said
Porthos.

"Oh, mon Dieu! no, nothing at all. It was the way in which
he spoke. It is incredible how these biscuit soak up wine!
They are veritable sponges! Gimblou, another bottle."

The bottle was brought with a promptness which showed the
degree of consideration D'Artagnan enjoyed in the
establishment. He continued:

"So I was going away, but he called me back.

"`You have had three horses foundered or killed?' he asked
me.

"`Yes, my lord.'

"`How much were they worth?'"

"Why," said Porthos, "that was very good of him, it seems to
me."

"`A thousand pistoles,' I said."

"A thousand pistoles!" Porthos exclaimed. "Oh! oh! that is a
large sum. If he knew anything about horses he would dispute
the price."

"Faith! he was very much inclined to do so, the contemptible
fellow. He made a great start and looked at me. I also
looked at him; then he understood, and putting his hand into
a drawer, he took from it a quantity of notes on a bank in
Lyons."

"For a thousand pistoles?"

"For a thousand pistoles -- just that amount, the beggar;
not one too many."

"And you have them?"

"They are here."

"Upon my word, I think he acted very generously."

"Generously! to men who had risked their lives for him, and
besides had done him a great service?"

"A great service -- what was that?"

"Why, it seems that I crushed for him a parliament
councillor."

"What! that little man in black that you upset at the corner
of Saint Jean Cemetery?"

"That's the man, my dear fellow; he was an annoyance to the
cardinal. Unfortunately, I didn't crush him flat. It seems
that he came to himself and that he will continue to be an
annoyance."

"See that, now!" said Porthos; "and I turned my horse aside
from going plump on to him! That will be for another time."

"He owed me for the councillor, the pettifogger!"

"But," said Porthos, "if he was not crushed completely ----
"

"Ah! Monsieur de Richelieu would have said, `Five hundred
crowns for the councillor.' Well, let's say no more about
it. How much were your animals worth, Porthos?"

"Ah, if poor Musqueton were here he could tell you to a
fraction."

"No matter; you can tell within ten crowns."

"Why, Vulcan and Bayard cost me each about two hundred
pistoles, and putting Phoebus at a hundred and fifty, we
should be pretty near the amount."

"There will remain, then, four hundred and fifty pistoles,"
said D'Artagnan, contentedly.

"Yes," said Porthos, "but there are the equipments."

"That is very true. Well, how much for the equipments?"

"If we say one hundred pistoles for the three ---- "

"Good for the hundred pistoles; there remains, then, three
hundred and fifty."

Porthos made a sign of assent.

"We will give the fifty pistoles to the hostess for our
expenses," said D'Artagnan, "and share the three hundred."

"We will share," said Porthos.

"A paltry piece of business!" murmured D'Artagnan crumpling
his note.

"Pooh!" said Porthos, "it is always that. But tell me ---- "

"What?"

"Didn't he speak of me in any way?"

"Ah! yes, indeed!" cried D'Artagnan, who was afraid of
disheartening his friend by telling him that the cardinal
had not breathed a word about him; "yes, surely, he said
---- "

"He said?" resumed Porthos.

"Stop, I want to remember his exact words. He said, `As to
your friend, tell him he may sleep in peace.'"

"Good, very good," said Porthos; "that signified as clear as
daylight that he still intends to make me a baron."

At this moment nine o'clock struck. D'Artagnan started.

"Ah, yes," said Porthos, "there is nine o'clock. We have a
rendezvous, you remember, at the Place Royale."

"Ah! stop! hold your peace, Porthos, don't remind me of it;
'tis that which has made me so cross since yesterday. I
shall not go."

"Why?" asked Porthos.

"Because it is a grievous thing for me to meet again those
two men who caused the failure of our enterprise."

"And yet," said Porthos, "neither of them had any advantage
over us. I still had a loaded pistol and you were in full
fight, sword in hand."

"Yes," said D'Artagnan; "but what if this rendezvous had
some hidden purpose?"

"Oh!" said Porthos, "you can't think that, D'Artagnan!"

D'Artagnan did not believe Athos to be capable of a
deception, but he sought an excuse for not going to the
rendezvous.

"We must go," said the superb lord of Bracieux, "lest they
should say we were afraid. We who have faced fifty foes on
the high road can well meet two in the Place Royale."

"Yes, yes, but they took part with the princes without
apprising us of it. Athos and Aramis have played a game with
me which alarms me. We discovered yesterday the truth; what
is the use of going to-day to learn something else?"

"You really have some distrust, then?" said Porthos.

"Of Aramis, yes, since he has become an abbe. You can't
imagine, my dear fellow, the sort of man he is. He sees us
on the road which leads him to a bishopric, and perhaps will
not be sorry to get us out of his way."

"Ah, as regards Aramis, that is another thing," said
Porthos, "and it wouldn't surprise me at all."

"Perhaps Monsieur de Beaufort will try, in his turn, to lay
hands on us."

"Nonsense! He had us in his power and he let us go. Besides
we can be on our guard; let us take arms, let Planchet post
himself behind us with his carbine."

"Planchet is a Frondeur," answered D'Artagnan.

"Devil take these civil wars! one can no more now reckon on
one's friends than on one's footmen," said Porthos. "Ah! if
Musqueton were here! there's a fellow who will never desert
me!"

"So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend! 'tis not civil war
that disunites us. It is that we are each of us twenty years
older; it is that the honest emotions of youth have given
place to suggestions of interest, whispers of ambition,
counsels of selfishness. Yes, you are right; let us go,
Porthos, but let us go well armed; were we not to keep the
rendezvous, they would declare we were afraid. Halloo!
Planchet! here! saddle our horses, take your carbine."

"Whom are we going to attack, sir?"

"No one; a mere matter of precaution," answered the Gascon.

"You know, sir, that they wished to murder that good
councillor, Broussel, the father of the people?"

"Really, did they?" said D'Artagnan.

"Yes, but he has been avenged. He was carried home in the
arms of the people. His house has been full ever since. He
has received visits from the coadjutor, from Madame de
Longueville, and the Prince de Conti; Madame de Chevreuse
and Madame de Vendome have left their names at his door. And
now, whenever he wishes ---- "

"Well, whenever he wishes?"

Planchet began to sing:



"Un vent de fronde

S'est leve ce matin;

Je crois qu'il gronde

Contre le Mazarin.

Un vent de fronde

S'est leve ce matin."



"It doesn't surprise me," said D'Artagnan, in a low tone to
Porthos, "that Mazarin would have been much better satisfied
had I crushed the life out of his councillor."

"You understand, then, monsieur," resumed Planchet, "that if
it were for some enterprise like that undertaken against
Monsieur Broussel that you should ask me to take my carbine
---- "

"No, don't be alarmed; but where did you get all these
details?"

"From a good source, sir; I heard it from Friquet."

"From Friquet? I know that name ---- "

"A son of Monsieur de Broussel's servant, and a lad that, I
promise you, in a revolt will not give away his share to the
dogs."

"Is he not a singing boy at Notre Dame?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes, that is the very boy; he's patronized by Bazin."

"Ah, yes, I know."

"Of what importance is this little reptile to you?" asked
Porthos.

"Gad!" replied D'Artagnan; "he has already given me good
information and he may do the same again."

Whilst all this was going on, Athos and Aramis were entering
Paris by the Faubourg St. Antoine. They had taken some
refreshment on the road and hastened on, that they might not
fail at the appointed place. Bazin was their only attendant,
for Grimaud had stayed behind to take care of Musqueton. As
they were passing onward, Athos proposed that they should
lay aside their arms and military costume, and assume a
dress more suited to the city.

"Oh, no, dear count!" cried Aramis, "is it not a warlike
encounter that we are going to?"

"What do you mean, Aramis?"

"That the Place Royale is the termination to the main road
to Vendomois, and nothing else."

"What! our friends?"

"Are become our most dangerous enemies, Athos. Let us be on
our guard."

"Oh! my dear D'Herblay!"

"Who can say whether D'Artagnan may not have betrayed us to
the cardinal? who can tell whether Mazarin may not take
advantage of this rendezvous to seize us?"

"What! Aramis, you think that D'Artagnan, that Porthos,
would lend their hands to such an infamy?"

"Among friends, my dear Athos, no, you are right; but among
enemies it would be only a stratagem."

Athos crossed his arms and bowed his noble head.

"What can you expect, Athos? Men are so made; and we are not
always twenty years old. We have cruelly wounded, as you
know, that personal pride by which D'Artagnan is blindly
governed. He has been beaten. Did you not observe his
despair on the journey? As to Porthos, his barony was
perhaps dependent on that affair. Well, he found us on his
road and will not be baron this time. Perhaps that famous
barony will have something to do with our interview this
evening. Let us take our precautions, Athos."

"But suppose they come unarmed? What a disgrace to us."

"Oh, never fear! besides, if they do, we can easily make an
excuse; we came straight off a journey and are insurgents,
too."

"An excuse for us! to meet D'Artagnan with a false excuse!
to have to make a false excuse to Porthos! Oh, Aramis!"
continued Athos, shaking his head mournfully, "upon my soul,
you make me the most miserable of men; you disenchant a
heart not wholly dead to friendship. Go in whatever guise
you choose; for my part, I shall go unarmed."

"No, for I will not allow you to do so. 'Tis not one man,
not Athos only, not the Comte de la Fere whom you will ruin
by this amiable weakness, but a whole party to whom you
belong and who depend upon you."

"Be it so then," replied Athos, sorrowfully.

And they pursued their road in mournful silence.

Scarcely had they reached by the Rue de la Mule the iron
gate of the Place Royale, when they perceived three
cavaliers, D'Artagnan, Porthos, and Planchet, the two former
wrapped up in their military cloaks under which their swords
were hidden, and Planchet, his musket by his side. They were
waiting at the entrance of the Rue Sainte Catharine, and
their horses were fastened to the rings of the arcade.
Athos, therefore, commanded Bazin to fasten up his horse and
that of Aramis in the same manner.

They then advanced two and two, and saluted each other
politely.

"Now where will it be agreeable to you that we hold our
conference?" inquired Aramis, perceiving that people were
stopping to look at them, supposing that they were going to
engage in one of those far-famed duels still extant in the
memory of the Parisians, and especially the inhabitants of
the Place Royale.

"The gate is shut," said Aramis, "but if these gentlemen
like a cool retreat under the trees, and perfect seclusion,
I will get the key from the Hotel de Rohan and we shall be
well suited."

D'Artagnan darted a look into the obscurity of the Place.
Porthos ventured to put his head between the railings, to
try if his glance could penetrate the gloom.

"If you prefer any other place," said Athos, in his
persuasive voice, "choose for yourselves."

"This place, if Monsieur d'Herblay can procure the key, is
the best that we can have," was the answer.

Aramis went off at once, begging Athos not to remain alone
within reach of D'Artagnan and Porthos; a piece of advice
which was received with a contemptuous smile.

Aramis returned soon with a man from the Hotel de Rohan, who
was saying to him:

"You swear, sir, that it is not so?"

"Stop," and Aramis gave him a louis d'or.

"Ah! you will not swear, my master," said the concierge,
shaking his head.

"Well, one can never say what may happen; at present we and
these gentlemen are excellent friends."

"Yes, certainly," added Athos and the other two.

D'Artagnan had heard the conversation and had understood it.

"You see?" he said to Porthos.

"What do I see?"

"That he wouldn't swear."

"Swear what?"

"That man wanted Aramis to swear that we are not going to
the Place Royale to fight."

"And Aramis wouldn't swear?"

"No."

"Attention, then!"

Athos did not lose sight of the two speakers. Aramis opened
the gate and faced around in order that D'Artagnan and
Porthos might enter. In passing through the gate, the hilt
of the lieutenant's sword was caught in the grating and he
was obliged to pull off his cloak; in doing so he showed the
butt end of his pistols and a ray of the moon was reflected
on the shining metal.

"Do you see?" whispered Aramis to Athos, touching his
shoulder with one hand and pointing with the other to the
arms which the Gascon wore under his belt.

"Alas! I do!" replied Athos, with a deep sigh.

He entered third, and Aramis, who shut the gate after him,
last. The two serving-men waited without; but as if they
likewise mistrusted each other, they kept their respective
distances.



28

The Place Royale.



They proceeded silently to the centre of the Place, but as
at this very moment the moon had just emerged from behind a
cloud, they thought they might be observed if they remained
on that spot and therefore regained the shade of the
lime-trees.

There were benches here and there; the four gentlemen
stopped near them; at a sign from Athos, Porthos and
D'Artagnan sat down, the two others stood in front of them.

After a few minutes of silent embarrassment, Athos spoke.

"Gentlemen," he said, "our presence here is the best proof
of former friendship; not one of us has failed the others at
this rendezvous; not one has, therefore, to reproach
himself."

"Hear me, count," replied D'Artagnan; "instead of making
compliments to each other, let us explain our conduct to
each other, like men of right and honest hearts."

"I wish for nothing more; have you any cause of complaint
against me or Monsieur d'Herblay? If so, speak out,"
answered Athos.

"I have," replied D'Artagnan. "When I saw you at your
chateau at Bragelonne, I made certain proposals to you which
you perfectly understood; instead of answering me as a
friend, you played with me as a child; the friendship,
therefore, that you boast of was not broken yesterday by the
shock of swords, but by your dissimulation at your castle."

"D'Artagnan!" said Athos, reproachfully.

"You asked for candor and you have it. You ask what I have
against you; I tell you. And I have the same sincerity to
show you, if you wish, Monsieur d'Herblay; I acted in a
similar way to you and you also deceived me."

"Really, monsieur, you say strange things," said Aramis.
"You came seeking me to make to me certain proposals, but
did you make them? No, you sounded me, nothing more. Very
well what did I say to you? that Mazarin was contemptible
and that I wouldn't serve Mazarin. But that is all. Did I
tell you that I wouldn't serve any other? On the contrary, I
gave you to understand, I think, that I adhered to the
princes. We even joked very pleasantly, if I remember
rightly, on the very probable contingency of your being
charged by the cardinal with my arrest. Were you a party
man? There is no doubt of that. Well, why should not we,
too, belong to a party? You had your secret and we had ours;
we didn't exchange them. So much the better; it proves that
we know how to keep our secrets."

"I do not reproach you, monsieur," said D'Artagnan; "'tis
only because Monsieur de la Fere has spoken of friendship
that I question your conduct."

"And what do you find in it that is worthy of blame?" asked
Aramis, haughtily.

The blood mounted instantly to the temples of D'Artagnan,
who arose, and replied:

"I consider it worthy conduct of a pupil of Jesuits."

On seeing D'Artagnan rise, Porthos rose also; these four men
were therefore all standing at the same time, with a
menacing aspect, opposite to each other.

Upon hearing D'Artagnan's reply, Aramis seemed about to draw
his sword, when Athos prevented him.

"D'Artagnan," he said, "you are here to-night, still
infuriated by yesterday's adventure. I believed your heart
noble enough to enable a friendship of twenty years to
overcome an affront of a quarter of an hour. Come, do you
really think you have anything to say against me? Say it
then; if I am in fault I will avow the error."

The grave and harmonious tones of that beloved voice seemed
to have still its ancient influence, whilst that of Aramis,
which had become harsh and tuneless in his moments of
ill-humor, irritated him. He answered therefore:

"I think, monsieur le comte, that you had something to
communicate to me at your chateau of Bragelonne, and that
gentleman" -- he pointed to Aramis -- "had also something to
tell me when I was in his convent. At that time I was not
concerned in the adventure, in the course of which you have
so successfully estopped me! However, because I was prudent
you must not take me for a fool. If I had wished to widen
the breach between those whom Monsieur d'Herblay chooses to
receive with a rope ladder and those whom he receives with a
wooden ladder, I could have spoken out."

"What are you meddling with?" cried Aramis, pale with anger,
suspecting that D'Artagnan had acted as a spy on him and had
seen him with Madame de Longueville.

"I never meddle save with what concerns me, and I know how
to make believe that I haven't seen what does not concern
me; but I hate hypocrites, and among that number I place
musketeers who are abbes and abbes who are musketeers; and,"
he added, turning to Porthos "here's a gentleman who's of
the same opinion as myself."

Porthos, who had not spoken one word, answered merely by a
word and a gesture.

He said "yes" and he put his hand on his sword.

Aramis started back and drew his. D'Artagnan bent forward,
ready either to attack or to stand on his defense.

Athos at that moment extended his hand with the air of
supreme command which characterized him alone, drew out his
sword and the scabbard at the same time, broke the blade in
the sheath on his knee and threw the pieces to his right.
Then turning to Aramis:

"Aramis," he said, "break your sword."

Aramis hesitated.

"It must be done," said Athos; then in a lower and more
gentle voice, he added. "I wish it."

Then Aramis, paler than before, but subdued by these words,
snapped the serpent blade between his hands, and then
folding his arms, stood trembling with rage.

These proceedings made D'Artagnan and Porthos draw back.
D'Artagnan did not draw his sword; Porthos put his back into
the sheath.

"Never!" exclaimed Athos, raising his right hand to Heaven,
"never! I swear before God, who seeth us, and who, in the
darkness of this night heareth us, never shall my sword
cross yours, never my eye express a glance of anger, nor my
heart a throb of hatred, at you. We lived together, we
loved, we hated together; we shed, we mingled our blood
together, and too probably, I may still add, that there may
be yet a bond between us closer even than that of
friendship; perhaps there may be the bond of crime; for we
four, we once did condemn, judge and slay a human being whom
we had not any right to cut off from this world, although
apparently fitter for hell than for this life. D'Artagnan, I
have always loved you as my son; Porthos, we slept six years
side by side; Aramis is your brother as well as mine, and
Aramis has once loved you, as I love you now and as I have
ever loved you. What can Cardinal Mazarin be to us, to four
men who compelled such a man as Richelieu to act as we
pleased? What is such or such a prince to us, who fixed the
diadem upon a great queen's head? D'Artagnan, I ask your
pardon for having yesterday crossed swords with you; Aramis
does the same to Porthos; now hate me if you can; but for my
own part, I shall ever, even if you do hate me, retain
esteem and friendship for you. I repeat my words, Aramis,
and then, if you desire it, and if they desire it, let us
separate forever from our old friends."

There was a solemn, though momentary silence, which was
broken by Aramis.

"I swear," he said, with a calm brow and kindly glance, but
in a voice still trembling with recent emotion, "I swear
that I no longer bear animosity to those who were once my
friends. I regret that I ever crossed swords with you,
Porthos; I swear not only that it shall never again be
pointed at your breast, but that in the bottom of my heart
there will never in future be the slightest hostile
sentiment; now, Athos, come."

Athos was about to retire.

"Oh! no! no! do not go away!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, impelled
by one of those irresistible impulses which showed the
nobility of his nature, the native brightness of his
character; "I swear that I would give the last drop of my
blood and the last fragment of my limbs to preserve the
friendship of such a friend as you, Athos -- of such a man
as you, Aramis." And he threw himself into the arms of
Athos.

"My son!" exclaimed Athos, pressing him in his arms.

"And as for me," said Porthos, "I swear nothing, but I'm
choked. Forsooth! If I were obliged to fight against you, I
think I should allow myself to be pierced through and
through, for I never loved any one but you in the wide
world;" and honest Porthos burst into tears as he embraced
Athos.

"My friends," said Athos, "this is what I expected from such
hearts as yours. Yes, I have said it and I now repeat it:
our destinies are irrevocably united, although we now pursue
divergent roads. I respect your convictions, and whilst we
fight for opposite sides, let us remain friends. Ministers,
princes, kings, will pass away like mountain torrents; civil
war, like a forest flame; but we -- we shall remain; I have
a presentiment that we shall."

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "let us still be musketeers, and
let us retain as our battle-standard that famous napkin of
the bastion St. Gervais, on which the great cardinal had
three fleurs-de-lis embroidered."

"Be it so," cried Aramis. "Cardinalists or Frondeurs, what
matters it? Let us meet again as capital seconds in a duel,
devoted friends in business, merry companions in our ancient
pleasures."

"And whenever," added Athos, "we meet in battle, at this
word, `Place Royale!' let us put our swords into our left
hands and shake hands with the right, even in the very lust
and music of the hottest carnage."

"You speak charmingly," said Porthos.

"And are the first of men!" added D'Artagnan. "You excel us
all."

Athos smiled with ineffable pleasure.

"'Tis then all settled. Gentlemen, your hands; are we not
pretty good Christians?"

"Egad!" said D'Artagnan, "by Heaven! yes."

"We should be so on this occasion, if only to be faithful to
our oath," said Aramis.

"Ah, I'm ready to do what you will," cried Porthos; "even to
swear by Mahomet. Devil take me if I've ever been so happy
as at this moment."

And he wiped his eyes, still moist.

"Has not one of you a cross?" asked Athos.

Aramis smiled and drew from his vest a cross of diamonds,
which was hung around his neck by a chain of pearls. "Here
is one," he said.

"Well," resumed Athos, "swear on this cross, which, in spite
of its magnificent material, is still a cross; swear to be
united in spite of everything, and forever, and may this
oath bind us to each other, and even, also, our descendants!
Does this oath satisfy you?"

"Yes," said they all, with one accord.

"Ah, traitor!" muttered D'Artagnan, leaning toward Aramis
and whispering in his ear, "you have made us swear on the
crucifix of a Frondeuse."



29

The Ferry across the Oise.



We hope that the reader has not quite forgotten the young
traveler whom we left on the road to Flanders.

In losing sight of his guardian, whom he had quitted, gazing
after him in front of the royal basilican, Raoul spurred on
his horse, in order not only to escape from his own
melancholy reflections, but also to hide from Olivain the
emotion his face might betray.

One hour's rapid progress, however, sufficed to disperse the
gloomy fancies that had clouded the young man's bright
anticipations; and the hitherto unfelt pleasure of freedom
-- a pleasure which is sweet even to those who have never
known dependence -- seemed to Raoul to gild not only Heaven
and earth, but especially that blue but dim horizon of life
we call the future.

Nevertheless, after several attempts at conversation with
Olivain he foresaw that many days passed thus would prove
exceedingly dull; and the count's agreeable voice, his
gentle and persuasive eloquence, recurred to his mind at the
various towns through which they journeyed and about which
he had no longer any one to give him those interesting
details which he would have drawn from Athos, the most
amusing and the best informed of guides. Another
recollection contributed also to sadden Raoul: on their
arrival at Sonores he had perceived, hidden behind a screen
of poplars, a little chateau which so vividly recalled that
of La Valliere to his mind that he halted for nearly ten
minutes to gaze at it, and resumed his journey with a sigh
too abstracted even to reply to Olivain's respectful inquiry
about the cause of so much fixed attention. The aspect of
external objects is often a mysterious guide communicating
with the fibres of memory, which in spite of us will arouse
them at times; this thread, like that of Ariadne, when once
unraveled will conduct one through a labyrinth of thought,
in which one loses one's self in endeavoring to follow that
phantom of the past which is called recollection.

Now the sight of this chateau had taken Raoul back fifty
leagues westward and had caused him to review his life from
the moment when he had taken leave of little Louise to that
in which he had seen her for the first time; and every
branch of oak, every gilded weathercock on roof of slates,
reminded him that, instead of returning to the friends of
his childhood, every instant estranged him further and that
perhaps he had even left them forever.

With a full heart and burning head he desired Olivain to
lead on the horses to a wayside inn, which he observed
within gunshot range, a little in advance of the place they
had reached.

As for himself, he dismounted and remained under a beautiful
group of chestnuts in flower, amidst which were murmuring a
multitude of happy bees, and bade Olivain send the host to
him with writing paper and ink, to be placed on a table
which he found there, conveniently ready. Olivain obeyed and
continued on his way, whilst Raoul remained sitting, with
his elbow leaning on the table, from time to time gently
shaking the flowers from his head, which fell upon him like
snow, and gazing vaguely on the charming landscape spread
out before him, dotted over with green fields and groups of
trees. Raoul had been there about ten minutes, during five
of which he was lost in reverie, when there appeared within
the circle comprised in his rolling gaze a man with a
rubicund face, who, with a napkin around his body, another
under his arm, and a white cap upon his head, approached
him, holding paper, pen and ink in hand.

"Ha! ha!" laughed the apparition, "every gentleman seems to
have the same fancy, for not a quarter of an hour ago a
young lad, well mounted like you, as tall as you and of
about your age, halted before this clump of trees and had
this table and this chair brought here, and dined here, with
an old gentleman who seemed to be his tutor, upon a pie, of
which they haven't left a mouthful, and two bottles of Macon
wine, of which they haven't left a drop, but fortunately we
have still some of the same wine and some of the same pies
left, and if your worship will but give your orders ---- "

"No, friend " replied Raoul, smiling, "I am obliged to you,
but at this moment I want nothing but the things for which I
have asked -- only I shall be very glad if the ink prove
black and the pen good; upon these conditions I will pay for
the pen the price of the bottle, and for the ink the price
of the pie."

"Very well, sir," said the host, "I'll give the pie and the
bottle of wine to your servant, and in this way you will
have the pen and ink into the bargain."

"Do as you like," said Raoul, who was beginning his
apprenticeship with that particular class of society, who,
when there were robbers on the highroads, were connected
with them, and who, since highwaymen no longer exist, have
advantageously and aptly filled their vacant place.

The host, his mind at ease about his bill, placed pen, ink
and paper upon the table. By a lucky chance the pen was
tolerably good and Raoul began to write. The host remained
standing in front of him, looking with a kind of involuntary
admiration at his handsome face, combining both gravity and
sweetness of expression. Beauty has always been and always
will be all-powerful.

"He's not a guest like the other one here just now,"
observed mine host to Olivain, who had rejoined his master
to see if he wanted anything, "and your young master has no
appetite."

"My master had appetite enough three days ago, but what can
one do? he lost it the day before yesterday."

And Olivain and the host took their way together toward the
inn, Olivain, according to the custom of serving-men well
pleased with their place, relating to the tavern-keeper all
that he could say in favor of the young gentleman; whilst
Raoul wrote on thus:



"Sir, -- After a four hours' march I stop to write to you,
for I miss you every moment, and I am always on the point of
turning my head as if to reply when you speak to me. I was
so bewildered by your departure and so overcome with grief
at our separation, that I am sure I was able to but very
feebly express all the affection and gratitude I feel toward
you. You will forgive me, sir, for your heart is of such a
generous nature that you can well understand all that has
passed in mine. I entreat you to write to me, for you form a
part of my existence, and, if I may venture to tell you so,
I also feel anxious. It seemed to me as if you were yourself
preparing for some dangerous undertaking, about which I did
not dare to question you, since you told me nothing. I have,
therefore, as you see, great need of hearing from you. Now
that you are no longer beside me I am afraid every moment of
erring. You sustained me powerfully, sir, and I protest to
you that to-day I feel very lonely. Will you have the
goodness, sir, should you receive news from Blois, to send
me a few lines about my little friend Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, about whose health, when we left, so much anxiety
was felt? You can understand, honored and dear guardian, how
precious and indispensable to me is the remembrance of the
years that I have passed with you. I hope that you will
sometimes, too, think of me, and if at certain hours you
should miss me, if you should feel any slight regret at my
absence, I shall be overwhelmed with joy at the thought that
you appreciate my affection for and my devotion to yourself,
and that I have been able to prove them to you whilst I had
the happiness of diving with you."



After finishing this letter Raoul felt more composed; he
looked well around him to see if Olivain and the host might
not be watching him, whilst he impressed a kiss upon the
paper, a mute and touching caress, which the heart of Athos
might well divine on opening the letter.

During this time Olivain had finished his bottle and eaten
his pie; the horses were also refreshed. Raoul motioned to
the host to approach, threw a crown upon the table, mounted
his horse, and posted his letter at Senlis. The rest that
had been thus afforded to men and horses enabled them to
continue their journey at a good round pace. At Verberie,
Raoul desired Olivain to make some inquiry about the young
man who was preceding them; he had been observed to pass
only three-quarters of an hour previously, but he was well
mounted, as the tavern-keeper had already said, and rode at
a rapid pace.

"Let us try and overtake this gentleman," said Raoul to
Olivain; "like ourselves he is on his way to join the army
and may prove agreeable company."

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when Raoul
arrived at Compiegne; there he dined heartily and again
inquired about the young gentleman who was in advance of
them. He had stopped, like Raoul, at the Hotel of the Bell
and Bottle, the best at Compiegne; and had started again on
his journey, saying that he should sleep at Noyon.

"Well, let us sleep at Noyon," said Raoul.

"Sir," replied Olivain, respectfully, "allow me to remark
that we have already much fatigued the horses this morning.
I think it would be well to sleep here and to start again
very early to-morrow. Eighteen leagues is enough for the
first stage."

"The Comte de la Fere wished me to hasten on," replied
Raoul, "that I might rejoin the prince on the morning of the
fourth day; let us push on, then, to Noyon; it will be a
stage similar to those we traveled from Blois to Paris. We
shall arrive at eight o'clock. The horses will have a long
night's rest, and at five o'clock to-morrow morning we can
be again on the road."

Olivain dared offer no opposition to this determination but
he followed his master, grumbling.

"Go on, go on," said he, between his teeth, "expend your
ardor the first day; to-morrow, instead of journeying twenty
leagues, you will travel ten, the day after to-morrow, five,
and in three days you will be in bed. There you must rest;
young people are such braggarts."

It was easy to see that Olivain had not been taught in the
school of the Planchets and the Grimauds. Raoul really felt
tired, but he was desirous of testing his strength, and,
brought up in the principles of Athos and certain of having
heard him speak a thousand times of stages of twenty-five
leagues, he did not wish to fall far short of his model.
D'Artagnan, that man of iron, who seemed to be made of nerve
and muscle only, had struck him with admiration. Therefore,
in spite of Olivain's remarks, he continued to urge his
steed more and more, and following a pleasant little path,
leading to a ferry, and which he had been assured shortened
the journey by the distance of one league, he arrived at the
summit of a hill and perceived the river flowing before him.
A little troop of men on horseback were waiting on the edge
of the stream, ready to embark. Raoul did not doubt this was
the gentleman and his escort; he called out to him, but they
were too distant to be heard; then, in spite of the
weariness of his beast, he made it gallop but the rising
ground soon deprived him of all sight of the travelers, and
when he had again attained a new height, the ferryboat had
left the shore and was making for the opposite bank. Raoul,
seeing that he could not arrive in time to cross the ferry
with the travelers, halted to wait for Olivain. At this
moment a shriek was heard that seemed to come from the
river. Raoul turned toward the side whence the cry had
sounded, and shaded his eyes from the glare of the setting
sun with his hand.

"Olivain!" he exclaimed, "what do I see below there?"

A second scream, more piercing than the first, now sounded.

"Oh, sir!" cried Olivain, "the rope which holds the
ferryboat has broken and the boat is drifting. But what do I
see in the water -- something struggling?"

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Raoul, fixing his glance on one point
in the stream, splendidly illumined by the setting sun, "a
horse, a rider!"

"They are sinking!" cried Olivain in his turn.

It was true, and Raoul was convinced that some accident had
happened and that a man was drowning; he gave his horse its
head, struck his spurs into its sides, and the animal, urged
by pain and feeling that he had space open before him,
bounded over a kind of paling which inclosed the landing
place, and fell into the river, scattering to a distance
waves of white froth.

"Ah, sir!" cried Olivain, "what are you doing? Good God!"

Raoul was directing his horse toward the unhappy man in
danger. This was, in fact, a custom familiar to him. Having
been brought up on the banks of the Loire, he might have
been said to have been cradled on its waves; a hundred times
he had crossed it on horseback, a thousand times had swum
across. Athos, foreseeing the period when he should make a
soldier of the viscount, had inured him to all kinds of
arduous undertakings.

"Oh, heavens!" continued Olivain, in despair, "what would
the count say if he only saw you now!"

"The count would do as I do," replied Raoul, urging his
horse vigorously forward.

"But I -- but I," cried Olivain, pale and disconsolate
rushing about on the shore, "how shall I cross?"

"Leap, coward!" cried Raoul, swimming on; then addressing
the traveler, who was struggling twenty yards in front of
him: "Courage, sir!" said he, "courage! we are coming to
your aid."

Olivain advanced, retired, then made his horse rear --
turned it and then, struck to the core by shame, leaped, as
Raoul had done, only repeating:

"I am a dead man! we are lost!"

In the meantime, the ferryboat had floated away, carried
down by the stream, and the shrieks of those whom it
contained resounded more and more. A man with gray hair had
thrown himself from the boat into the river and was swimming
vigorously toward the person who was drowning; but being
obliged to go against the current he advanced but slowly.
Raoul continued his way and was visibly gaining ground; but
the horse and its rider, of whom he did not lose sight, were
evidently sinking. The nostrils of the horse were no longer
above water, and the rider, who had lost the reins in
struggling, fell with his head back and his arms extended.
One moment longer and all would disappear.

"Courage!" cried Raoul, "courage!"

"Too late!" murmured the young man, "too late!"

The water closed above his head and stifled his voice.

Raoul sprang from his horse, to which he left the charge of
its own preservation, and in three or four strokes was at
the gentleman's side; he seized the horse at once by the
curb and raised its head above water; the animal began to
breathe again and, as if he comprehended that they had come
to his aid, redoubled his efforts. Raoul at the same time
seized one of the young man's hands and placed it on the
mane, which it grasped with the tenacity of a drowning man.
Thus, sure that the rider would not release his hold, Raoul
now only directed his attention to the horse, which he
guided to the opposite bank, helping it to cut through the
water and encouraging it with words.

All at once the horse stumbled against a ridge and then
placed its foot on the sand.

"Saved!" exclaimed the man with gray hair, who also touched
bottom.

"Saved!" mechanically repeated the young gentleman,
releasing the mane and sliding from the saddle into Raoul's
arms; Raoul was but ten yards from the shore; there he bore
the fainting man, and laying him down upon the grass,
unfastened the buttons of his collar and unhooked his
doublet. A moment later the gray-headed man was beside him.
Olivain managed in his turn to land, after crossing himself
repeatedly; and the people in the ferryboat guided
themselves as well as they were able toward the bank, with
the aid of a pole which chanced to be in the boat.

Thanks to the attentions of Raoul and the man who
accompanied the young gentleman, the color gradually
returned to the pale cheeks of the dying man, who opened his
eyes, at first entirely bewildered, but who soon fixed his
gaze upon the person who had saved him.

"Ah, sir," he exclaimed, "it was you! Without you I was a
dead man -- thrice dead."

"But one recovers, sir, as you perceive," replied Raoul,
"and we have but had a little bath."

"Oh! sir, what gratitude I feel!" exclaimed the man with
gray hair.

"Ah, there you are, my good D'Arminges; I have given you a
great fright, have I not? but it is your own fault. You were
my tutor, why did you not teach me to swim?"

"Oh, monsieur le comte," replied the old man, "had any
misfortune happened to you, I should never have dared to
show myself to the marshal again."

"But how did the accident happen?" asked Raoul.

"Oh, sir, in the most natural way possible," replied he to
whom they had given the title of count. "We were about a
third of the way across the river when the cord of the
ferryboat broke. Alarmed by the cries and gestures of the
boatmen, my horse sprang into the water. I cannot swim, and
dared not throw myself into the river. Instead of aiding the
movements of my horse, I paralyzed them; and I was just
going to drown myself with the best grace in the world, when
you arrived just in time to pull me out of the water;
therefore, sir, if you will agree, henceforward we are
friends until death."

"Sir," replied Raoul, bowing, "I am entirely at your
service, I assure you."

"I am called the Count de Guiche," continued the young man;
"my father is the Marechal de Grammont; and now that you
know who I am, do me the honor to inform me who you are."

"I am the Viscount de Bragelonne," answered Raoul, blushing
at being unable to name his father, as the Count de Guiche
had done.

"Viscount, your countenance, your goodness and your courage
incline me toward you; my gratitude is already due. Shake
hands -- I crave your friendship."

"Sir," said Raoul, returning the count's pressure of the
hand, "I like you already, from my heart; pray regard me as
a devoted friend, I beseech you."

And now, where are you going, viscount?" inquired De Guiche.

"To join the army, under the prince, count."

"And I, too!" exclaimed the young man, in a transport of
joy. "Oh, so much the better, we will fire the first shot
together."

"It is well; be friends," said the tutor; "young as you both
are, you were perhaps born under the same star and were
destined to meet. And now," continued he, "you must change
your clothes; your servants, to whom I gave directions the
moment they had left the ferryboat, ought to be already at
the inn. Linen and wine are both being warmed; come."

The young men had no objection to this proposition; on the
contrary, they thought it very timely.

They mounted again at once, whilst looks of admiration
passed between them. They were indeed two elegant horsemen,
with figures slight and upright, noble faces, bright and
proud looks, loyal and intelligent smiles.

De Guiche might have been about eighteen years of age, but
he was scarcely taller than Raoul, who was only fifteen.



30

Skirmishing.



The halt at Noyon was but brief, every one there being
wrapped in profound sleep. Raoul had desired to be awakened
should Grimaud arrive, but Grimaud did not arrive.
Doubtless, too, the horses on their part appreciated the
eight hours of repose and the abundant stabling which was
granted them. The Count de Guiche was awakened at five
o'clock in the morning by Raoul, who came to wish him
good-day. They breakfasted in haste, and at six o'clock had
already gone ten miles.

The young count's conversation was most interesting to
Raoul, therefore he listened much, whilst the count talked
well and long. Brought up in Paris, where Raoul had been but
once; at the court, which Raoul had never seen; his follies
as page; two duels, which he had already found the means of
fighting, in spite of the edicts against them and, more
especially, in spite of his tutor's vigilance -- these
things excited the greatest curiosity in Raoul. Raoul had
only been at M. Scarron's house; he named to Guiche the
people whom he had seen there. Guiche knew everybody --
Madame de Neuillan, Mademoiselle d'Aubigne, Mademoiselle de
Scudery, Mademoiselle Paulet, Madame de Chevreuse. He
criticised everybody humorously. Raoul trembled, lest he
should laugh among the rest at Madame de Chevreuse, for whom
he entertained deep and genuine sympathy, but either
instinctively, or from affection for the duchess, he said
everything in her favor. His praises increased Raoul's
friendship twofold. Then came the question of gallantry and
love affairs. Under this head, also, Bragelonne had much
more to hear than to tell. He listened attentively and
fancied that he discovered through three or four rather
frivolous adventures, that the count, like himself, had a
secret to hide in the depths of his heart.

De Guiche, as we have said before, had been educated at the
court, and the intrigues of this court were not unknown to
him. It was the same court of which Raoul had so often heard
the Comte de la Fere speak, except that its aspect had much
changed since the period when Athos had himself been part of
it; therefore everything which the Count de Guiche related
was new to his traveling companion. The young count, witty
and caustic, passed all the world in review; the queen
herself was not spared, and Cardinal Mazarin came in for his
share of ridicule.

The day passed away as rapidly as an hour. The count's
tutor, a man of the world and a bon vivant, up to his eyes
in learning, as his pupil described him, often recalled the
profound erudition, the witty and caustic satire of Athos to
Raoul; but as regarded grace, delicacy, and nobility of
external appearance, no one in these points was to be
compared to the Comte de la Fere.

The horses, which were more kindly used than on the previous
day, stopped at Arras at four o'clock in the evening. They
were approaching the scene of war; and as bands of Spaniards
sometimes took advantage of the night to make expeditions
even as far as the neighborhood of Arras, they determined to
remain in the town until the morrow. The French army held
all between Pont-a-Marc as far as Valenciennes, falling back
upon Douai. The prince was said to be in person at Bethune.

The enemy's army extended from Cassel to Courtray; and as
there was no species of violence or pillage it did not
commit, the poor people on the frontier quitted their
isolated dwellings and fled for refuge into the strong
cities which held out a shelter to them. Arras was
encumbered with fugitives. An approaching battle was much
spoken of, the prince having manoeuvred, until that
movement, only in order to await a reinforcement that had
just reached him.

The young men congratulated themselves on having arrived so
opportunely. The evening was employed in discussing the war;
the grooms polished their arms; the young men loaded the
pistols in case of a skirmish, and they awoke in despair,
having both dreamed that they had arrived too late to
participate in the battle. In the morning it was rumored
that Prince de Conde had evacuated Bethune and fallen back
on Carvin, leaving, however, a strong garrison in the former
city.

But as there was nothing positively certain in this report,
the young warriors decided to continue their way toward
Bethune, free on the road to diverge to the right and march
to Carvin if necessary.

The count's tutor was well acquainted with the country; he
consequently proposed to take a crossroad, which lay between
that of Lens and that of Bethune. They obtained information
at Ablain, and a statement of their route was left for
Grimaud. About seven o'clock in the morning they set out. De
Guiche, who was young and impulsive, said to Raoul, "Here we
are, three masters and three servants. Our valets are well
armed and yours seems to be tough enough."

"I have never seen him put to the test," replied Raoul, "but
he is a Breton, which promises something."

"Yes, yes," resumed De Guiche; "I am sure he can fire a
musket when required. On my side I have two sure men, who
have been in action with my father. We therefore represent
six fighting men; if we should meet a little troop of
enemies, equal or even superior in number to our own, shall
we charge them, Raoul?"

"Certainly, sir," replied the viscount.

"Holloa! young people -- stop there!" said the tutor,
joining in the conversation. "Zounds! how you manoeuvre my
instructions, count! You seem to forget the orders I
received to conduct you safe and sound to his highness the
prince! Once with the army you may be killed at your good
pleasure; but until that time, I warn you that in my
capacity of general of the army I shall order a retreat and
turn my back on the first red coat we come across." De
Guiche and Raoul glanced at each other, smiling.

They arrived at Ablain without accident. There they inquired
and learned that the prince had in reality quitted Bethune
and stationed himself between Cambria and La Venthie.
Therefore, leaving directions at every place for Grimaud,
they took a crossroad which conducted the little troop by
the bank of a small stream flowing into the Lys. The country
was beautiful, intersected by valleys as green as the
emerald. Here and there they passed little copses crossing
the path which they were following. In anticipation of some
ambuscade in each of these little woods the tutor placed his
two servants at the head of the band, thus forming the
advance guard. Himself and the two young men represented the
body of the army, whilst Olivain, with his rifle upon his
knee and his eyes upon the watch, protected the rear.

They had observed for some time before them, on the horizon,
a rather thick wood; and when they had arrived at a distance
of a hundred steps from it, Monsieur d'Arminges took his
usual precautions and sent on in advance the count's two
grooms. The servants had just disappeared under the trees,
followed by the tutor, and the young men were laughing and
talking about a hundred yards off. Olivain was at the same
distance in the rear, when suddenly there resounded five or
six musket-shots. The tutor cried halt; the young men
obeyed, pulling up their steeds, and at the same moment the
two valets were seen returning at a gallop.

The young men, impatient to learn the cause of the firing,
spurred on toward the servants. The tutor followed them.

"Were you stopped?" eagerly inquired the two youths.

"No," replied the servants, "it is even probable that we
have not been seen; the shots were fired about a hundred
paces in advance of us, in the thickest part of the wood,
and we returned to ask your advice."

"My advice is this," said Monsieur d'Arminges, "and if needs
be, my will, that we beat a retreat. There may be an
ambuscade concealed in this wood."

"Did you see nothing there?" asked the count.

"I thought I saw," said one of the servants, "horsemen
dressed in yellow, creeping along the bed of the stream.

"That's it," said the tutor. "We have fallen in with a party
of Spaniards. Come back, sirs, back."

The two youths looked at each other, and at this moment a
pistol-shot and cries for help were heard. Another glance
between the young men convinced them both that neither had
any wish to go back, and as the tutor had already turned his
horse's head, they both spurred forward, Raoul crying:
"Follow me, Olivain!" and the Count de Guiche: "Follow,
Urban and Planchet!" And before the tutor could recover from
his surprise they had both disappeared into the forest.
Whilst they spurred their steeds they held their pistols
ready also. In five minutes they arrived at the spot whence
the noise had proceeded, and then restraining their horses,
they advanced cautiously.

"Hush," whispered De Guiche, "these are cavaliers."

"Yes, three on horseback and three who have dismounted."

"Can you see what they are doing?"

"Yes, they appear to be searching a wounded or dead man."

"It is some cowardly assassination," said De Guiche.

"They are soldiers, though," resumed De Bragelonne.

"Yes, skirmishers; that is to say, highway robbers."

"At them!" cried Raoul. "At them!" echoed De Guiche.

"Oh! gentlemen! gentlemen! in the name of Heaven!" cried the
poor tutor.

But he was not listened to, and his cries only served to
arouse the attention of the Spaniards.

The men on horseback at once rushed at the two youths,
leaving the three others to complete the plunder of the dead
or wounded travelers; for on approaching nearer, instead of
one extended figure, the young men discovered two. De Guiche
fired the first shot at ten paces and missed his man; and
the Spaniard, who had advanced to meet Raoul, aimed in his
turn, and Raoul felt a pain in the left arm, similar to that
of a blow from a whip. He let off his fire at but four
paces. Struck in the breast and extending his arms, the
Spaniard fell back on the crupper, and the terrified horse,
turning around, carried him off.

Raoul at this moment perceived the muzzle of a gun pointed
at him, and remembering the recommendation of Athos, he,
with the rapidity of lightning, made his horse rear as the
shot was fired. His horse bounded to one side, losing its
footing, and fell, entangling Raoul's leg under its body.
The Spaniard sprang forward and seized the gun by its
muzzle, in order to strike Raoul on the head with the butt.
In the position in which Raoul lay, unfortunately, he could
neither draw his sword from the scabbard, nor his pistols
from their holsters. The butt end of the musket hovered over
his head, and he could scarcely restrain himself from
closing his eyes, when with one bound Guiche reached the
Spaniard and placed a pistol at his throat. "Yield!" he
cried, "or you are a dead man!" The musket fell from the
soldier's hands, who yielded on the instant. Guiche summoned
one of his grooms, and delivering the prisoner into his
charge, with orders to shoot him through the head if he
attempted to escape, he leaped from his horse and approached
Raoul.

"Faith, sir," said Raoul, smiling, although his pallor
betrayed the excitement consequent on a first affair, "you
are in a great hurry to pay your debts and have not been
long under any obligation to me. Without your aid,"
continued he, repeating the count's words "I should have
been a dead man -- thrice dead."

"My antagonist took flight," replied De Guiche "and left me
at liberty to come to your assistance. But are you seriously
wounded? I see you are covered with blood!"

"I believe," said Raoul, "that I have got something like a
scratch on the arm. If you will help me to drag myself from
under my horse I hope nothing need prevent us continuing our
journey."

Monsieur d'Arminges and Olivain had already dismounted and
were attempting to raise the struggling horse. At last Raoul
succeeded in drawing his foot from the stirrup and his leg
from under the animal, and in a second he was on his feet
again.

"Nothing broken?" asked De Guiche.

"Faith, no, thank Heaven!" replied Raoul; "but what has
become of the poor wretches whom these scoundrels were
murdering?"

"I fear we arrived too late. They have killed them, I think,
and taken flight, carrying off their booty. My servants are
examining the bodies."

"Let us go and see whether they are quite dead, or if they
can still be helped," suggested Raoul. "Olivain, we have
come into possession of two horses, but I have lost my own.
Take for yourself the better of the two and give me yours."

They approached the spot where the unfortunate victims lay.



31

The Monk.



Two men lay prone upon the ground, one bathed in blood and
motionless, with his face toward the earth; this one was
dead. The other leaned against a tree, supported there by
the two valets, and was praying fervently, with clasped
hands and eyes raised to Heaven. He had received a ball in
his thigh, which had broken the bone. The young men first
approached the dead man.

"He is a priest," said Bragelonne, "he has worn the tonsure.
Oh, the scoundrels! to lift their hands against a minister
of God."

"Come here, sir," said Urban, an old soldier who had served
under the cardinal duke in all his campaigns; "come here,
there is nothing to be done with him, whilst we may perhaps
be able to save the other."

The wounded man smiled sadly. "Save me! Oh, no!" said he,
"but help me to die, if you can."

"Are you a priest?" asked Raoul.

"No sir."

"I ask, as your unfortunate companion appeared to me to
belong to the church."

"He is the curate of Bethune, sir, and was carrying the holy
vessels belonging to his church, and the treasure of the
chapter, to a safe place, the prince having abandoned our
town yesterday; and as it was known that bands of the enemy
were prowling about the country, no one dared to accompany
the good man, so I offered to do so.

"And, sir," continued the wounded man, "I suffer much and
would like, if possible, to be carried to some house."

"Where you can be relieved?" asked De Guiche.

"No, where I can confess."

"But perhaps you are not so dangerously wounded as you
think," said Raoul.

"Sir," replied the wounded man, "believe me, there is no
time to lose; the ball has broken the thigh bone and entered
the intestines."

"Are you a surgeon?" asked De Guiche.

"No, but I know a little about wounds, and mine, I know, is
mortal. Try, therefore, either to carry me to some place
where I may see a priest or take the trouble to send one to
me here. It is my soul that must be saved; as for my body,
it is lost."

"To die whilst doing a good deed! It is impossible. God will
help you."

"Gentlemen, in the name of Heaven!" said the wounded man,
collecting all his forces, as if to get up, "let us not lose
time in useless words. Either help me to gain the nearest
village or swear to me on your salvation that you will send
me the first monk, the first cure, the first priest you may
meet. But," he added in a despairing tone, "perhaps no one
will dare to come for it is known that the Spaniards are
ranging through the country, and I shall die without
absolution. My God! my God! Good God! good God!" added the
wounded man, in an accent of terror which made the young men
shudder; "you will not allow that? that would be too
terrible!"

"Calm yourself, sir," replied De Guiche. "I swear to you,
you shall receive the consolation that you ask. Only tell us
where we shall find a house at which we can demand aid and a
village from which we can fetch a priest."

"Thank you, and God reward you! About half a mile from this,
on the same road, there is an inn, and about a mile further
on, after leaving the inn, you will reach the village of
Greney. There you must find the curate, or if he is not at
home, go to the convent of the Augustines, which is the last
house on the right, and bring me one of the brothers. Monk
or priest, it matters not, provided only that he has
received from holy church the power of absolving in articulo
mortis."

"Monsieur d'Arminges," said De Guiche, "remain beside this
unfortunate man and see that he is removed as gently as
possible. The vicomte and myself will go and find a priest."

"Go, sir," replied the tutor; "but in Heaven's name do not
expose yourself to danger!"

"Do not fear. Besides, we are safe for to-day; you know the
axiom, `Non bis in idem.'"

"Courage, sir," said Raoul to the wounded man. "We are going
to execute your wishes."

"May Heaven prosper you!" replied the dying man, with an
accent of gratitude impossible to describe.

The two young men galloped off in the direction mentioned
and in ten minutes reached the inn. Raoul, without
dismounting, called to the host and announced that a wounded
man was about to be brought to his house and begged him in
the meantime to prepare everything needful. He desired him
also, should he know in the neighborhood any doctor or
chirurgeon, to fetch him, taking on himself the payment of
the messenger.

The host, who saw two young noblemen, richly clad, promised
everything they required, and our two cavaliers, after
seeing that preparations for the reception were actually
begun, started off again and proceeded rapidly toward
Greney.

They had gone rather more than a league and had begun to
descry the first houses of the village, the red-tiled roofs
of which stood out from the green trees which surrounded
them, when, coming toward them mounted on a mule, they
perceived a poor monk, whose large hat and gray worsted
dress made them take him for an Augustine brother. Chance
for once seemed to favor them in sending what they were so
assiduously seeking. He was a man about twenty-two or
twenty-three years old, but who appeared much older from
ascetic exercises. His complexion was pale, not of that
deadly pallor which is a kind of neutral beauty, but of a
bilious, yellow hue; his colorless hair was short and
scarcely extended beyond the circle formed by the hat around
his head, and his light blue eyes seemed destitute of any
expression.

"Sir," began Raoul, with his usual politeness, "are you an
ecclesiastic?"

"Why do you ask me that?" replied the stranger, with a
coolness which was barely civil.

"Because we want to know," said De Guiche, haughtily.

The stranger touched his mule with his heel and continued
his way.

In a second De Guiche had sprung before him and barred his
passage. "Answer, sir," exclaimed he; "you have been asked
politely, and every question is worth an answer."

"I suppose I am free to say or not to say who I am to two
strangers who take a fancy to ask me."

It was with difficulty that De Guiche restrained the intense
desire he had of breaking the monk's bones.

"In the first place," he said, making an effort to control
himself, "we are not people who may be treated anyhow; my
friend there is the Viscount of Bragelonne and I am the
Count de Guiche. Nor was it from caprice we asked the
question, for there is a wounded and dying man who demands
the succor of the church. If you be a priest, I conjure you
in the name of humanity to follow me to aid this man; if you
be not, it is a different matter, and I warn you in the name
of courtesy, of which you appear profoundly ignorant, that I
shall chastise you for your insolence."

The pale face of the monk became so livid and his smile so
strange, that Raoul, whose eyes were still fixed upon him,
felt as if this smile had struck to his heart like an
insult.

"He is some Spanish or Flemish spy," said he, putting his
hand to his pistol. A glance, threatening and transient as
lightning, replied to Raoul.

"Well, sir," said De Guiche, "are you going to reply?"

"I am a priest," said the young man.

"Then, father," said Raoul, forcing himself to convey a
respect by speech that did not come from his heart, "if you
are a priest you have an opportunity, as my friend has told
you, of exercising your vocation. At the next inn you will
find a wounded man, now being attended by our servants, who
has asked the assistance of a minister of God."

"I will go," said the monk.

And he touched his mule.

"If you do not go, sir," said De Guiche, "remember that we
have two steeds able to catch your mule and the power of
having you seized wherever you may be; and then I swear your
trial will be summary; one can always find a tree and a
cord."

The monk's eye again flashed, but that was all; he merely
repeated his phrase, "I will go," -- and he went.

"Let us follow him," said De Guiche; "it will be the surest
plan."

"I was about to propose so doing," answered De Bragelonne.

In the space of five minutes the monk turned around to
ascertain whether he was followed or not.

"You see," said Raoul, "we have done wisely."

"What a horrible face that monk has," said De Guiche.

"Horrible!" replied Raoul, "especially in expression."

"Yes, yes," said De Guiche, "a strange face; but these monks
are subject to such degrading practices; their fasts make
them pale, the blows of the discipline make them hypocrites,
and their eyes become inflamed through weeping for the good
things of this life we common folk enjoy, but they have
lost."

"Well," said Raoul, "the poor man will get his priest, but,
by Heaven, the penitent appears to me to have a better
conscience than the confessor. I confess I am accustomed to
priests of a very different appearance."

"Ah!" exclaimed De Guiche, "you must understand that this is
one of those wandering brothers, who go begging on the high
road until some day a benefice falls down from Heaven on
them; they are mostly foreigners -- Scotch, Irish or Danish.
I have seen them before."

"As ugly?"

"No, but reasonably hideous."

"What a misfortune for the wounded man to die under the
hands of such a friar!"

"Pshaw!" said De Guiche. "Absolution comes not from him who
administers it, but from God. However, for my part, I would
rather die unshriven than have anything to say to such a
confessor. You are of my opinion, are you not, viscount? and
I see you playing with the pommel of your sword, as if you
had a great inclination to break the holy father's head."

"Yes, count, it is a strange thing and one which might
astonish you, but I feel an indescribable horror at the
sight of yonder man. Have you ever seen a snake rise up on
your path?"

"Never," answered De Guiche.

"Well, it has happened to me to do so in our Blaisois
forests, and I remember that the first time I encountered
one with its eyes fixed upon me, curled up, swinging its
head and pointing its tongue, I remained fixed, pale and as
though fascinated, until the moment when the Comte de la
Fere ---- "

"Your father?" asked De Guiche.

"No, my guardian," replied Raoul, blushing.

"Very well ---- "

"Until the moment when the Comte de la Fere," resumed Raoul,
"said, `Come, Bragelonne, draw your sword;' then only I
rushed upon the reptile and cut it in two, just at the
moment when it was rising on its tail and hissing, ere it
sprang upon me. Well, I vow I felt exactly the same
sensation at sight of that man when he said, `Why do you ask
me that?' and looked so strangely at me."

"Then you regret that you did not cut your serpent in two
morsels?"

"Faith, yes, almost," said Raoul.

They had now arrived within sight of the little inn and
could see on the opposite side the procession bearing the
wounded man and guided by Monsieur d'Arminges. The youths
spurred on.

"There is the wounded man," said De Guiche, passing close to
the Augustine brother. "Be good enough to hurry yourself a
little, monsieur monk."

As for Raoul, he avoided the monk by the whole width of the
road and passed him, turning his head away in repulsion.

The young men rode up to the wounded man to announce that
they were followed by the priest. He raised himself to
glance in the direction which they pointed out, saw the
monk, and fell back upon the litter, his face illumined by
joy.

"And now," said the youths, "we have done all we can for
you; and as we are in haste to rejoin the prince's army we
must continue our journey. You will excuse us, sir, but we
are told that a battle is expected and we do not wish to
arrive the day after it."

"Go, my young sirs," said the sick man, "and may you both be
blessed for your piety. You have done for me, as you
promised, all that you could do. As for me I can only
repeat, may God protect you and all dear to you!"

"Sir," said De Guiche to his tutor, "we will precede you,
and you can rejoin us on the road to Cambrin."

The host was at his door and everything was prepared -- bed,
bandages, and lint; and a groom had gone to Lens, the
nearest village, for a doctor.

"Everything," said he to Raoul, "shall be done as you
desire; but you will not stop to have your wound dressed?"

"Oh, my wound -- mine -- 'tis nothing," replied the
viscount; "it will be time to think about it when we next
halt; only have the goodness, should you see a cavalier who
makes inquiries about a young man on a chestnut horse
followed by a servant, to tell him, in fact, that you have
seen me, but that I have continued my journey and intend to
dine at Mazingarbe and to stop at Cambrin. This cavalier is
my attendant."

"Would it not be safer and more certain if I should ask him
his name and tell him yours?" demanded the host.

"There is no harm in over-precaution. I am the Viscount de
Bragelonne and he is called Grimaud."

At this moment the wounded man arrived from one direction
and the monk from the other, the latter dismounting from his
mule and desiring that it should be taken to the stables
without being unharnessed.

"Sir monk," said De Guiche, "confess well that brave man;
and be not concerned for your expenses or for those of your
mule; all is paid."

"Thanks, monsieur," said the monk, with one of those smiles
that made Bragelonne shudder.

"Come, count," said Raoul, who seemed instinctively to
dislike the vicinity of the Augustine; "come, I feel ill
here," and the two young men spurred on.

The litter, borne by two servants, now entered the house.
The host and his wife were standing on the steps, whilst the
unhappy man seemed to suffer dreadful pain and yet to be
concerned only to know if he was followed by the monk. At
sight of this pale, bleeding man, the wife grasped her
husband's arm.

"Well, what's the matter?" asked the latter, "are you going
to be ill just now?"

"No, but look," replied the hostess, pointing to the wounded
man; "I ask you if you recognize him?"

"That man -- wait a bit."

"Ah! I see you know him," exclaimed the wife; "for you have
become pale in your turn."

"Truly," cried the host, "misfortune is coming on our house;
it is the former executioner of Bethune."

"The former executioner of Bethune!" murmured the young
monk, shrinking back and showing on his countenance the
feeling of repugnance which his penitent inspired.

Monsieur d'Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his
hesitation.

"Sir monk," said he, "whether he is now or has been an
executioner, this unfortunate being is none the less a man.
Render to him, then, the last service he can by any
possibility ask of you, and your work will be all the more
meritorious."

The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the
room where the two valets had deposited the dying man on a
bed. D'Arminges and Olivain and the two grooms then mounted
their horses, and all four started off at a quick trot to
rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as the tutor and his
escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler stopped on
the threshold of the inn.

"What does your worship want?" demanded the host, pale and
trembling from the discovery he had just made.

The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then
pointed to his horse and gesticulated like a man who is
brushing something.

"Ah, diable!" said the host to himself; "this man seems
dumb. And where will your worship drink?"

"There," answered the traveler, pointing to the table.

"I was mistaken," said the host, "he's not quite dumb. And
what else does your worship wish for?"

"To know if you have seen a young man pass, fifteen years of
age, mounted on a chestnut horse and followed by a groom?"

"The Viscount de Bragelonne?

"Just so."

"Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?"

The traveler made a sign of assent.

"Well, then," said the host, "your young master was here a
quarter of an hour ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and sleep
at Cambrin."

"How far is Mazingarbe?"

"Two miles and a half."

"Thank you."

Grimaud was drinking his wine silently and had just placed
his glass on the table to be filled a second time, when a
terrific scream resounded from the room occupied by the monk
and the dying man. Grimaud sprang up.

"What is that?" said he; "whence comes that cry?"

"From the wounded man's room," replied the host.

"What wounded man?"

"The former executioner of Bethune, who has just been
brought in here, assassinated by Spaniards, and who is now
being confessed by an Augustine friar."

"The old executioner of Bethune," muttered Grimaud; "a man
between fifty-five and sixty, tall, strong, swarthy, black
hair and beard?"

"That is he, except that his beard has turned gray and his
hair is white; do you know him?" asked the host.

"I have seen him once," replied Grimaud, a cloud darkening
his countenance at the picture so suddenly summoned to the
bar of recollection.

At this instant a second cry, less piercing than the first,
but followed by prolonged groaning, was heard.

The three listeners looked at one another in alarm.

"We must see what it is," said Grimaud.

"It sounds like the cry of one who is being murdered,"
murmured the host.

"Mon Dieu!" said the woman, crossing herself.

If Grimaud was slow in speaking, we know that he was quick
to act; he sprang to the door and shook it violently, but it
was bolted on the other side.

"Open the door!" cried the host; "open it instantly, sir
monk!"

No reply.

"Unfasten it, or I will break it in!" said Grimaud.

The same silence, and then, ere the host could oppose his
design, Grimaud seized a pair of pincers he perceived in a
corner and forced the bolt. The room was inundated with
blood, dripping from the mattresses upon which lay the
wounded man, speechless; the monk had disappeared.

"The monk!" cried the host; "where is the monk?"

Grimaud sprang toward an open window which looked into the
courtyard.

"He has escaped by this means," exclaimed he.

"Do you think so?" said the host, bewildered; "boy, see if
the mule belonging to the monk is still in the stable."

"There is no mule," cried he to whom this question was
addressed.

The host clasped his hands and looked around him
suspiciously, whilst Grimaud knit his brows and approached
the wounded man, whose worn, hard features awoke in his mind
such awful recollections of the past.

"There can be no longer any doubt but that it is himself,"
said he.

"Does he still live?" inquired the innkeeper.

Making no reply, Grimaud opened the poor man's jacket to
feel if the heart beat, whilst the host approached in his
turn; but in a moment they both fell back, the host uttering
a cry of horror and Grimaud becoming pallid. The blade of a
dagger was buried up to the hilt in the left side of the
executioner.

"Run! run for help!" cried Grimaud, "and I will remain
beside him here."

The host quitted the room in agitation, and as for his wife,
she had fled at the sound of her husband's cries.



32

The Absolution.



This is what had taken place: We have seen that it was not
of his own free will, but, on the contrary, very
reluctantly, that the monk attended the wounded man who had
been recommended to him in so strange a manner. Perhaps he
would have sought to escape by flight had he seen any
possibility of doing so. He was restrained by the threats of
the two gentlemen and by the presence of their attendants,
who doubtless had received their instructions. And besides,
he considered it most expedient, without exhibiting too much
ill-will, to follow to the end his role as confessor.

The monk entered the chamber and approached the bed of the
wounded man. The executioner searched his face with the
quick glance peculiar to those who are about to die and have
no time to lose. He made a movement of surprise and said:

"Father, you are very young."

"Men who bear my robe have no, age," replied the monk,
dryly.

"Alas, speak to me more gently, father; in my last moments I
need a friend."

"Do you suffer much?" asked the monk.

"Yes, but in my soul much more than in my body."

"We will save your soul," said the young man; "but are you
really the executioner of Bethune, as these people say?"

"That is to say," eagerly replied the wounded man, who
doubtless feared that the name of executioner would take
from him the last help that he could claim -- "that is to
say, I was, but am no longer; it is fifteen years since I
gave up the office. I still assist at executions, but no
longer strike the blow myself -- no, indeed."

"You have, then, a repugnance to your profession?"

"So long as I struck in the name of the law and of justice
my profession allowed me to sleep quietly, sheltered as I
was by justice and law; but since that terrible night when I
became an instrument of private vengeance and when with
personal hatred I raised the sword over one of God's
creatures -- since that day ---- "

The executioner paused and shook his head with an expression
of despair.

"Tell me about it," said the monk, who, sitting on the foot
of the bed, began to be interested in a story so strangely
introduced.

"Ah!" cried the dying man, with all the effusiveness of a
grief declared after long suppression, "ah! I have sought to
stifle remorse by twenty years of good deeds; I have
assuaged the natural ferocity of those who shed blood; on
every occasion I have exposed my life to save those who were
in danger, and I have preserved lives in exchange for that I
took away. That is not all; the money gained in the exercise
of my profession I have distributed to the poor; I have been
assiduous in attending church and those who formerly fled
from me have become accustomed to seeing me. All have
forgiven me, some have even loved me; but I think that God
has not pardoned me, for the memory of that execution
pursues me constantly and every night I see that woman's
ghost rising before me."

"A woman! You have assassinated a woman, then?" cried the
monk.

"You also!" exclaimed the executioner, "you use that word
which sounds ever in my ears -- `assassinated!' I have
assassinated, then, and not executed! I am an assassin,
then, and not an officer of justice!" and he closed his eyes
with a groan.

The monk doubtless feared that he would die without saying
more, for he exclaimed eagerly:

"Go on, I know nothing, as yet; when you have finished your
story, God and I will judge."

"Oh, father," continued the executioner, without opening his
eyes, as if he feared on opening them to see some frightful
object, "it is especially when night comes on and when I
have to cross a river, that this terror which I have been
unable to conquer comes upon me; it then seems as if my hand
grew heavy, as if the cutlass was still in its grasp, as if
the water had the color of blood, and all the voices of
nature -- the whispering of the trees, the murmur of the
wind, the lapping of the wave -- united in a voice tearful,
despairing, terrible, crying to me, `Place for the justice
of God!'"

"Delirium!" murmured the monk, shaking his head.

The executioner opened his eyes, turned toward the young man
and grasped his arm.

"`Delirium,'" he repeated; "`delirium,' do you say? Oh, no!
I remember too well. It was evening; I had thrown the body
into the river and those words which my remorse repeats to
me are those which I in my pride pronounced. After being the
instrument of human justice I aspired to be that of the
justice of God."

"But let me see, how was it done? Speak," said the monk.

"It was at night. A man came to me and showed me an order
and I followed him. Four other noblemen awaited me. They led
me away masked. I reserved the right of refusing if the
office they required of me should seem unjust. We traveled
five or six leagues, serious, silent, and almost without
speaking. At length, through the window of a little hut,
they showed me a woman sitting, leaning on a table, and
said, `there is the person to be executed.'"

"Horrible!" said the monk. "And you obeyed?"

"Father, that woman was a monster. It was said that she had
poisoned her second husband; she had tried to assassinate
her brother-in-law; she had just poisoned a young woman who
was her rival, and before leaving England she had, it was
believed, caused the favorite of the king to be murdered."

"Buckingham?" cried the monk.

"Yes, Buckingham."

"The woman was English, then?"

"No, she was French, but she had married in England."

The monk turned pale, wiped his brow and went and bolted the
door. The executioner thought that he had abandoned him and
fell back, groaning, upon his bed.

"No, no; I am here," said the monk, quickly coming back to
him. "Go on; who were those men?"

"One of them was a foreigner, English, I think. The four
others were French and wore the uniform of musketeers."

"Their names?" asked the monk.

"I don't know them, but the four other noblemen called the
Englishman `my lord.'"

"Was the woman handsome?"

"Young and beautiful. Oh, yes, especially beautiful. I see
her now, as on her knees at my feet, with her head thrown
back, she begged for life. I have never understood how I
could have laid low a head so beautiful, with a face so
pale."

The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion; he trembled
all over; he seemed eager to put a question which yet he
dared not ask. At length, with a violent effort at
self-control:

"The name of that woman?" he said.

"I don't know what it was. As I have said, she was twice
married, once in France, the second time in England."

"She was young, you say?"

"Twenty-five years old."

"Beautiful?"

"Ravishingly."

"Blond?"

"Yes."

"Abundance of hair -- falling over her shoulders?"

"Yes."

"Eyes of an admirable expression?"

"When she chose. Oh, yes, it is she!"

"A voice of strange sweetness?"

"How do you know it?"

The executioner raised himself on his elbow and gazed with a
frightened air at the monk, who became livid.

"And you killed her?" the monk exclaimed. "You were the tool
of those cowards who dared not kill her themselves? You had
no pity for that youthfulness, that beauty, that weakness?
you killed that woman?"

"Alas! I have already told you, father, that woman, under
that angelic appearance, had an infernal soul, and when I
saw her, when I recalled all the evil she had done to me
---- "

"To you? What could she have done to you? Come, tell me!"

"She had seduced and ruined my brother, a priest. She had
fled with him from her convent."

"With your brother?"

"Yes, my brother was her first lover, and she caused his
death. Oh, father, do not look in that way at me! Oh, I am
guilty, then; you will not pardon me?"

The monk recovered his usual expression.

"Yes, yes," he said, "I will pardon you if you tell me all."

"Oh!" cried the executioner, "all! all! all!"

"Answer, then. If she seduced your brother -- you said she
seduced him, did you not?"

"Yes."

"If she caused his death -- you said that she caused his
death?"

"Yes," repeated the executioner.

"Then you must know what her name was as a young girl."

"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried the executioner, "I think I am dying.
Absolution, father! absolution."

"Tell me her name and I will give it."

"Her name was ---- My God, have pity on me!" murmured the
executioner; and he fell back on the bed, pale, trembling,
and apparently about to die.

"Her name!" repeated the monk, bending over him as if to
tear from him the name if he would not utter it; "her name!
Speak, or no absolution!"

The dying man collected all his forces.

The monk's eyes glittered.

"Anne de Bueil," murmured the wounded man.

"Anne de Bueil!" cried the monk, standing up and lifting his
hands to Heaven. "Anne de Bueil! You said Anne de Bueil, did
you not?"

"Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am
dying."

"I, absolve you!" cried the priest, with a laugh which made
the dying man's hair stand on end; "I, absolve you? I am not
a priest."

"You are not a priest!" cried the executioner. "What, then,
are you?"

"I am about to tell you, wretched man."

"Oh, mon Dieu!"

"I am John Francis de Winter."

"I do not know you," said the executioner.

"Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I am John Francis de
Winter," he repeated, "and that woman ---- "

"Well, that woman?"

"Was my mother!"

The executioner uttered the first cry, that terrible cry
which had been first heard.

"Oh, pardon me, pardon me!" he murmured; "if not in the name
of God, at least in your own name; if not as priest, then as
son."

"Pardon you!" cried the pretended monk, "pardon you! Perhaps
God will pardon you, but I, never!"

"For pity's sake," said the executioner, extending his arms.

"No pity for him who had no pity! Die, impenitent, die in
despair, die and be damned!" And drawing a poniard from
beneath his robe he thrust it into the breast of the wounded
man, saying, "Here is my absolution!"

Then was heard that second cry, not so loud as the first and
followed by a long groan.

The executioner, who had lifted himself up, fell back upon
his bed. As to the monk, without withdrawing the poniard
from the wound, he ran to the window, opened it, leaped out
into the flowers of a small garden, glided onward to the
stable, took out his mule, went out by a back gate, ran to a
neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took from
his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed
himself in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there
a horse and continued with a loose rein his journey to
Paris.



33

Grimaud Speaks.



Grimaud was left alone with the executioner, who in a few
moments opened his eyes.

"Help, help," he murmured; "oh, God! have I not a single
friend in the world who will aid me either to live or to
die?"

"Take courage," said Grimaud; "they are gone to find
assistance."

"Who are you?" asked the wounded man, fixing his half opened
eyes on Grimaud.

"An old acquaintance," replied Grimaud.

"You?" and the wounded man sought to recall the features of
the person now before him.

"Under what circumstances did we meet?" he asked again.

"One night, twenty years ago, my master fetched you from
Bethune and conducted you to Armentieres."

"I know you well now," said the executioner; "you were one
of the four grooms."

"Just so."

"Where do you come from now?"

"I was passing by and drew up at this inn to rest my horse.
They told me the executioner of Bethune was here and
wounded, when you uttered two piercing cries. At the first
we ran to the door and at the second forced it open."

"And the monk?" exclaimed the executioner, "did you see the
monk?"

"What monk?"

"The monk that was shut in with me."

"No, he was no longer here; he appears to have fled by the
window. Was he the man that stabbed you?"

"Yes," said the executioner.

Grimaud moved as if to leave the room.

"What are you going to do?" asked the wounded man.

"He must be apprehended."

"Do not attempt it; he has revenged himself and has done
well. Now I may hope that God will forgive me, since my
crime is expiated."

"Explain yourself." said Grimaud.

"The woman whom you and your masters commanded me to kill
---- "

"Milady?"

"Yes, Milady; it is true you called her thus."

"What has the monk to do with this Milady?"

"She was his mother."

Grimaud trembled and stared at the dying man in a dull and
leaden manner.

"His mother!" he repeated.

"Yes, his mother."

"But does he know this secret, then?"

"I mistook him for a monk and revealed it to him in
confession."

"Unhappy man!" cried Grimaud, whose face was covered with
sweat at the bare idea of the evil results such a revelation
might cause; "unhappy man, you named no one, I hope?"

"I pronounced no name, for I knew none, except his mother's,
as a young girl, and it was by this name that he recognized
her, but he knows that his uncle was among her judges."

Thus speaking, he fell back exhausted. Grimaud, wishing to
relieve him, advanced his hand toward the hilt of the
dagger.

"Touch me not!" said the executioner; "if this dagger is
withdrawn I shall die."

Grimaud remained with his hand extended; then, striking his
forehead, he exclaimed:

"Oh! if this man should ever discover the names of the
others, my master is lost."

"Haste! haste to him and warn him," cried the wounded man,
"if he still lives; warn his friends, too. My death, believe
me, will not be the end of this atrocious misadventure."

"Where was the monk going?" asked Grimaud.

"Toward Paris."

"Who stopped him?"

"Two young gentlemen, who were on their way to join the army
and the name of one of whom I heard his companion mention --
the Viscount de Bragelonne."

"And it was this young man who brought the monk to you? Then
it was the will of God that it should be so and this it is
which makes it all so awful," continued Grimaud. "And yet
that woman deserved her fate; do you not think so?"

"On one's death-bed the crimes of others appear very small
in comparison with one's own," said the executioner; and
falling back exhausted he closed his eyes.

Grimaud was reluctant to leave the man alone and yet he
perceived the necessity of starting at once to bear these
tidings to the Comte de la Fere. Whilst he thus hesitated
the host re-entered the room, followed not only by a
surgeon, but by many other persons, whom curiosity had
attracted to the spot. The surgeon approached the dying man,
who seemed to have fainted.

"We must first extract the steel from the side," said he,
shaking his head in a significant manner.

The prophecy which the wounded man had just uttered recurred
to Grimaud, who turned away his head. The weapon, as we have
already stated, was plunged into the body to the hilt, and
as the surgeon, taking it by the end, drew it forth, the
wounded man opened his eyes and fixed them on him in a
manner truly frightful. When at last the blade had been
entirely withdrawn, a red froth issued from the mouth of the
wounded man and a stream of blood spouted afresh from the
wound when he at length drew breath; then, fixing his eyes
upon Grimaud with a singular expression, the dying man
uttered the last death-rattle and expired.

Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from the pool of blood
which was gliding along the room, to the horror of all
present, made a sign to the host to follow him, paid him
with a generosity worthy of his master and again mounted his
horse. Grimaud's first intention had been to return to
Paris, but he remembered the anxiety which his prolonged
absence might occasion Raoul, and reflecting that there were
now only two miles between the vicomte and himself and a
quarter of an hour's riding would unite them, and that the
going, returning and explanation would not occupy an hour,
he put spurs to his horse and a few minutes after had
reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.

Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his
tutor, when all at once the door opened and Grimaud
presented himself, travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with
the blood of the unhappy executioner.

"Grimaud, my good Grimaud!" exclaimed Raoul "here you are at
last! Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend.
How did you leave the count?" continued he. "Does he regret
me a little? Have you seen him since I left him? Answer, for
I have many things to tell you, too; indeed, the last three
days some odd adventures have happened -- but what is the
matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?"

"It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the
inn and who died in my arms."

"In your arms? -- that man! but know you who he was?"

"He used to be the headsman of Bethune."

"You knew him? and he is dead?"

"Yes."

"Well, sir," said D'Arminges, "it is the common lot; even an
executioner is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the
moment I saw his wound, and since he asked for a monk you
know that it was his opinion, too, that death would follow."

At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.

"Come, come," continued D'Arminges, "to dinner;" for like
most men of his age and generation he did not allow
sentiment or sensibility to interfere with a repast.

"You are right, sir," said Raoul. "Come, Grimaud, order
dinner for yourself and when you have rested a little we can
talk."

"No, sir, no," said Grimaud. "I cannot stop a moment; I must
start for Paris again immediately."

"What? You start for Paris? You are mistaken; it is Olivain
who leaves me; you are to remain."

"On the contrary, Olivain is to stay and I am to go. I have
come for nothing else but to tell you so."

"But what is the meaning of this change?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Explain yourself."

"I cannot explain myself."

"Come, tell me, what is the joke?"

"Monsieur le vicomte knows that I never joke."

"Yes, but I know also that Monsieur le Comte de la Fere
arranged that you were to remain with me and that Olivain
should return to Paris. I shall follow the count's
directions."

"Not under present circumstances, monsieur."

"Perhaps you mean to disobey me?"

"Yes, monsieur, I must."

"You persist, then?"

"Yes, I am going; may you be happy, monsieur," and Grimaud
saluted and turned toward the door to go out.

Raoul, angry and at the same time uneasy, ran after him and
seized him by the arm. "Grimaud!" he cried; "remain; I wish
it."

"Then," replied Grimaud, "you wish me to allow monsieur le
comte to be killed." He saluted and made a movement to
depart.

"Grimaud, my friend," said the viscount, "will you leave me
thus, in such anxiety? Speak, speak, in Heaven's name!" And
Raoul fell back trembling upon his chair.

"I can tell you but one thing, sir, for the secret you wish
to know is not my own. You met a monk, did you not?"

"Yes."

The young men looked at each other with an expression of
fear.

"You conducted him to the wounded man and you had time to
observe him, and perhaps you would know him again were you
to meet him."

"Yes, yes!" cried both young men.

"Very well; if ever you meet him again, wherever it may be,
whether on the high road or in the street or in a church,
anywhere that he or you may be, put your foot on his neck
and crush him without pity, without mercy, as you would
crush a viper or a scorpion! destroy him utterly and quit
him not until he is dead; the lives of five men are not
safe, in my opinion, as long as he is on the earth."

And without adding another word, Grimaud, profiting by the
astonishment and terror into which he had thrown his
auditors, rushed from the room. Two minutes later the
thunder of a horse's hoofs was heard upon the road; it was
Grimaud, on his way to Paris. When once in the saddle
Grimaud reflected on two things; first, that at the pace he
was going his horse would not carry him ten miles, and
secondly, that he had no money. But Grimaud's ingenuity was
more prolific than his speech, and therefore at the first
halt he sold his steed and with the money obtained from the
purchase took post horses.



34

On the Eve of Battle.



Raoul was aroused from his sombre reflections by his host,
who rushed into the apartment crying out, "The Spaniards!
the Spaniards!"

That cry was of such importance as to overcome all
preoccupation. The young men made inquiries and ascertained
that the enemy was advancing by way of Houdin and Bethune.

While Monsieur d'Arminges gave orders for the horses to be
made ready for departure, the two young men ascended to the
upper windows of the house and saw in the direction of
Marsin and of Lens a large body of infantry and cavalry.
This time it was not a wandering troop of partisans; it was
an entire army. There was therefore nothing for them to do
but to follow the prudent advice of Monsieur d'Arminges and
beat a retreat. They quickly went downstairs. Monsieur
d'Arminges was already mounted. Olivain had ready the horses
of the young men, and the lackeys of the Count de Guiche
guarded carefully between them the Spanish prisoner, mounted
on a pony which had been bought for his use. As a further
precaution they had bound his hands.

The little company started off at a trot on the road to
Cambrin, where they expected to find the prince. But he was
no longer there, having withdrawn on the previous evening to
La Bassee, misled by false intelligence of the enemy's
movements. Deceived by this intelligence he had concentrated
his forces between Vieille-Chapelle and La Venthie; and
after a reconnoissance along the entire line, in company
with Marshal de Grammont, he had returned and seated himself
before a table, with his officers around him. He questioned
them as to the news they had each been charged to obtain,
but nothing positive had been learned. The hostile army had
disappeared two days before and seemed to have gone out of
existence.

Now an enemy is never so near and consequently so
threatening, as when he has completely disappeared. The
prince was, therefore, contrary to his custom, gloomy and
anxious, when an officer entered and announced to Marshal de
Grammont that some one wished to see him.

The Duc de Grammont received permission from the prince by a
glance and went out. The prince followed him with his eyes
and continued looking at the door; no one ventured to speak,
for fear of disturbing him.

Suddenly a dull and heavy noise was heard. The prince leaped
to his feet, extending his hand in the direction whence came
the sound, there was no mistaking it -- it was the noise of
cannon. Every one stood up.

At that moment the door opened.

"Monseigneur," said Marshal de Grammont, with a radiant
face, "will your highness permit my son, Count de Guiche,
and his traveling companion, Viscount de Bragelonne, to come
in and give news of the enemy, whom they have found while we
were looking for him?"

"What!" eagerly replied the prince, "will I permit? I not
only permit, I desire; let them come in."

The marshal introduced the two young men and placed them
face to face with the prince.

"Speak, gentlemen," said the prince, saluting them; "first
speak; we shall have time afterward for the usual
compliments. The most urgent thing now is to learn where the
enemy is and what he is doing."

It fell naturally to the Count de Guiche to make reply; not
only was he the elder, but he had been presented to the
prince by his father. Besides, he had long known the prince,
whilst Raoul now saw him for the first time. He therefore
narrated to the prince what they had seen from the inn at
Mazingarbe.

Meanwhile Raoul closely observed the young general, already
made so famous by the battles of Rocroy, Fribourg, and
Nordlingen.

Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Conde, who, since the death of
his father, Henri de Bourbon, was called, in accordance with
the custom of that period, Monsieur le Prince, was a young
man, not more than twenty-six or twenty-seven years old,
with the eye of an eagle -- agl' occhi grifani, as Dante
says -- aquiline nose, long, waving hair, of medium height,
well formed, possessed of all the qualities essential to the
successful soldier -- that is to say, the rapid glance,
quick decision, fabulous courage. At the same time he was a
man of elegant manners and strong mind, so that in addition
to the revolution he had made in war, by his new
contributions to its methods, he had also made a revolution
at Paris, among the young noblemen of the court, whose
natural chief he was and who, in distinction from the social
leaders of the ancient court, modeled after Bassompierre,
Bellegarde and the Duke d'Angouleme, were called the
petits-maitres.

At the first words of the Count de Guiche, the prince,
having in mind the direction whence came the sound of
cannon, had understood everything. The enemy was marching
upon Lens, with the intention, doubtless, of securing
possession of that town and separating from France the army
of France. But in what force was the enemy? Was it a corps
sent out to make a diversion? Was it an entire army? To this
question De Guiche could not respond.

Now, as these questions involved matters of gravest
consequence, it was these to which the prince had especially
desired an answer, exact, precise, positive.

Raoul conquered the very natural feeling of timidity he
experienced and approaching the prince:

"My lord," he said, "will you permit me to hazard a few
words on that subject, which will perhaps relieve you of
your uncertainty?"

The prince turned and seemed to cover the young man with a
single glance; he smiled on perceiving that he was a child
hardly fifteen years old.

"Certainly, monsieur, speak," he said, softening his stern,
accented tones, as if he were speaking to a woman.

"My lord," said Raoul, blushing, "might examine the Spanish
prisoner."

"Have you a Spanish prisoner?" cried the prince.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ah, that is true," said De Guiche; "I had forgotten it."

"That is easily understood; it was you who took him, count,"
said Raoul, smiling.

The old marshal turned toward the viscount, grateful for
that praise of his son, whilst the prince exclaimed:

"The young man is right; let the prisoner be brought in."

Meanwhile the prince took De Guiche aside and asked him how
the prisoner had been taken and who this young man was.

"Monsieur," said the prince, turning toward Raoul, "I know
that you have a letter from my sister, Madame de
Longueville; but I see that you have preferred commending
yourself to me by giving me good counsel."

"My lord," said Raoul, coloring up, "I did not wish to
interrupt your highness in a conversation so important as
that in which you were engaged with the count. But here is
the letter."

"Very well," said the prince; "give it to me later. Here is
the prisoner; let us attend to what is most pressing."

The prisoner was one of those military adventurers who sold
their blood to whoever would buy, and grew old in stratagems
and spoils. Since he had been taken he had not uttered a
word, so that it was not known to what country he belonged.
The prince looked at him with unspeakable distrust.

"Of what country are you?" asked the prince.

The prisoner muttered a few words in a foreign tongue.

"Ah! ah! it seems that he is a Spaniard. Do you speak
Spanish, Grammont?"

"Faith, my lord, but indifferently."

"And I not at all," said the prince, laughing. "Gentlemen,"
he said, turning to those who were near him "can any one of
you speak Spanish and serve me as interpreter?"

"I can, my lord," said Raoul.

"Ah, you speak Spanish?"

"Enough, I think, to fulfill your highness's wishes on this
occasion."

Meanwhile the prisoner had remained impassive and as if he
had no understanding of what was taking place.

"My lord asks of what country you are," said the young man,
in the purest Castilian.

"Ich bin ein Deutscher," replied the prisoner.

"What in the devil does he say?" asked the prince. "What new
gibberish is that?"

"He says he is German, my lord," replied Raoul; "but I doubt
it, for his accent is bad and his pronunciation defective."

"Then you speak German, also?" asked the prince.

"Yes, my lord."

"Well enough to question him in that language?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Question him, then."

Raoul began the examination, but the result justified his
opinion. The prisoner did not understand, or seemed not to
understand, what Raoul said to him; and Raoul could hardly
understand his replies, containing a mixture of Flemish and
Alsatian. However, amidst all the prisoner's efforts to
elude a systematic examination, Raoul had recognized his
natural accent.

"Non siete Spagnuolo," he said; "non siete Tedesco; siete
Italiano."

The prisoner started and bit his lips.

"Ah, that," said the prince, "I understand that language
thoroughly; and since he is Italian I will myself continue
the examination. Thank you, viscount," continued the prince,
laughing, "and I appoint you from this moment my
interpreter."

But the prisoner was not less unwilling to respond in
Italian than in the other languages; his aim was to elude
the examination. Therefore, he knew nothing either of the
enemy's numbers, or of those in command, or of the purpose
of the army.

"Very good," said the prince, understanding the reason of
that ignorance; "the man was caught in the act of
assassination and robbery; he might have purchased his life
by speaking; he doesn't wish to speak. Take him out and
shoot him."

The prisoner turned pale. The two soldiers who had brought
him in took him, each by one arm, and led him toward the
door, whilst the prince, turning to Marshal de Grammont,
seemed to have already forgotten the order he had given.

When he reached the threshold of the door the prisoner
stopped. The soldiers, who knew only their orders, attempted
to force him along.

"One moment," said the prisoner, in French. "I am ready to
speak, my lord."

"Ah! ah!" said the prince, laughing, "I thought we should
come to that. I have a sure method of limbering tongues.
Young men, take advantage of it against the time when you
may be in command."

"But on condition," continued the prisoner, "that your
highness will swear that my life shall be safe."

"Upon my honor," said the prince.

"Question, then, my lord."

"Where did the army cross the Lys?"

"Between Saint-Venant and Aire."

"By whom is it commanded?"

"By Count de Fuonsaldagna, General Beck and the archduke."

"Of how many does it consist?"

"Eighteen thousand men and thirty-six cannon."

"And its aim is?"

"Lens."

"You see; gentlemen!" said the prince, turning with a
triumphant air toward Marshal de Grammont and the other
officers.

"Yes, my lord," said the marshal, "you have divined all that
was possible to human genius."

"Recall Le Plessis, Bellievre, Villequier and D'Erlac," said
the prince, "recall all the troops that are on this side of
the Lys. Let them hold themselves in readiness to march
to-night. To-morrow, according to all probability, we shall
attack the enemy."

"But, my lord," said Marshal de Grammont, "consider that
when we have collected all our forces we shall have hardly
thirteen thousand men."

"Monsieur le marechal," said the prince, with that wonderful
glance that was peculiar to him, "it is with small armies
that great battles are won."

Then turning toward the prisoner, "Take away that man," he
said, "and keep him carefully in sight. His life is
dependent on the information he has given us; if it is true,
he shall be free; if false, let him be shot."

The prisoner was led away.

"Count de Guiche," said the prince, "it is a long time since
you saw your father, remain here with him. Monsieur," he
continued, addressing Raoul, "if you are not too tired,
follow me."

"To the end of the world, my lord!" cried Raoul, feeling an
unknown enthusiasm for that young general, who seemed to him
so worthy of his renown.

The prince smiled; he despised flatterers, but he
appreciated enthusiasts.

"Come, monsieur," he said, "you are good in council, as we
have already discovered; to-morrow we shall know if you are
good in action."

"And I," said the marshal, "what am I to do?"

"Wait here to receive the troops. I shall either return for
them myself or shall send a courier directing you to bring
them to me. Twenty guards, well mounted, are all that I
shall need for my escort."

"That is very few," said the marshal.

"It is enough," replied the prince. "Have you a good horse,
Monsieur de Bragelonne?"

"My horse was killed this morning, my lord, and I am mounted
provisionally on my lackey's."

"Choose for yourself in my stables the horse you like best.
No false modesty; take the best horse you can find. You will
need it this evening, perhaps; you will certainly need it
to-morrow."

Raoul didn't wait to be told twice; he knew that with
superiors, especially when those superiors are princes, the
highest politeness is to obey without delay or argument; he
went down to the stables, picked out a pie-bald Andalusian
horse, saddled and bridled it himself, for Athos had advised
him to trust no one with those important offices at a time
of danger, and went to rejoin the prince, who at that moment
mounted his horse.

"Now, monsieur," he said to Raoul, "will you give me the
letter you have brought?"

Raoul handed the letter to the prince.

"Keep near me," said the latter.

The prince threw his bridle over the pommel of the saddle,
as he was wont to do when he wished to have both hands free,
unsealed the letter of Madame de Longueville and started at
a gallop on the road to Lens, attended by Raoul and his
small escort, whilst messengers sent to recall the troops
set out with a loose rein in other directions. The prince
read as he hastened on.

"Monsieur," he said, after a moment, "they tell me great
things of you. I have only to say, after the little that I
have seen and heard, that I think even better of you than I
have been told.'

Raoul bowed.

Meanwhile, as the little troop drew nearer to Lens, the
noise of the cannon sounded louder. The prince kept his gaze
fixed in the direction of the sound with the steadfastness
of a bird of prey. One would have said that his gaze could
pierce the branches of trees which limited his horizon. From
time to time his nostrils dilated as if eager for the smell
of powder, and he panted like a horse.

At length they heard the cannon so near that it was evident
they were within a league of the field of battle, and at a
turn of the road they perceived the little village of Aunay.

The peasants were in great commotion. The report of Spanish
cruelty had gone out and every one was frightened. The women
had already fled, taking refuge in Vitry; only a few men
remained. On seeing the prince they hastened to meet him.
One of them recognized him.

"Ah, my lord," he said, "have you come to drive away those
rascal Spaniards and those Lorraine robbers?"

"Yes," said the prince, "if you will serve me as guide."

"Willingly, my lord. Where does your highness wish to go?"

"To some elevated spot whence I can look down on Lens and
the surrounding country ---- "

"In that case, I'm your man."

"I can trust you -- you are a true Frenchman?"

"I am an old soldier of Rocroy, my lord."

"Here," said the prince, handing him a purse, "here is for
Rocroy. Now, do you want a horse, or will you go afoot?"

"Afoot, my lord; I have served always in the infantry.
Besides, I expect to lead your highness into places where
you will have to walk."

"Come, then," said the prince; "let us lose no time."

The peasant started off, running before the prince's horse;
then, a hundred steps from the village, he took a narrow
road hidden at the bottom of the valley. For a half league
they proceeded thus, the cannon-shot sounding so near that
they expected at each discharge to hear the hum of the
balls. At length they entered a path which, going out from
the road, skirted the mountainside. The prince dismounted,
ordered one of his aids and Raoul to follow his example, and
directed the others to await his orders, keeping themselves
meanwhile on the alert. He then began to ascend the path.

In about ten minutes they reached the ruins of an old
chateau; those ruins crowned the summit of a hill which
overlooked the surrounding country. At a distance of hardly
a quarter of a league they looked down on Lens, at bay, and
before Lens the enemy's entire army.

With a single glance the prince took in the extent of
country that lay before him, from Lens as far as Vimy. In a
moment the plan of the battle which on the following day was
to save France the second time from invasion was unrolled in
his mind. He took a pencil, tore a page from his tablets and
wrote:



My Dear Marshal, -- In an hour Lens will be in the enemy's
possession. Come and rejoin me; bring with you the whole
army. I shall be at Vendin to place it in position.
To-morrow we shall retake Lens and beat the enemy."



Then, turning toward Raoul: "Go, monsieur," he said; "ride
fast and give this letter to Monsieur de Grammont."

Raoul bowed, took the letter, went hastily down the
mountain, leaped on his horse and set out at a gallop. A
quarter of an hour later he was with the marshal.

A portion of the troops had already arrived and the
remainder was expected from moment to moment. Marshal de
Grammont put himself at the head of all the available
cavalry and infantry and took the road to Vendin, leaving
the Duc de Chatillon to await and bring on the rest. All the
artillery was ready to move, and started off at a moment's
notice.

It was seven o'clock in the evening when the marshal arrived
at the appointed place. The prince awaited him there. As he
had foreseen, Lens had fallen into the hands of the enemy
immediately after Raoul's departure. The event was announced
by the cessation of the firing.

As the shadows of night deepened the troops summoned by the
prince arrived in successive detachments. Orders were given
that no drum should be beaten, no trumpet sounded.

At nine o'clock the night had fully come. Still a last ray
of twilight lighted the plain. The army marched silently,
the prince at the head of the column. Presently the army
came in sight of Lens; two or three houses were in flames
and a dull noise was heard which indicated what suffering
was endured by a town taken by assault.

The prince assigned to every one his post. Marshal de
Grammont was to hold the extreme left, resting on Mericourt.
The Duc de Chatillon commanded the centre. Finally, the
prince led the right wing, resting on Aunay. The order of
battle on the morrow was to be that of the positions taken
in the evening. Each one, on awaking, would find himself on
the field of battle.

The movement was executed in silence and with precision. At
ten o'clock every one was in his appointed position; at
half-past ten the prince visited the posts and gave his
final orders for the following day.

Three things were especially urged upon the officers, who
were to see that the soldiers observed them scrupulously:
the first, that the different corps should so march that
cavalry and infantry should be on the same line and that
each body should protect its gaps; the second, to go to the
charge no faster than a walk; the third, to let the enemy
fire first.

The prince assigned the Count de Guiche to his father and
kept Bragelonne near his own person; but the two young men
sought the privilege of passing the night together and it
was accorded them. A tent was erected for them near that of
the marshal.

Although the day had been fatiguing, neither of them was
inclined to sleep. And besides, even for old soldiers the
evening before a battle is a serious time; it was so with
greater reason to two young men who were about to witness
for the first time that terrible spectacle. On the evening
before a battle one thinks of a thousand things forgotten
till then; those who are indifferent to one another become
friends and those who are friends become brothers. It need
not be said that if in the depths of the heart there is a
sentiment more tender, it reaches then, quite naturally, the
highest exaltation of which it is capable. Some sentiment of
this kind must have been cherished by each one of these two
friends, for each of them almost immediately sat down by
himself at an end of the tent and began to write.

The letters were long -- the four pages were covered with
closely written words. The writers sometimes looked up at
each other and smiled; they understood without speaking,
their organizations were so delicate and sympathetic. The
letters being finished, each put his own into two envelopes,
so that no one, without tearing the first envelope, could
discover to whom the second was addressed; then they drew
near to each other and smilingly exchanged their letters.

"In case any evil should happen to me," said Bragelonne.

"In case I should be killed," said De Guiche.

They then embraced each other like two brothers, and each
wrapping himself in his cloak they soon passed into that
kindly sleep of youth which is the prerogative of birds,
flowers and infants.



35

A Dinner in the Old Style.



The second interview between the former musketeers was not
so formal and threatening as the first. Athos, with his
superior understanding, wisely deemed that the supper table
would be the most complete and satisfactory point of
reunion, and at the moment when his friends, in deference to
his deportment and sobriety, dared scarcely speak of some of
their former good dinners, he was the first to propose that
they should all assemble around some well spread table and
abandon themselves unreservedly to their own natural
character and manners -- a freedom which had formerly
contributed so much to that good understanding between them
which gave them the name of the inseparables. For different
reasons this was an agreeable proposition to them all, and
it was therefore agreed that each should leave a very exact
address and that upon the request of any of the associates a
meeting should be convoked at a famous eating house in the
Rue de la Monnaie, of the sign of the Hermitage. The first
rendezvous was fixed for the following Wednesday, at eight
o'clock in the evening precisely.

On that day, in fact, the four friends arrived punctually at
the hour, each from his own abode or occupation. Porthos had
been trying a new horse; D'Artagnan was on guard at the
Louvre; Aramis had been to visit one of his penitents in the
neighborhood; and Athos, whose domicile was established in
the Rue Guenegaud, found himself close at hand. They were,
therefore, somewhat surprised to meet altogether at the door
of the Hermitage, Athos starting out from the Pont Neuf,
Porthos by the Rue de la Roule, D'Artagnan by the Rue des
Fosse Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, and Aramis by the Rue de
Bethisy.

The first words exchanged between the four friends, on
account of the ceremony which each of them mingled with
their demonstration, were somewhat forced and even the
repast began with a kind of stiffness. Athos perceived this
embarrassment, and by way of supplying an effectual remedy,
called for four bottles of champagne.

At this order, given in Athos's habitually calm manner, the
face of the Gascon relaxed and Porthos's brow grew smooth.
Aramis was astonished. He knew that Athos not only never
drank, but more, that he had a kind of repugnance to wine.
This astonishment was doubled when Aramis saw Athos fill a
bumper and toss it off with all his former enthusiasm. His
companions followed his example. In a very few minutes the
four bottles were empty and this excellent specific
succeeded in dissipating even the slightest cloud that might
have rested on their spirits. Now the four friends began to
speak loud, scarcely waiting till one had finished before
another began, and each assumed his favorite attitude on or
at the table. Soon -- strange fact -- Aramis undid two
buttons of his doublet, seeing which, Porthos unfastened his
entirely.

Battles, long journeys, blows given and received, sufficed
for the first themes of conversation, which turned upon the
silent struggles sustained against him who was now called
the great cardinal.

"Faith," said Aramis, laughing, "we have praised the dead
enough, let us revile the living a little; I should like to
say something evil of Mazarin; is it permissible?"

"Go on, go on," replied D'Artagnan, laughing heartily;
"relate your story and I will applaud it if it is a good
one."

"A great prince," said Aramis, "with whom Mazarin sought an
alliance, was invited by him to send him a list of the
conditions on which he would do him the honor to negotiate
with him. The prince, who had a great repugnance to treat
with such an ill-bred fellow, made out a list, against the
grain, and sent it. In this list there were three conditions
which displeased Mazarin and he offered the prince ten
thousand crowns to renounce them."

"Ah, ha, ha!" laughed the three friends, "not a bad bargain;
and there was no fear of being taken at his word; what did
the prince do then?"

"The prince immediately sent fifty thousand francs to
Mazarin, begging him never to write to him again, and
offered twenty thousand francs more, on condition that he
would never speak to him. What did Mazarin do?"

"Stormed!" suggested Athos.

"Beat the messenger!" cried Porthos.

"Accepted the money!" said D'Artagnan.

"You have guessed it," answered Aramis; and they all laughed
so heartily that the host appeared in order to inquire
whether the gentlemen wanted anything; he thought they were
fighting.

At last their hilarity calmed down and:

"Faith!" exclaimed D'Artagnan to the two friends, "you may
well wish ill to Mazarin; for I assure you, on his side he
wishes you no good."

"Pooh! really?" asked Athos. "If I thought the fellow knew
me by my name I would be rebaptized, for fear it might be
thought I knew him."

"He knows you better by your actions than your name; he is
quite aware that there are two gentlemen who greatly aided
the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort, and he has instigated an
active search for them, I can answer for it."

"By whom?"

"By me; and this morning he sent for me to ask me if I had
obtained any information."

"And what did you reply?"

"That I had none as yet; but that I was to dine to-day with
two gentlemen, who would be able to give me some."

"You told him that?" said Porthos, a broad smile spreading
over his honest face. "Bravo! and you are not afraid of
that, Athos?"

"No," replied Athos, "it is not the search of Mazarin that I
fear."

"Now," said Aramis, "tell me a little what you do fear."

"Nothing for the present; at least, nothing in good
earnest."

"And with regard to the past?" asked Porthos.

"Oh! the past is another thing," said Athos, sighing; "the
past and the future."

"Are you afraid for your young Raoul?" asked Aramis.

"Well," said D'Artagnan, "one is never killed in a first
engagement."

"Nor in the second," said Aramis

"Nor in the third," returned Porthos; "and even when one is
killed, one rises again, the proof of which is, that here we
are!"

"No," said Athos, "it is not Raoul about whom I am anxious,
for I trust he will conduct himself like a gentleman; and if
he is killed -- well, he will die bravely; but hold --
should such a misfortune happen -- well -- " Athos passed
his hand across his pale brow.

"Well?" asked Aramis.

"Well, I shall look upon it as an expiation."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan; "I know what you mean."

"And I, too," added Aramis; "but you must not think of that,
Athos; what is past, is past."

"I don't understand," said Porthos.

"The affair at Armentieres," whispered D'Artagnan.

"The affair at Armentieres?" asked he again.

"Milady."

"Oh, yes!" said Porthos; "true, I had forgotten it!"

Athos looked at him intently.

"You have forgotten it, Porthos?" said he.

"Faith! yes, it is so long ago," answered Porthos.

"This affair does not, then, weigh upon your conscience?"

"Faith, no."

"And you, D'Artagnan?"

"I -- I own that when my mind returns to that terrible
period I have no recollection of anything but the rigid
corpse of poor Madame Bonancieux. Yes, yes," murmured he, "I
have often felt regret for the victim, but never the very
slightest remorse for the assassin."

Athos shook his dead doubtfully.

"Consider," said Aramis, "if you admit divine justice and
its participation in the things of this world, that woman
was punished by the will of heaven. We were but the
instruments, that is all."

"But as to free will, Aramis?"

"How acts the judge? He has a free will, yet he fearlessly
condemns. What does the executioner? He is master of his
arm, yet he strikes without remorse."

"The executioner!" muttered Athos, as if arrested by some
recollection.

"I know that it is terrible," said D'Artagnan; "but when I
reflect that we have killed English, Rochellais, Spaniards,
nay, even French, who never did us any other harm but to aim
at and to miss us, whose only fault was to cross swords with
us and to be unable to ward off our blows -- I can, on my
honor, find an excuse for my share in the murder of that
woman."

"As for me," said Porthos, "now that you have reminded me of
it, Athos, I have the scene again before me, as if I now
were there. Milady was there, as it were, where you sit."
(Athos changed color.) "I -- I was where D'Artagnan stands.
I wore a long sword which cut like a Damascus -- you
remember it, Aramis for you always called it Balizarde.
Well, I swear to you, all three, that had the executioner of
Bethune -- was he not of Bethune? -- yes, egad! of Bethune!
-- not been there, I would have cut off the head of that
infamous being without thinking of it, or even after
thinking of it. She was a most atrocious woman."

"And then," said Aramis, with the tone of philosophical
indifference which he had assumed since he had belonged to
the church and in which there was more atheism than
confidence in God, "what is the use of thinking of it all?
At the last hour we must confess this action and God knows
better than we can whether it is a crime, a fault, or a
meritorious deed. I repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my honor
and by the holy cross; I only regret it because she was a
woman."

"The most satisfactory part of the matter," said D'Artagnan,
"is that there remains no trace of it."

"She had a son," observed Athos.

"Oh! yes, I know that," said D'Artagnan, "and you mentioned
it to me; but who knows what has become of him? If the
serpent be dead, why not its brood? Do you think his uncle
De Winter would have brought up that young viper? De Winter
probably condemned the son as he had done the mother."

"Then," said Athos, "woe to De Winter, for the child had
done no harm."

"May the devil take me, if the child be not dead," said
Porthos. "There is so much fog in that detestable country,
at least so D'Artagnan declares."

Just as the quaint conclusion reached by Porthos was about
to bring back hilarity to faces now more or less clouded,
hasty footsteps were heard upon the stair and some one
knocked at the door.

"Come in," cried Athos.

"Please your honors," said the host, "a person in a great
hurry wishes to speak to one of you."

"To which of us?" asked all the four friends.

"To him who is called the Comte de la Fere."

"It is I," said Athos, "and what is the name of the person?"

"Grimaud."

"Ah!" exclaimed Athos, turning pale. "Back already! What can
have happened, then, to Bragelonne?"

"Let him enter," cried D'Artagnan; "let him come up."

But Grimaud had already mounted the staircase and was
waiting on the last step; so springing into the room he
motioned the host to leave it. The door being closed, the
four friends waited in expectation. Grimaud's agitation, his
pallor, the sweat which covered his face, the dust which
soiled his clothes, all indicated that he was the messenger
of some important and terrible news.

"Your honors," said he, "that woman had a child; that child
has become a man; the tigress had a little one, the tiger
has roused himself; he is ready to spring upon you --
beware!"

Athos glanced around at his friends with a melancholy smile.
Porthos turned to look at his sword, which was hanging on
the wall; Aramis seized his knife; D'Artagnan arose.

"What do you mean, Grimaud?" he exclaimed.

"That Milady's son has left England, that he is in France,
on his road to Paris, if he be not here already."

"The devil he is!" said Porthos. "Are you sure of it?"

"Certain," replied Grimaud.

This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so
breathless, so exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a
chair. Athos filled a beaker with champagne and gave it to
him.

"Well, after all," said D'Artagnan, "supposing that he
lives, that he comes to Paris; we have seen many other such.
Let him come."

"Yes," echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword,
still hanging on the wall; "we can wait for him; let him
come."

"Moreover, he is but a child," said Aramis.

Grimaud rose.

"A child!" he exclaimed. "Do you know what he has done, this
child? Disguised as a monk he discovered the whole history
in confession from the executioner of Bethune, and having
confessed him, after having learned everything from him, he
gave him absolution by planting this dagger into his heart.
See, it is on fire yet with his hot blood, for it is not
thirty hours since it was drawn from the wound."

And Grimaud threw the dagger on the table.

D'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis rose and in one spontaneous
motion rushed to their swords. Athos alone remained seated,
calm and thoughtful.

"And you say he is dressed as a monk, Grimaud?"

"Yes, as an Augustine monk."

"What sized man is he?"

"About my height; thin, pale, with light blue eyes and tawny
flaxen hair."

"And he did not see Raoul?" asked Athos.

"Yes, on the contrary, they met, and it was the viscount
himself who conducted him to the bed of the dying man."

Athos, in his turn, rising without speaking, went and
unhooked his sword.

"Heigh, sir," said D'Artagnan, trying to laugh, "do you know
we look very much like a flock of silly, mouse-evading
women! How is it that we, four men who have faced armies
without blinking, begin to tremble at the mention of a
child?"

"It is true," said Athos, "but this child comes in the name
of Heaven."

And very soon they left the inn.



36

A Letter from Charles the First.



The reader must now cross the Seine with us and follow us to
the door of the Carmelite Convent in the Rue Saint Jacques.
It is eleven o'clock in the morning and the pious sisters
have just finished saying mass for the success of the armies
of King Charles I. Leaving the church, a woman and a young
girl dressed in black, the one as a widow and the other as
an orphan, have re-entered their cell.

The woman kneels on a prie-dieu of painted wood and at a
short distance from her stands the young girl, leaning
against a chair, weeping.

The woman must have once been handsome, but traces of sorrow
have aged her. The young girl is lovely and her tears only
embellish her; the lady appears to be about forty years of
age, the girl about fourteen.

"Oh, God!" prayed the kneeling suppliant, "protect my
husband, guard my son, and take my wretched life instead!"

"Oh, God!" murmured the girl, "leave me my mother!"

"Your mother can be of no use to you in this world,
Henrietta," said the lady, turning around. "Your mother has
no longer either throne or husband; she has neither son,
money nor friends; the whole world, my poor child, has
abandoned your mother!" And she fell back, weeping, into her
daughter's arms.

"Courage, take courage, my dear mother!" said the girl.

"Ah! 'tis an unfortunate year for kings," said the mother.
"And no one thinks of us in this country, for each must
think about his own affairs. As long as your brother was
with me he kept me up; but he is gone and can no longer send
us news of himself, either to me or to your father. I have
pledged my last jewels, sold your clothes and my own to pay
his servants, who refused to accompany him unless I made
this sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at the expense of
these daughters of Heaven; we are the poor, succored by
God."

"But why not address yourself to your sister, the queen?"
asked the girl.

"Alas! the queen, my sister, is no longer queen, my child.
Another reigns in her name. One day you will be able to
understand how all this is."

"Well, then, to the king, your nephew. Shall I speak to him?
You know how much he loves me, my mother.

"Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has
told us twenty times that he himself is in need of almost
everything."

"Then let us pray to Heaven," said the girl.

The two women who thus knelt in united prayer were the
daughter and grand-daughter of Henry IV., the wife and
daughter of Charles I.

They had just finished their double prayer, when a nun
softly tapped at the door of the cell.

"Enter, my sister," said the queen.

"I trust your majesty will pardon this intrusion on her
meditations, but a foreign lord has arrived from England and
waits in the parlor, demanding the honor of presenting a
letter to your majesty."

"Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps. News from
your father, do you hear, Henrietta? And the name of this
lord?"

"Lord de Winter."

"Lord de Winter!" exclaimed the queen, "the friend of my
husband. Oh, bid him enter!"

And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she
seized affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a
letter to her, contained in a case of gold.

"Ah! my lord!" said the queen, "you bring us three things
which we have not seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted
friend, and a letter from the king, our husband and master."

De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of
emotion.

On their side the mother and daughter retired into the
embrasure of a window to read eagerly the following letter:



Dear Wife, -- We have now reached the moment of decision. I
have concentrated here at Naseby camp all the resources
Heaven has left me, and I write to you in haste from thence.
Here I await the army of my rebellious subjects. I am about
to struggle for the last time with them. If victorious, I
shall continue the struggle; if beaten, I am lost. I shall
try, in the latter case (alas! in our position, one must
provide for everything), I shall try to gain the coast of
France. But can they, will they receive an unhappy king, who
will bring such a sad story into a country already agitated
by civil discord? Your wisdom and your affection must serve
me as guides. The bearer of this letter will tell you,
madame, what I dare not trust to pen and paper and the risks
of transit. He will explain to you the steps that I expect
you to pursue. I charge him also with my blessing for my
children and with the sentiments of my soul for yourself, my
dearest sweetheart."



The letter bore the signature, not of "Charles, King," but
of "Charles -- still king."

"And let him be no longer king," cried the queen. "Let him
be conquered, exiled, proscribed, provided he still lives.
Alas! in these days the throne is too dangerous a place for
me to wish him to retain it. But my lord, tell me," she
continued, "hide nothing from me -- what is, in truth, the
king's position? Is it as hopeless as he thinks?"

"Alas! madame, more hopeless than he thinks. His majesty has
so good a heart that he cannot understand hatred; is so
loyal that he does not suspect treason! England is torn in
twain by a spirit of disturbance which, I greatly fear,
blood alone can exorcise."

"But Lord Montrose," replied the queen, "I have heard of his
great and rapid successes of battles gained. I heard it said
that he was marching to the frontier to join the king."

"Yes, madame; but on the frontier he was met by Lesly; he
had tried victory by means of superhuman undertakings. Now
victory has abandoned him. Montrose, beaten at Philiphaugh,
was obliged to disperse the remains of his army and to fly,
disguised as a servant. He is at Bergen, in Norway."

"Heaven preserve him!" said the queen. "It is at least a
consolation to know that some who have so often risked their
lives for us are safe. And now, my lord, that I see how
hopeless the position of the king is, tell me with what you
are charged on the part of my royal husband."

"Well, then, madame," said De Winter, "the king wishes you
to try and discover the dispositions of the king and queen
toward him."

"Alas! you know that even now the king is but a child and
the queen a woman weak enough. Here, Monsieur Mazarin is
everything."

"Does he desire to play the part in France that Cromwell
plays in England?"

"Oh, no! He is a subtle, conscienceless Italian, who though
he very likely dreams of crime, dares not commit it; and
unlike Cromwell, who disposes of both Houses, Mazarin has
had the queen to support him in his struggle with the
parliament."

"More reason, then, he should protect a king pursued by
parliament."

The queen shook her head despairingly.

"If I judge for myself, my lord," she said, "the cardinal
will do nothing, and will even, perhaps, act against us. The
presence of my daughter and myself in France is already
irksome to him; much more so would be that of the king. My
lord," added Henrietta, with a melancholy smile, "it is sad
and almost shameful to be obliged to say that we have passed
the winter in the Louvre without money, without linen,
almost without bread, and often not rising from bed because
we wanted fire."

"Horrible!" cried De Winter; "the daughter of Henry IV., and
the wife of King Charles! Wherefore did you not apply, then,
madame, to the first person you saw from us?"

"Such is the hospitality shown to a queen by the minister
from whom a king demands it."

"But I heard that a marriage between the Prince of Wales and
Mademoiselle d'Orleans was spoken of," said De Winter.

"Yes, for an instant I hoped it was so. The young people
felt a mutual esteem; but the queen, who at first sanctioned
their affection, changed her mind, and Monsieur, the Duc
d'Orleans, who had encouraged the familiarity between them,
has forbidden his daughter to think any more about the
union. Oh, my lord!" continued the queen, without
restraining her tears, "it is better to fight as the king
has done, and to die, as perhaps he will, than live in
beggary like me."

"Courage, madame! courage! Do not despair! The interests of
the French crown, endangered at this moment, are to
discountenance rebellion in a neighboring nation. Mazarin,
as a statesman, will understand the politic necessity."

"Are you sure," said the queen doubtfully, "that you have
not been forestalled?"

"By whom?"

"By the Joices, the Prinns, the Cromwells?"

"By a tailor, a coachmaker, a brewer! Ah! I hope, madame,
that the cardinal will not enter into negotiations with such
men!"

"Ah! what is he himself?" asked Madame Henrietta.

"But for the honor of the king -- of the queen."

"Well, let us hope he will do something for the sake of
their honor," said the queen. "A true friend's eloquence is
so powerful, my lord, that you have reassured me. Give me
your hand and let us go to the minister; and yet," she
added, "suppose he should refuse and that the king loses the
battle?"

"His majesty will then take refuge in Holland, where I hear
his highness the Prince of Wales now is."

"And can his majesty count upon many such subjects as
yourself for his flight?"

"Alas! no, madame," answered De Winter; "but the case is
provided for and I am come to France to seek allies."

"Allies!" said the queen, shaking her head.

"Madame," replied De Winter, "provided I can find some of my
good old friends of former times I will answer for
anything."

"Come then, my lord," said the queen, with the painful doubt
that is felt by those who have suffered much; "come, and may
Heaven hear you."



37

Cromwell's Letter.



At the very moment when the queen quitted the convent to go
to the Palais Royal, a young man dismounted at the gate of
this royal abode and announced to the guards that he had
something of importance to communicate to Cardinal Mazarin.
Although the cardinal was often tormented by fear, he was
more often in need of counsel and information, and he was
therefore sufficiently accessible. The true difficulty of
being admitted was not to be found at the first door, and
even the second was passed easily enough; but at the third
watched, besides the guard and the doorkeepers, the faithful
Bernouin, a Cerberus whom no speech could soften, no wand,
even of gold, could charm.

It was therefore at the third door that those who solicited
or were bidden to an audience underwent their formal
interrogatory.

The young man having left his horse tied to the gate in the
court, mounted the great staircase and addressed the guard
in the first chamber.

"Cardinal Mazarin?" said he.

"Pass on," replied the guard.

The cavalier entered the second hall, which was guarded by
the musketeers and doorkeepers.

"Have you a letter of audience?" asked a porter, advancing
to the new arrival.

"I have one, but not one from Cardinal Mazarin."

"Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin," said the porter,
opening the door of the third room. Whether he only held his
usual post or whether it was by accident, Monsieur Bernouin
was found standing behind the door and must have heard all
that had passed.

"You seek me, sir," said he. "From whom may the letter be
you bear to his eminence?"

"From General Oliver Cromwell," said the new comer. "Be so
good as to mention this name to his eminence and to bring me
word whether he will receive me -- yes or no."

Saying which, he resumed the proud and sombre bearing
peculiar at that time to Puritans. Bernouin cast an
inquisitorial glance at the person of the young man and
entered the cabinet of the cardinal, to whom he transmitted
the messenger's words.

"A man bringing a letter from Oliver Cromwell?" said
Mazarin. "And what kind of a man?"

"A genuine Englishman, your eminence. Hair sandy-red -- more
red than sandy; gray-blue eyes -- more gray than blue; and
for the rest, stiff and proud."

"Let him give in his letter."

"His eminence asks for the letter," said Bernouin, passing
back into the ante-chamber.

"His eminence cannot see the letter without the bearer of
it," replied the young man; "but to convince you that I am
really the bearer of a letter, see, here it is; and kindly
add," continued he, "that I am not a simple messenger, but
an envoy extraordinary."

Bernouin re-entered the cabinet, returning in a few seconds.
"Enter, sir," said he.

The young man appeared on the threshold of the minister's
closet, in one hand holding his hat, in the other the
letter. Mazarin rose. "Have you, sir," asked he, "a letter
accrediting you to me?"

"There it is, my lord," said the young man.

Mazarin took the letter and read it thus:



"Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter
of introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in
Paris. He is also the bearer of a second confidential
epistle for his eminence.

"Oliver Cromwell.



"Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt," said Mazarin, "give me this
second letter and sit down."

The young man drew from his pocket a second letter,
presented it to the cardinal, and took his seat. The
cardinal, however, did not unseal the letter at once, but
continued to turn it again and again in his hand; then, in
accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience
that few people could hide anything from him when he began
to question them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same
time, he thus addressed the messenger:

"You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult
task of ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often
fail."

"My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence
is mistaken in saying that I am young. I am older than your
eminence, although I possess not your wisdom. Years of
suffering, in my opinion, count double, and I have suffered
for twenty years."

"Ah, yes, I understand," said Mazarin; "want of fortune,
perhaps. You are poor, are you not?" Then he added to
himself: "These English Revolutionists are all beggars and
ill-bred."

"My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it
has been taken from me."

"You are not, then, a man of the people?" said Mazarin,
astonished.

"If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my
name you would have heard one of the most illustrious names
of England."

"What is your name, then?" asked Mazarin.

"My name is Mordaunt," replied the young man, bowing.

Mazarin now understood that Cromwell's envoy desired to
retain his incognito. He was silent for an instant, and
during that time he scanned the young man even more
attentively than he had done at first. The messenger was
unmoved.

"Devil take these Puritans," said Mazarin aside; "they are
carved from granite." Then he added aloud, "But you have
relations left you?"

"I have one remaining. Three times I presented myself to ask
his support and three times he ordered his servants to turn
me away."

"Oh, mon Dieu! my dear Mr. Mordaunt," said Mazarin, hoping
by a display of affected pity to catch the young man in a
snare, "how extremely your history interests me! You know
not, then, anything of your birth -- you have never seen
your mother?"

"Yes, my lord; she came three times, whilst I was a child,
to my nurse's house; I remember the last time she came as
well as if it were to-day."

"You have a good memory," said Mazarin.

"Oh! yes, my lord," said the young man, with such peculiar
emphasis that the cardinal felt a shudder run through every
vein.

"And who brought you up?" he asked again.

"A French nurse, who sent me away when I was five years old
because no one paid her for me, telling me the name of a
relation of whom she had heard my mother often speak."

"What became of you?"

"As I was weeping and begging on the high road, a minister
from Kingston took me in, instructed me in the Calvinistic
faith, taught me all he knew himself and aided me in my
researches after my family."

"And these researches?"

"Were fruitless; chance did everything."

"You discovered what had become of your mother?"

"I learned that she had been assassinated by my relation,
aided by four friends, but I was already aware that I had
been robbed of my wealth and degraded from my nobility by
King Charles I."

"Oh! I now understand why you are in the service of
Cromwell; you hate the king."

"Yes, my lord, I hate him!" said the young man.

Mazarin marked with surprise the diabolical expression with
which the young man uttered these words. Just as,
ordinarily, faces are colored by blood, his face seemed dyed
by hatred and became livid.

"Your history is a terrible one, Mr. Mordaunt, and touches
me keenly; but happily for you, you serve an all-powerful
master; he ought to aid you in your search; we have so many
means of gaining information."

"My lord, to a well-bred dog it is only necessary to show
one end of a track; he is certain to reach the other."

"But this relation you mentioned -- do you wish me to speak
to him?" said Mazarin, who was anxious to make a friend
about Cromwell's person.

"Thanks, my lord, I will speak to him myself. He will treat
me better the next time I see him."

"You have the means, then, of touching him?"

"I have the means of making myself feared."

Mazarin looked at the young man, but at the fire which shot
from his glance he bent his head; then, embarrassed how to
continue such a conversation, he opened Cromwell's letter.

The young man's eyes gradually resumed their dull and glassy
appearance and he fell into a profound reverie. After
reading the first lines of the letter Mazarin gave a side
glance at him to see if he was watching the expression of
his face as he read. Observing his indifference, he shrugged
his shoulders, saying:

"Send on your business those who do theirs at the same time!
Let us see what this letter contains."

We here present the letter verbatim:



"To his Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal Mazarini:

"I have wished, monseigneur, to learn your intentions
relating to the existing state of affairs in England. The
two kingdoms are so near that France must be interested in
our situation, as we are interested in that of France. The
English are almost of one mind in contending against the
tyranny of Charles and his adherents. Placed by popular
confidence at the head of that movement, I can appreciate
better than any other its significance and its probable
results. I am at present in the midst of war, and am about
to deliver a decisive battle against King Charles. I shall
gain it, for the hope of the nation and the Spirit of the
Lord are with me. This battle won by me, the king will have
no further resources in England or in Scotland; and if he is
not captured or killed, he will endeavor to pass over into
France to recruit soldiers and to refurnish himself with
arms and money. France has already received Queen Henrietta,
and, unintentionally, doubtless, has maintained a centre of
inextinguishable civil war in my country. But Madame
Henrietta is a daughter of France and was entitled to the
hospitality of France. As to King Charles, the question must
be viewed differently; in receiving and aiding him, France
will censure the acts of the English nation, and thus so
essentially harm England, and especially the well-being of
the government, that such a proceeding will be equivalent to
pronounced hostilities."



At this moment Mazarin became very uneasy at the turn which
the letter was taking and paused to glance under his eyes at
the young man. The latter continued in thought. Mazarin
resumed his reading:



"It is important, therefore, monseigneur, that I should be
informed as to the intentions of France. The interests of
that kingdom and those of England, though taking now diverse
directions, are very nearly the same. England needs
tranquillity at home, in order to consummate the expulsion
of her king; France needs tranquillity to establish on solid
foundations the throne of her young monarch. You need, as
much as we do, that interior condition of repose which,
thanks to the energy of our government, we are about to
attain.

"Your quarrels with the parliament, your noisy dissensions
with the princes, who fight for you to-day and to-morrow
will fight against you, the popular following directed by
the coadjutor, President Blancmesnil, and Councillor
Broussel -- all that disorder, in short, which pervades the
several departments of the state, must lead you to view with
uneasiness the possibility of a foreign war; for in that
event England, exalted by the enthusiasm of new ideas, will
ally herself with Spain, already seeking that alliance. I
have therefore believed, monseigneur, knowing your prudence
and your personal relation to the events of the present
time, that you will choose to hold your forces concentrated
in the interior of the French kingdom and leave to her own
the new government of England. That neutrality consists
simply in excluding King Charles from the territory of
France and in refraining from helping him -- a stranger to
your country -- with arms, with money or with troops.

"My letter is private and confidential, and for that reason
I send it to you by a man who shares my most intimate
counsels. It anticipates, through a sentiment which your
eminence will appreciate, measures to be taken after the
events. Oliver Cromwell considered it more expedient to
declare himself to a mind as intelligent as Mazarin's than
to a queen admirable for firmness, without doubt, but too
much guided by vain prejudices of birth and of divine right.

"Farewell, monseigneur; should I not receive a reply in the
space of fifteen days, I shall presume my letter will have
miscarried.

"Oliver Cromwell."



"Mr. Mordaunt," said the cardinal, raising his voice, as if
to arouse the dreamer, "my reply to this letter will be more
satisfactory to General Cromwell if I am convinced that all
are ignorant of my having given one; go, therefore, and
await it at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and promise me to set out
to-morrow morning."

"I promise, my lord," replied Mordaunt; "but how many days
does your eminence expect me to await your reply?"

"If you do not receive it in ten days you can leave."

Mordaunt bowed.

"That is not all, sir," continued Mazarin; "your private
adventures have touched me to the quick; besides, the letter
from Mr. Cromwell makes you an important person as
ambassador; come, tell me, what can I do for you?"

Mordaunt reflected a moment and, after some hesitation, was
about to speak, when Bernouin entered hastily and bending
down to the ear of the cardinal, whispered:

"My lord, the Queen Henrietta Maria, accompanied by an
English noble, is entering the Palais Royal at this moment."

Mazarin made a bound from his chair, which did not escape
the attention of the young man and suppressed the confidence
he was about to make.

"Sir," said the cardinal, "you have heard me? I fix on
Boulogne because I presume that every town in France is
indifferent to you; if you prefer another, name it; but you
can easily conceive that, surrounded as I am by influences I
can only muzzle by discretion, I desire your presence in
Paris to be unknown."

"I go, sir," said Mordaunt, advancing a few steps to the
door by which he had entered.

"No, not that way, I beg, sir," quickly exclaimed the
cardinal, "be so good as to pass by yonder gallery, by which
you can regain the hall. I do not wish you to be seen
leaving; our interview must be kept secret."

Mordaunt followed Bernouin, who led him through the adjacent
chamber and left him with a doorkeeper, showing him the way
out.



38

Henrietta Maria and Mazarin.



The cardinal rose, and advanced in haste to receive the
queen of England. He showed the more respect to this queen,
deprived of every mark of pomp and stripped of followers, as
he felt some self-reproach for his own want of heart and his
avarice. But supplicants for favor know how to accommodate
the expression of their features, and the daughter of Henry
IV. smiled as she advanced to meet a man she hated and
despised.

"Ah!" said Mazarin to himself, "what a sweet face; does she
come to borrow money of me?"

And he threw an uneasy glance at his strong box; he even
turned inside the bevel of the magnificent diamond ring, the
brilliancy of which drew every eye upon his hand, which
indeed was white and handsome.

"Your eminence," said the august visitor, "it was my first
intention to speak of the matters that have brought me here
to the queen, my sister, but I have reflected that political
affairs are more especially the concern of men."

"Madame," said Mazarin, "your majesty overwhelms me with
flattering distinction."

"He is very gracious," thought the queen; "can he have
guessed my errand?"

"Give," continued the cardinal, "your commands to the most
respectful of your servants."

"Alas, sir," replied the queen, "I have lost the habit of
commanding and have adopted instead that of making
petitions. I am here to petition you, too happy should my
prayer be favorably heard."

"I am listening, madame, with the greatest interest," said
Mazarin.

"Your eminence, it concerns the war which the king, my
husband, is now sustaining against his rebellious subjects.
You are perhaps ignorant that they are fighting in England,"
added she, with a melancholy smile, "and that in a short
time they will fight in a much more decided fashion than
they have done hitherto."

"I am completely ignorant of it, madame," said the cardinal,
accompanying his words with a slight shrug of the shoulders;
"alas, our own wars quite absorb the time and the mind of a
poor, incapable, infirm old minister like me."

"Well, then, your eminence," said the queen, "I must inform
you that Charles I., my husband, is on the eve of a decisive
engagement. In case of a check" (Mazarin made a slight
movement), "one must foresee everything; in the case of a
check, he desires to retire into France and to live here as
a private individual. What do you say to this project?"

The cardinal had listened without permitting a single fibre
of his face to betray what he felt, and his smile remained
as it ever was -- false and flattering; and when the queen
finished speaking, he said:

"Do you think, madame, that France, agitated and disturbed
as it is, would be a safe retreat for a dethroned king? How
will the crown, which is scarce firmly set on the head of
Louis XIV., support a double weight?"

"The weight was not so heavy when I was in peril,"
interrupted the queen, with a sad smile, "and I ask no more
for my husband than has been done for me; you see that we
are very humble monarchs, sir."

"Oh, you, madame," the cardinal hastened to say, in order to
cut short the explanation he foresaw was coming, "with
regard to you, that is another thing. A daughter of Henry
IV., of that great, that sublime sovereign ---- "

"All which does not prevent you refusing hospitality to his
son-in-law, sir! Nevertheless, you ought to remember that
that great, that sublime monarch, when proscribed at one
time, as my husband may be, demanded aid from England and
England accorded it to him; and it is but just to say that
Queen Elizabeth was not his niece."

"Peccato!" said Mazarin, writhing beneath this simple
eloquence, "your majesty does not understand me; you judge
my intentions wrongly, and that is partly because,
doubtless, I explain myself in French."

"Speak Italian, sir. Ere the cardinal, your predecessor,
sent our mother, Marie de Medicis, to die in exile, she
taught us that language. If anything yet remains of that
great, that sublime king, Henry, of whom you have just
spoken, he would be much surprised at so little pity for his
family being united to such a profound admiration of
himself."

The perspiration stood in large drops on Mazarin's brow.

"That admiration is, on the contrary, so great, so real,
madame," returned Mazarin, without noticing the change of
language offered to him by the queen, "that if the king,
Charles I. -- whom Heaven protect from evil! -- came into
France, I would offer him my house -- my own house; but,
alas! it would be but an unsafe retreat. Some day the people
will burn that house, as they burned that of the Marechal
d'Ancre. Poor Concino Concini! And yet he but desired the
good of the people."

"Yes, my lord, like yourself!" said the queen, ironically.

Mazarin pretended not to understand the double meaning of
his own sentence, but continued to compassionate the fate of
Concino Concini.

"Well then, your eminence," said the queen, becoming
impatient, "what is your answer?"

"Madame," cried Mazarin, more and more moved, "will your
majesty permit me to give you counsel?"

"Speak, sir," replied the queen; "the counsels of so prudent
a man as yourself ought certainly to be available."

"Madame, believe me, the king ought to defend himself to the
last."

"He has done so, sir, and this last battle, which he
encounters with resources much inferior to those of the
enemy, proves that he will not yield without a struggle; but
in case he is beaten?"

"Well, madame, in that case, my advice -- I know that I am
very bold to offer advice to your majesty -- my advice is
that the king should not leave his kingdom. Absent kings are
very soon forgotten; if he passes over into France his cause
is lost."

"But," persisted the queen, "if such be your advice and you
have his interest at heart, send him help of men and money,
for I can do nothing for him; I have sold even to my last
diamond to aid him. If I had had a single ornament left, I
should have bought wood this winter to make a fire for my
daughter and myself."

"Oh, madame," said Mazarin, "your majesty knows not what you
ask. On the day when foreign succor follows in the train of
a king to replace him on his throne, it is an avowal that he
no longer possesses the help and love of his own subjects."

"To the point, sir," said the queen, "to the point, and
answer me, yes or no; if the king persists in remaining in
England will you send him succor? If he comes to France will
you accord him hospitality? What do you intend to do?
Speak."

"Madame," said the cardinal, affecting an effusive frankness
of speech, "I shall convince your majesty, I trust, of my
devotion to you and my desire to terminate an affair which
you have so much at heart. After which your majesty will, I
think, no longer doubt my zeal in your behalf."

The queen bit her lips and moved impatiently on her chair.

"Well, what do you propose to do?" she, said at length;
"come, speak."

"I will go this instant and consult the queen, and we will
refer the affair at once to parliament."

"With which you are at war -- is it not so? You will charge
Broussel to report it. Enough, sir, enough. I understand you
or rather, I am wrong. Go to the parliament, for it was from
this parliament, the enemy of monarchs, that the daughter of
the great, the sublime Henry IV., whom you so much admire,
received the only relief this winter which prevented her
from dying of hunger and cold!"

And with these words Henrietta rose in majestic indignation,
whilst the cardinal, raising his hands clasped toward her,
exclaimed, "Ah, madame, madame, how little you know me, mon
Dieu!"

But Queen Henrietta, without even turning toward him who
made these hypocritical pretensions, crossed the cabinet,
opened the door for herself and passing through the midst of
the cardinal's numerous guards, courtiers eager to pay
homage, the luxurious show of a competing royalty, she went
and took the hand of De Winter, who stood apart in
isolation. Poor queen, already fallen! Though all bowed
before her, as etiquette required, she had now but a single
arm on which she could lean.

"It signifies little," said Mazarin, when he was alone. "It
gave me pain and it was an ungracious part to play, but I
have said nothing either to the one or to the other.
Bernouin!"

Bernouin entered.

"See if the young man with the black doublet and the short
hair, who was with me just now, is still in the palace."

Bernouin went out and soon returned with Comminges, who was
on guard.

"Your eminence," said Comminges, "as I was re-conducting the
young man for whom you have asked, he approached the glass
door of the gallery, and gazed intently upon some object,
doubtless the picture by Raphael, which is opposite the
door. He reflected for a second and then descended the
stairs. I believe I saw him mount a gray horse and leave the
palace court. But is not your eminence going to the queen?"

"For what purpose?"

"Monsieur de Guitant, my uncle, has just told me that her
majesty had received news of the army."

"It is well; I will go."

Comminges had seen rightly, and Mordaunt had really acted as
he had related. In crossing the gallery parallel to the
large glass gallery, he perceived De Winter, who was waiting
until the queen had finished her negotiation.

At this sight the young man stopped short, not in admiration
of Raphael's picture, but as if fascinated at the sight of
some terrible object. His eyes dilated and a shudder ran
through his body. One would have said that he longed to
break through the wall of glass which separated him from his
enemy; for if Comminges had seen with what an expression of
hatred the eyes of this young man were fixed upon De Winter,
he would not have doubted for an instant that the Englishman
was his eternal foe.

But he stopped, doubtless to reflect; for instead of
allowing his first impulse, which had been to go straight to
Lord de Winter, to carry him away, he leisurely descended
the staircase, left the palace with his head down, mounted
his horse, which he reined in at the corner of the Rue
Richelieu, and with his eyes fixed on the gate, waited until
the queen's carriage had left the court.

He had not long to wait, for the queen scarcely remained a
quarter of an hour with Mazarin, but this quarter of an hour
of expectation appeared a century to him. At last the heavy
machine, which was called a chariot in those days, came out,
rumbling against the gates, and De Winter, still on
horseback, bent again to the door to converse with her
majesty.

The horses started on a trot and took the road to the
Louvre, which they entered. Before leaving the convent of
the Carmelites, Henrietta had desired her daughter to attend
her at the palace, which she had inhabited for a long time
and which she had only left because their poverty seemed to
them more difficult to bear in gilded chambers.

Mordaunt followed the carriage, and when he had watched it
drive beneath the sombre arches he went and stationed
himself under a wall over which the shadow was extended, and
remained motionless, amidst the moldings of Jean Goujon,
like a bas-relievo, representing an equestrian statue.



39

How, sometimes, the Unhappy mistake Chance for Providence.



"Well, madame," said De Winter, when the queen had dismissed
her attendants.

"Well, my lord, what I foresaw has come to pass."

"What? does the cardinal refuse to receive the king? France
refuse hospitality to an unfortunate prince? Ay, but it is
for the first time, madame!"

"I did not say France, my lord; I said the cardinal, and the
cardinal is not even a Frenchman."

"But did you see the queen?"

"It is useless," replied Henrietta, "the queen will not say
yes when the cardinal says no. Are you not aware that this
Italian directs everything, both indoors and out? And
moreover, I should not be surprised had we been forestalled
by Cromwell. He was embarrassed whilst speaking to me and
yet quite firm in his determination to refuse. Then did you
not observe the agitation in the Palais Royal, the passing
to and fro of busy people? Can they have received any news,
my lord?"

"Not from England, madame. I made such haste that I am
certain of not having been forestalled. I set out three days
ago, passing miraculously through the Puritan army, and I
took post horses with my servant Tony; the horses upon which
we were mounted were bought in Paris. Besides, the king, I
am certain, awaits your majesty's reply before risking
anything."

"You will tell him, my lord," resumed the queen,
despairingly, "that I can do nothing; that I have suffered
as much as himself -- more than he has -- obliged as I am to
eat the bread of exile and to ask hospitality from false
friends who smile at my tears; and as regards his royal
person, he must sacrifice it generously and die like a king.
I shall go and die by his side."

"Madame, madame," exclaimed De Winter, "your majesty
abandons yourself to despair; and yet, perhaps, there still
remains some hope."

"No friends left, my lord; no other friends left in the wide
world but yourself! Oh, God!" exclaimed the poor queen,
raising her eyes to Heaven, "have You indeed taken back all
the generous hearts that once existed in the world?"

"I hope not, madame," replied De Winter, thoughtfully; "I
once spoke to you of four men."

"What can be done with four?"

"Four devoted, resolute men can do much? assure yourself,
madame; and those of whom I speak performed great things at
one time."

"And where are these four men?"

"Ah, that is what I do not know. It is twenty years since I
saw them, and yet whenever I have seen the king in danger I
have thought of them."

"And these men were your friends?"

"One of them held my life in his hands and gave it to me. I
know not whether he is still my friend, but since that time
I have remained his."

"And these men are in France, my lord?"

"I believe so."

"Tell me their names; perhaps I may have heard them
mentioned and might be able to aid you in finding them."

"One of them was called the Chevalier d'Artagnan."

"Ah, my lord, if I mistake not, the Chevalier d'Artagnan is
lieutenant of royal guards; but take care, for I fear that
this man is entirely devoted to the cardinal."

"That would be a misfortune," said De Winter, "and I shall
begin to think that we are really doomed."

"But the others," said the queen, who clung to this last
hope as a shipwrecked man clings to the hull of his vessel.
"The others, my lord!"

"The second -- I heard his name by chance; for before
fighting us, these four gentlemen told us their names; the
second was called the Comte de la Fere. As for the two
others, I had so much the habit of calling them by nicknames
that I have forgotten their real ones."

"Oh, mon Dieu, it is a matter of the greatest urgency to
find them out," said the queen, "since you think these
worthy gentlemen might be so useful to the king."

"Oh, yes," said De Winter, "for they are the same men.
Listen, madame, and recall your remembrances. Have you never
heard that Queen Anne of Austria was once saved from the
greatest danger ever incurred by a queen?"

"Yes, at the time of her relations with Monsieur de
Buckingham; it had to do in some way with certain studs and
diamonds."

"Well, it was that affair, madame; these men are the ones
who saved her; and I smile with pity when I reflect that if
the names of those gentlemen are unknown to you it is
because the queen has forgotten them, who ought to have made
them the first noblemen of the realm."

"Well, then, my lord, they must be found; but what can four
men, or rather three men do -- for I tell you, you must not
count on Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"It will be one valiant sword the less, but there will
remain still three, without reckoning my own; now four
devoted men around the king to protect him from his enemies,
to be at his side in battle, to aid him with counsel, to
escort him in flight, are sufficient, not to make the king a
conqueror, but to save him if conquered; and whatever
Mazarin may say, once on the shores of France your royal
husband may find as many retreats and asylums as the seabird
finds in a storm."

"Seek, then, my lord, seek these gentlemen; and if they will
consent to go with you to England, I will give to each a
duchy the day that we reascend the throne, besides as much
gold as would pave Whitehall. Seek them, my lord, and find
them, I conjure you."

"I will search for them, madame," said De Winter "and
doubtless I shall find them; but time fails me. Has your
majesty forgotten that the king expects your reply and
awaits it in agony?"

"Then indeed we are lost!" cried the queen, in the fullness
of a broken heart.

At this moment the door opened and the young Henrietta
appeared; then the queen, with that wonderful strength which
is the privilege of parents, repressed her tears and
motioned to De Winter to change the subject.

But that act of self-control, effective as it was, did not
escape the eyes of the young princess. She stopped on the
threshold, breathed a sigh, and addressing the queen:

"Why, then, do you always weep, mother, when I am away from
you?" she said.

The queen smiled, but instead of answering:

"See, De Winter," she said, "I have at least gained one
thing in being only half a queen; and that is that my
children call me `mother' instead of `madame.'"

Then turning toward her daughter:

"What do you want, Henrietta?" she demanded.

"My mother," replied the young princess, "a cavalier has
just entered the Louvre and wishes to present his respects
to your majesty; he arrives from the army and has, he says,
a letter to remit to you, on the part of the Marechal de
Grammont, I think."

"Ah!" said the queen to De Winter, "he is one of my faithful
adherents; but do you not observe, my dear lord, that we are
so poorly served that it is left to my daughter to fill the
office of doorkeeper?"

"Madame, have pity on me," exclaimed De Winter; "you wring
my heart!"

"And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?" asked the queen.

"I saw him from the window, madame; he is a young man that
appears scarce sixteen years of age, and is called the
Viscount de Bragelonne."

The queen, smiling, made a sign with her head; the young
princess opened the door and Raoul appeared on the
threshold.

Advancing a few steps toward the queen, he knelt down.

"Madame," said he, "I bear to your majesty a letter from my
friend the Count de Guiche, who told me he had the honor of
being your servant; this letter contains important news and
the expression of his respect."

At the name of the Count de Guiche a blush spread over the
cheeks of the young princess and the queen glanced at her
with some degree of severity.

"You told me that the letter was from the Marechal de
Grammont, Henrietta!" said the queen.

"I thought so, madame," stammered the young girl.

"It is my fault, madame," said Raoul. "I did announce
myself, in truth, as coming on the part of the Marechal de
Grammont; but being wounded in the right arm he was unable
to write and therefore the Count de Guiche acted as his
secretary."

"There has been fighting, then?" asked the queen, motioning
to Raoul to rise.

"Yes, madame," said the young man.

At this announcement of a battle having taken place, the
princess opened her mouth as though to ask a question of
interest; but her lips closed again without articulating a
word, while the color gradually faded from her cheeks.

The queen saw this, and doubtless her maternal heart
translated the emotion, for addressing Raoul again:

"And no evil has happened to the young Count de Guiche?" she
asked; "for not only is he our servant, as you say, sir, but
more -- he is one of our friends."

"No, madame," replied Raoul; "on the contrary, he gained
great glory and had the honor of being embraced by his
highness, the prince, on the field of battle."

The young princess clapped her hands; and then, ashamed of
having been betrayed into such a demonstration of joy, she
half turned away and bent over a vase of roses, as if to
inhale their odor.

"Let us see," said the queen, "what the count says." And she
opened the letter and read:



"Madame, -- Being unable to have the honor of writing to you
myself, by reason of a wound I have received in my right
hand, I have commanded my son, the Count de Guiche, who,
with his father, is equally your humble servant, to write to
tell you that we have just gained the battle of Lens, and
that this victory cannot fail to give great power to
Cardinal Mazarin and to the queen over the affairs of
Europe. If her majesty will have faith in my counsels she
ought to profit by this event to address at this moment, in
favor of her august husband, the court of France. The
Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the honor of remitting
this letter to your majesty, is the friend of my son, who
owes to him his life; he is a gentleman in whom your majesty
may confide entirely, in case your majesty may have some
verbal or written order to remit to me.

"I have the honor to be, with respect, etc.,

"Marechal de Grammont."



At the moment mention occurred of his having rendered a
service to the count, Raoul could not help turning his
glance toward the young princess, and then he saw in her
eyes an expression of infinite gratitude to the young man;
he no longer doubted that the daughter of King Charles I.
loved his friend.

"The battle of Lens gained!" said the queen; "they are lucky
here indeed; they can gain battles! Yes, the Marechal de
Grammont is right; this will change the aspect of French
affairs, but I much fear it will do nothing for English,
even if it does not harm them. This is recent news, sir,"
continued she, "and I thank you for having made such haste
to bring it to me; without this letter I should not have
heard till to-morrow, perhaps after to-morrow -- the last of
all Paris."

"Madame," said Raoul, "the Louvre is but the second palace
this news has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I
had sworn to the Count de Guiche to remit this letter to
your majesty before even I should embrace my guardian."

"Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?" asked Lord de
Winter. "I once knew a Bragelonne -- is he still alive?"

"No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my
guardian, whose near relation he was, inherited the estate
from which I take my name."

"And your guardian, sir," asked the queen, who could not
help feeling some interest in the handsome young man before
her, "what is his name?"

"The Comte de la Fere, madame," replied the young man,
bowing.

De Winter made a gesture of surprise and the queen turned to
him with a start of joy.

"The Comte de la Fere!" she cried. "Have you not mentioned
that name to me?"

As for De Winter he could scarcely believe that he had heard
aright. "The Comte de la Fere!" he cried in his turn. "Oh,
sir, reply, I entreat you -- is not the Comte de la Fere a
noble whom I remember, handsome and brave, a musketeer under
Louis XIII., who must be now about forty-seven or
forty-eight years of age?"

"Yes, sir, you are right in every particular!"

"And who served under an assumed name?"

"Under the name of Athos. Latterly I heard his friend,
Monsieur d'Artagnan, give him that name."

"That is it, madame, that is the same. God be praised! And
he is in Paris?" continued he, addressing Raoul; then
turning to the queen: "We may still hope. Providence has
declared for us, since I have found this brave man again in
so miraculous a manner. And, sir, where does he reside,
pray?"

"The Comte de la Fere lodges in the Rue Guenegaud, Hotel du
Grand Roi Charlemagne."

"Thanks, sir. Inform this dear friend that he may remain
within, that I shall go and see him immediately."

"Sir, I obey with pleasure, if her majesty will permit me to
depart."

"Go, Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the queen, "and rest
assured of our affection."

Raoul bent respectfully before the two princesses, and
bowing to De Winter, departed.

The queen and De Winter continued to converse for some time
in low voices, in order that the young princess should not
overhear them; but the precaution was needless: she was in
deep converse with her own thoughts.

Then, when De Winter rose to take leave:

"Listen, my lord," said the queen; "I have preserved this
diamond cross which came from my mother, and this order of
St. Michael which came from my husband. They are worth about
fifty thousand pounds. I had sworn to die of hunger rather
than part with these precious pledges; but now that this
ornament may be useful to him or his defenders, everything
must be sacrificed. Take them, and if you need money for
your expedition, sell them fearlessly, my lord. But should
you find the means of retaining them, remember, my lord,
that I shall esteem you as having rendered the greatest
service that a gentleman can render to a queen; and in the
day of my prosperity he who brings me this order and this
cross shall be blessed by me and my children."

"Madame," replied De Winter, "your majesty will be served by
a man devoted to you. I hasten to deposit these two objects
in a safe place, nor should I accept them if the resources
of our ancient fortune were left to us, but our estates are
confiscated, our ready money is exhausted, and we are
reduced to turn to service everything we possess. In an hour
hence I shall be with the Comte de la Fere, and to-morrow
your majesty shall have a definite reply."

The queen tendered her hand to Lord de Winter, who, kissing
it respectfully, went out and traversed alone and
unconducted those large, dark and deserted apartments,
brushing away tears which, blase as he was by fifty years
spent as a courtier, he could not withhold at the spectacle
of royal distress so dignified, yet so intense.



40

Uncle and Nephew.



The horse and servant belonging to De Winter were waiting
for him at the door; he proceeded toward his abode very
thoughtfully, looking behind him from time to him to
contemplate the dark and silent frontage of the Louvre. It
was then that he saw a horseman, as it were, detach himself
from the wall and follow him at a little distance. In
leaving the Palais Royal he remembered to have observed a
similar shadow.

"Tony," he said, motioning to his groom to approach.

"Here I am, my lord."

"Did you remark that man who is following us?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Who is he?"

"I do not know, only he has followed your grace from the
Palais Royal, stopped at the Louvre to wait for you, and now
leaves the Louvre with you."

"Some spy of the cardinal," said De Winter to him, aside.
"Let us pretend not to notice that he is watching us."

And spurring on he plunged into the labyrinth of streets
which led to his hotel, situated near the Marais, for having
for so long a time lived near the Place Royale, Lord de
Winter naturally returned to lodge near his ancient
dwelling.

The unknown spurred his horse to a gallop.

De Winter dismounted at his hotel and went up into his
apartment, intending to watch the spy; but as he was about
to place his gloves and hat on a table, he saw reflected in
a glass opposite to him a figure which stood on the
threshold of the room. He turned around and Mordaunt stood
before him.

There was a moment of frozen silence between these two.

"Sir," said De Winter, "I thought I had already made you
aware that I am weary of this persecution; withdraw, then,
or I shall call and have you turned out as you were in
London. I am not your uncle, I know you not."

"My uncle," replied Mordaunt, with his harsh and bantering
tone, "you are mistaken; you will not have me turned out
this time as you did in London -- you dare not. As for
denying that I am your nephew, you will think twice about
it, now that I have learned some things of which I was
ignorant a year ago."

"And how does it concern me what you have learned?" said De
Winter.

"Oh, it concerns you very closely, my uncle, I am sure, and
you will soon be of my opinion," added he, with a smile
which sent a shudder through the veins of him he thus
addressed. "When I presented myself before you for the first
time in London, it was to ask you what had become of my
fortune; the second time it was to demand who had sullied my
name; and this time I come before you to ask a question far
more terrible than any other, to say to you as God said to
the first murderer: `Cain, what hast thou done to thy
brother Abel?' My lord, what have you done with your sister
-- your sister, who was my mother?"

De Winter shrank back from the fire of those scorching eyes.

"Your mother?" he said.

"Yes, my lord, my mother," replied the young man, advancing
into the room until he was face to face with Lord de Winter,
and crossing his arms. "I have asked the headsman of
Bethune," he said, his voice hoarse and his face livid with
passion and grief. "And the headsman of Bethune gave me a
reply."

De Winter fell back in a chair as though struck by a
thunderbolt and in vain attempted a reply.

"Yes," continued the young man; "all is now explained; with
this key I open the abyss. My mother inherited an estate
from her husband, you have assassinated her; my name would
have secured me the paternal estate, you have deprived me of
it; you have despoiled me of my fortune. I am no longer
astonished that you knew me not. I am not surprised that you
refused to recognize me. When a man is a robber it is hard
to call him nephew whom he has impoverished; when one is a
murderer, to recognize the man whom one has made an orphan."

These words produced a contrary effect to that which
Mordaunt had anticipated. De Winter remembered the monster
that Milady had been; he rose, dignified and calm,
restraining by the severity of his look the wild glance of
the young man.

"You desire to fathom this horrible secret?" said De Winter;
"well, then, so be it. Know, then, what manner of woman it
was for whom to-day you call me to account. That woman had,
in all probability, poisoned my brother, and in order to
inherit from me she was about to assassinate me in my turn.
I have proof of it. What say you to that?"

"I say that she was my mother."

"She caused the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham to be stabbed
by a man who was, ere that, honest, good and pure. What say
you to that crime, of which I have the proof?"

"She was my mother."

"On our return to France she had a young woman who was
attached to one of her opponents poisoned in the convent of
the Augustines at Bethune. Will this crime persuade you of
the justice of her punishment -- for of all this I have the
proofs?"

"She was my mother!" cried the young man, who uttered these
three successive exclamations with constantly increasing
force.

"At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by
every one and yet threatening still, like a panther
thirsting for blood, she fell under the blows of men whom
she had rendered desperate, though they had never done her
the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous
crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw -- that
executioner who you say told you everything -- that
executioner, if he told you everything, told you that he
leaped with joy in avenging on her his brother's shame and
suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife, an
unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who
knew her, by every nation that had been visited by her, she
died accursed by Heaven and earth."

A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat
and his livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched
his fists, sweat covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet's,
stood on end, and racked with fury he cried out:

"Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them
not; her disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them
not. But this I know, that I had a mother, that five men
leagued against one woman, murdered her clandestinely by
night -- silently -- like cowards. I know that you were one
of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the
others: `She must die.' Therefore I warn you, and listen
well to my words, that they may be engraved upon your
memory, never to be forgotten: this murder, which has robbed
me of everything -- this murder, which has deprived me of my
name -- this murder, which has impoverished me -- this
murder, which has made me corrupt, wicked, implacable -- I
shall summon you to account for it first and then those who
were your accomplices, when I discover them!"

With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist
extended, Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a
threatening, terrible step, toward De Winter. The latter put
his hand to his sword, and said, with the smile of a man who
for thirty years has jested with death:

"Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I shall recognize you
as my nephew, for you would be a worthy son of such a
mother."

"No," replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles
of his body to resume their usual places and be calm; "no, I
shall not kill you; at least not at this moment, for without
you I could not discover the others. But when I have found
them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed to the heart the headsman
of Bethune, without mercy or pity, and he was the least
guilty of you all."

With these words the young man went out and descended the
stairs with sufficient calmness to pass unobserved; then
upon the lowest landing place he passed Tony, leaning over
the balustrade, waiting only for a call from his master to
mount to his room.

But De Winter did not call; crushed, enfeebled, he remained
standing and with listening ear; then only when he had heard
the step of the horse going away he fell back on a chair,
saying:

"My God, I thank Thee that he knows me only."



41

Paternal Affection.



Whilst this terrible scene was passing at Lord de Winter's,
Athos, seated near his window, his elbow on the table and
his head supported on his hand, was listening intently to
Raoul's account of the adventures he met with on his journey
and the details of the battle.

Listening to the relation of those emotions so fresh and
pure, the fine, noble face of Athos betrayed indescribable
pleasure; he inhaled the tones of that young voice, as
harmonious music. He forgot all that was dark in the past
and that was cloudy in the future. It almost seemed as if
the return of this much loved boy had changed his fears to
hopes. Athos was happy -- happy as he had never been before.

"And you assisted and took part in this great battle,
Bragelonne!" cried the former musketeer.

"Yes, sir."

"And it was a fierce one?"

"His highness the prince charged eleven times in person."

"He is a great commander, Bragelonne."

"He is a hero, sir. I did not lose sight of him for an
instant. Oh! how fine it is to be called Conde and to be so
worthy of such a name!"

"He was calm and radiant, was he not?"

"As calm as at parade, radiant as at a fete. When we went up
to the enemy it was slowly; we were forbidden to draw first
and we were marching toward the Spaniards, who were on a
height with lowered muskets. When we arrived about thirty
paces from them the prince turned around to the soldiers:
`Comrades,' he said, `you are about to suffer a furious
discharge; but after that you will make short work with
those fellows.' There was such dead silence that friends and
enemies could have heard these words; then raising his
sword, `Sound trumpets!' he cried."

"Well, very good; you will do as much when the opportunity
occurs, will you, Raoul?"

"I know not, sir, but I thought it really very fine and
grand!"

"Were you afraid, Raoul?" asked the count.

"Yes, sir," replied the young man naively; "I felt a great
chill at my heart, and at the word `fire,' which resounded
in Spanish from the enemy's ranks, I closed my eyes and
thought of you."

"In honest truth, Raoul?" said Athos, pressing his hand.

"Yes, sir; at that instant there was such a rataplan of
musketry that one might have imagined the infernal regions
had opened. Those who were not killed felt the heat of the
flames. I opened my eyes, astonished to find myself alive
and even unhurt; a third of the squadron were lying on the
ground, wounded, dead or dying. At that moment I encountered
the eye of the prince. I had but one thought and that was
that he was observing me. I spurred on and found myself in
the enemy's ranks."

"And the prince was pleased with you?"

"He told me so, at least, sir, when he desired me to return
to Paris with Monsieur de Chatillon, who was charged to
carry the news to the queen and to bring the colors we had
taken. `Go,' said he; `the enemy will not rally for fifteen
days and until that time I have no need of your service. Go
and see those whom you love and who love you, and tell my
sister De Longueville that I thank her for the present that
she made me of you.' And I came, sir," added Raoul, gazing
at the count with a smile of real affection, "for I thought
you would be glad to see me again."

Athos drew the young man toward him and pressed his lips to
his brow, as he would have done to a young daughter.

"And now, Raoul," said he, "you are launched; you have dukes
for friends, a marshal of France for godfather, a prince of
the blood as commander, and on the day of your return you
have been received by two queens; it is not so bad for a
novice."

"Oh sir," said Raoul, suddenly, "you recall something,
which, in my haste to relate my exploits, I had forgotten;
it is that there was with Her Majesty the Queen of England,
a gentleman who, when I pronounced your name, uttered a cry
of surprise and joy; he said he was a friend of yours, asked
your address, and is coming to see you."

"What is his name?"

"I did not venture to ask, sir; he spoke elegantly, although
I thought from his accent he was an Englishman."

"Ah!" said Athos, leaning down his head as if to remember
who it could be. Then, when he raised it again, he was
struck by the presence of a man who was standing at the open
door and was gazing at him with a compassionate air.

"Lord de Winter!" exclaimed the count.

"Athos, my friend!"

And the two gentlemen were for an instant locked in each
other's arms; then Athos, looking into his friend's face and
taking him by both hands, said:

"What ails you, my lord? you appear as unhappy as I am the
reverse."

"Yes, truly, dear friend; and I may even say the sight of
you increases my dismay."

And De Winter glancing around him, Raoul quickly understood
that the two friends wished to be alone and he therefore
left the room unaffectedly.

"Come, now that we are alone," said Athos, "let us talk of
yourself."

"Whilst we are alone let us speak of ourselves," replied De
Winter. "He is here."

"Who?"

"Milady's son."

Athos, again struck by this name, which seemed to pursue him
like an echo, hesitated for a moment, then slightly knitting
his brows, he calmly said:

"I know it, Grimaud met him between Bethune and Arras and
then came here to warn me of his presence."

"Does Grimaud know him, then?"

"No; but he was present at the deathbed of a man who knew
him."

"The headsman of Bethune?" exclaimed De Winter.

"You know about that?" cried Athos, astonished.

"He has just left me," replied De Winter, "after telling me
all. Ah! my friend! what a horrible scene! Why did we not
destroy the child with the mother?"

"What need you fear?" said Athos, recovering from the
instinctive fear he had at first experienced, by the aid of
reason; "are we not men accustomed to defend ourselves? Is
this young man an assassin by profession -- a murderer in
cold blood? He has killed the executioner of Bethune in an
access of passion, but now his fury is assuaged."

De Winter smiled sorrowfully and shook his head.

"Do you not know the race?" said he.

"Pooh!" said Athos, trying to smile in his turn. "It must
have lost its ferocity in the second generation. Besides, my
friend, Providence has warned us, that we may be on our
guard. All we can now do is to wait. Let us wait; and, as I
said before, let us speak of yourself. What brings you to
Paris?"

"Affairs of importance which you shall know later. But what
is this that I hear from Her Majesty the Queen of England?
Monsieur d'Artagnan sides with Mazarin! Pardon my frankness,
dear friend. I neither hate nor blame the cardinal, and your
opinions will be held ever sacred by me. But do you happen
to belong to him?"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," replied Athos, "is in the service; he
is a soldier and obeys all constitutional authority.
Monsieur d'Artagnan is not rich and has need of his position
as lieutenant to enable him to live. Millionaires like
yourself, my lord, are rare in France."

"Alas!" said De Winter, "I am at this moment as poor as he
is, if not poorer. But to return to our subject."

"Well, then, you wish to know if I am of Mazarin's party?
No. Pardon my frankness, too, my lord."

"I am obliged to you, count, for this pleasing intelligence!
You make me young and happy again by it. Ah! so you are not
a Mazarinist? Delightful! Indeed, you could not belong to
him. But pardon me, are you free? I mean to ask if you are
married?"

"Ah! as to that, no," replied Athos, laughing.

"Because that young man, so handsome, so elegant, so
polished ---- "

"Is a child I have adopted and who does not even know who
was his father."

"Very well; you are always the same, Athos, great and
generous. Are you still friends with Monsieur Porthos and
Monsieur Aramis?"

"Add Monsieur d'Artagnan, my lord. We still remain four
friends devoted to each other; but when it becomes a
question of serving the cardinal or of fighting him, of
being Mazarinists or Frondists, then we are only two."

"Is Monsieur Aramis with D'Artagnan?" asked Lord de Winter.

"No," said Athos; "Monsieur Aramis does me the honor to
share my opinions."

"Could you put me in communication with your witty and
agreeable friend? Is he much changed?"

"He has become an abbe, that is all."

"You alarm me; his profession must have made him renounce
any great undertakings."

"On the contrary," said Athos, smiling, "he has never been
so much a musketeer as since he became an abbe, and you will
find him a veritable soldier."

"Could you engage to bring him to me to-morrow morning at
ten o'clock, on the Pont du Louvre?"

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Athos, smiling, "you have a duel in
prospect."

"Yes, count, and a splendid duel, too; a duel in which I
hope you will take your part."

"Where are we to go, my lord?"

"To Her Majesty the Queen of England, who has desired me to
present you to her."

"This is an enigma," said Athos, "but it matters not; since
you know the solution of it I ask no further. Will your
lordship do me the honor to sup with me?"

"Thanks, count, no," replied De Winter. "I own to you that
that young man's visit has subdued my appetite and probably
will rob me of my sleep. What undertaking can have brought
him to Paris? It was not to meet me that he came, for he was
ignorant of my journey. This young man terrifies me, my
lord; there lies in him a sanguinary predisposition."

"What occupies him in England?"

"He is one of Cromwell's most enthusiastic disciples."

"But what attached him to the cause? His father and mother
were Catholics, I believe?"

"His hatred of the king, who deprived him of his estates and
forbade him to bear the name of De Winter."

"And what name does he now bear?"

"Mordaunt."

"A Puritan, yet disguised as a monk he travels alone in
France."

"Do you say as a monk?"

"It was thus, and by mere accident -- may God pardon me if I
blaspheme -- that he heard the confession of the executioner
of Bethune."

"Then I understand it all! he has been sent by Cromwell to
Mazarin, and the queen guessed rightly; we have been
forestalled. Everything is clear to me now. Adieu, count,
till to-morrow."

"But the night is dark," said Athos, perceiving that Lord de
Winter seemed more uneasy than he wished to appear; "and you
have no servant."

"I have Tony, a safe if simple youth."

"Halloo, there, Grimaud, Olivain, and Blaisois! call the
viscount and take the musket with you."

Blaisois was the tall youth, half groom, half peasant, whom
we saw at the Chateau de Bragelonne, whom Athos had
christened by the name of his province.

"Viscount," said Athos to Raoul, as he entered, "you will
conduct my lord as far as his hotel and permit no one to
approach him."

"Oh! count," said De Winter, "for whom do you take me?"

"For a stranger who does not know Paris," said Athos, "and
to whom the viscount will show the way."

De Winter shook him by the hand.

"Grimaud," said Athos, "put yourself at the head of the
troop and beware of the monk."

Grimaud shuddered, and nodding, awaited the departure,
regarding the butt of his musket with silent eloquence. Then
obeying the orders given him by Athos, he headed the small
procession, bearing the torch in one hand and the musket in
the other, until it reached De Winter's inn, when pounding
on the portal with his fist, he bowed to my lord and faced
about without a word.

The same order was followed in returning, nor did Grimaud's
searching glance discover anything of a suspicious
appearance, save a dark shadow, as it were, in ambuscade, at
the corner of the Rue Guenegaud and of the Quai. He fancied,
also, that in going he had already observed the street
watcher who had attracted his attention. He pushed on toward
him, but before he could reach it the shadow had disappeared
into an alley, into which Grimaud deemed it scarcely prudent
to pursue it.

The next day, on awaking, the count perceived Raoul by his
bedside. The young man was already dressed and was reading a
new book by M. Chapelain.

"Already up, Raoul?" exclaimed the count.

"Yes, sir," replied Raoul, with slight hesitation; "I did
not sleep well."

"You, Raoul, not sleep well! then you must have something on
your mind!" said Athos.

"Sir, you will perhaps think that I am in a great hurry to
leave you when I have only just arrived, but ---- "

"Have you only two days of leave, Raoul?"

"On the contrary, sir, I have ten; nor is it to the camp I
wish to go."

"Where, then?" said Athos, smiling, "if it be not a secret.
You are now almost a man, since you have made your first
passage of arms, and have acquired the right to go where you
will without consulting me."

"Never, sir," said Raoul, "as long as I possess the
happiness of having you for a protector, shall I deem I have
the right of freeing myself from a guardianship so valuable
to me. I have, however, a wish to go and pass a day at
Blois. You look at me and you are going to laugh at me."

"No, on the contrary, I am not inclined to laugh," said
Athos, suppressing a sigh. "You wish to see Blois again; it
is but natural."

"Then you permit me to go, you are not angry in your heart?"
exclaimed Raoul, joyously.

"Certainly; and why should I regret what gives you
pleasure?"

"Oh! how kind you are," exclaimed the young man, pressing
his guardian's hand; "and I can set out immediately?"

"When you like, Raoul."

"Sir," said Raoul, as he turned to leave the room, "I have
thought of one thing, and that is about the Duchess of
Chevreuse, who was so kind to me and to whom I owe my
introduction to the prince."

"And you ought to thank her, Raoul. Well, try the Hotel de
Luynes, Raoul, and ask if the duchess can receive you. I am
glad to see you pay attention to the usages of the world.
You must take Grimaud and Olivain."

"Both, sir?" asked Raoul, astonished.

"Both."

Raoul went out, and when Athos heard his young, joyous voice
calling to Grimaud and Olivain, he sighed.

"It is very soon to leave me," he thought, "but he follows
the common custom. Nature has made us thus; she makes the
young look ever forward, not behind. He certainly likes the
child, but will he love me less as his affection grows for
her?"

And Athos confessed to himself that, he was unprepared for
so prompt a departure; but Raoul was so happy that this
reflection effaced everything else from the consideration of
his guardian.

Everything was ready at ten o'clock for the departure, and
as Athos was watching Raoul mount, a groom rode up from the
Duchess de Chevreuse. He was charged to tell the Comte de la
Fere, that she had learned of the return of her youthful
protege, and also the manner he had conducted himself on the
field, and she added that she should be very glad to offer
him her congratulations.

"Tell her grace," replied Athos, "that the viscount has just
mounted his horse to proceed to the Hotel de Luynes."

Then, with renewed instructions to Grimaud, Athos signified
to Raoul that he could set out, and ended by reflecting that
it was perhaps better that Raoul should be away from Paris
at that moment.



42

Another Queen in Want of Help.



Athos had not failed to send early to Aramis and had given
his letter to Blaisois, the only serving-man whom he had
left. Blaisois found Bazin donning his beadle's gown, his
services being required that day at Notre Dame.

Athos had desired Blaisois to try to speak to Aramis
himself. Blaisois, a tall, simple youth, who understood
nothing but what he was expressly told, asked, therefore for
the Abbe d'Herblay, and in spite of Bazin's assurances that
his master was not at home, he persisted in such a manner as
to put Bazin into a passion. Blaisois seeing Bazin in
clerical guise, was a little discomposed at his denials and
wanted to pass at all risks, believing too, that the man
with whom he had to do was endowed with the virtues of his
cloth, namely, patience and Christian charity.

But Bazin, still the servant of a musketeer, when once the
blood mounted to his fat cheeks, seized a broomstick and
began belaboring Blaisois, saying:

"You have insulted the church, my friend, you have insulted
the church!"

At this moment Aramis, aroused by this unusual disturbance,
cautiously opened the door of his room; and Blaisois,
looking reproachfully at the Cerberus, drew the letter from
his pocket and presented it to Aramis.

"From the Comte de la Fere," said Aramis. "All right." And
he retired into his room without even asking the cause of so
much noise.

Blaisois returned disconsolate to the Hotel of the Grand Roi
Charlemagne and when Athos inquired if his commission was
executed, he related his adventure.

"You foolish fellow!" said Athos, laughing. "And you did not
tell him that you came from me?"

"No, sir."

At ten o'clock Athos, with his habitual exactitude, was
waiting on the Pont du Louvre and was almost immediately
joined by Lord de Winter.

They waited ten minutes and then his lordship began to fear
Aramis was not coming to join them.

"Patience," said Athos, whose eyes were fixed in the
direction of the Rue du Bac, "patience; I see an abbe
cuffing a man, then bowing to a woman; it must be Aramis."

It was indeed Aramis. Having run against a young shopkeeper
who was gaping at the crows and who had splashed him, Aramis
with one blow of his fist had distanced him ten paces.

At this moment one of his penitents passed, and as she was
young and pretty Aramis took off his cap to her with his
most gracious smile.

A most affectionate greeting, as one can well believe took
place between him and Lord de Winter.

"Where are we going?" inquired Aramis; "are we going to
fight, perchance? I carry no sword this morning and cannot
return home to procure one."

"No," said Lord de Winter, "we are going to pay a visit to
Her Majesty the Queen of England."

"Oh, very well," replied Aramis; then bending his face down
to Athos's ear, "what is the object of this visit?"
continued he.

"Nay, I know not; some evidence required from us, perhaps."

"May it not be about that cursed affair?" asked Aramis, "in
which case I do not greatly care to go, for it will be to
pocket a lecture; and since it is my function to give them
to others I am rather averse to receiving them myself."

"If it were so," answered Athos, "we should not be taken
there by Lord de Winter, for he would come in for his share;
he was one of us."

"You're right; yes, let us go."

On arriving at the Louvre Lord de Winter entered first;
indeed, there was but one porter there to receive them at
the gate.

It was impossible in daylight for the impoverished state of
the habitation grudging charity had conceded to an
unfortunate queen to pass unnoticed by Athos, Aramis, and
even the Englishman. Large rooms, completely stripped of
furniture, bare walls upon which, here and there, shone the
old gold moldings which had resisted time and neglect,
windows with broken panes (impossible to close), no carpets,
neither guards nor servants: this is what first met the eyes
of Athos, to which he, touching his companion's elbow,
directed his attention by his glances.

"Mazarin is better lodged," said Aramis.

"Mazarin is almost king," answered Athos; "Madame Henrietta
is almost no longer queen."

"If you would condescend to be clever, Athos," observed
Aramis, "I really do think you would be wittier than poor
Monsieur de Voiture."

Athos smiled.

The queen appeared to be impatiently expecting them, for at
the first slight noise she heard in the hall leading to her
room she came herself to the door to receive these courtiers
in the corridors of Misfortune.

"Enter. You are welcome, gentlemen," she said.

The gentlemen entered and remained standing, but at a motion
from the queen they seated themselves. Athos was calm and
grave, but Aramis was furious; the sight of such royal
misery exasperated him and his eyes examined every new trace
of poverty that presented itself.

"You are examining the luxury I enjoy," said the queen,
glancing sadly around her.

"Madame," replied Aramis, "I must ask your pardon, but I
know not how to hide my indignation at seeing how a daughter
of Henry IV. is treated at the court of France."

"Monsieur Aramis is not an officer?" asked the queen of Lord
de Winter.

"That gentleman is the Abbe d'Herblay," replied he.

Aramis blushed. "Madame," he said, "I am an abbe, it is
true, but I am so against my will. I never had a vocation
for the bands; my cassock is fastened by one button only,
and I am always ready to become a musketeer once more. This
morning, being ignorant that I should have the honor of
seeing your majesty, I encumbered myself with this dress,
but you will find me none the less a man devoted to your
majesty's service, in whatever way you may see fit to use
me."

"The Abbe d'Herblay," resumed De Winter, "is one of those
gallant musketeers formerly belonging to His Majesty King
Louis XIII., of whom I have spoken to you, madame." Then
turning to Athos, he continued, "And this gentleman is that
noble Comte de la Fere, whose high reputation is so well
known to your majesty."

"Gentlemen," said the queen, "a few years ago I had around
me ushers, treasures, armies; and by the lifting of a finger
all these were busied in my service. To-day, look around
you, and it may astonish you, that in order to accomplish a
plan which is dearer to me than life I have only Lord de
Winter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen, whom
I see for the first time and whom I know but as my
countrymen."

"It is enough," said Athos, bowing low, "if the lives of
three men can purchase yours, madame."

"I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me," continued she. "I am
not only the most miserable of queens, but the most unhappy
of mothers, the most wretched of wives. My children, two of
them, at least, the Duke of York and the Princess Elizabeth,
are far away from me, exposed to the blows of the ambitious
and our foes; my husband, the king, is leading in England so
wretched an existence that it is no exaggeration to aver
that he seeks death as a thing to be desired. Hold!
gentlemen, here is the letter conveyed to me by Lord de
Winter. Read it."

Obeying the queen, Athos read aloud the letter which we have
already seen, in which King Charles demanded to know whether
the hospitality of France would be accorded him.

"Well?" asked Athos, when he had closed the letter.

"Well," said the queen, "it has been refused."

The two friends exchanged a smile of contempt.

"And now," said Athos, "what is to be done? I have the honor
to inquire from your majesty what you desire Monsieur
d'Herblay and myself to do in your service. We are ready."

"Ah, sir, you have a noble heart!" exclaimed the queen, with
a burst of gratitude; whilst Lord de Winter turned to her
with a glance which said, "Did I not answer for them?"

"But you, sir?" said the queen to Aramis.

"I, madame," replied he, "follow Monsieur de la Fere
wherever he leads, even were it on to death, without
demanding wherefore; but when it concerns your majesty's
service, then," added he, looking at the queen with all the
grace of former days, "I precede the count."

"Well, then, gentlemen," said the queen, "since it is thus,
and since you are willing to devote yourselves to the
service of a poor princess whom the whole world has
abandoned, this is what is required to be done for me. The
king is alone with a few gentlemen, whom he fears to lose
every day; surrounded by the Scotch, whom he distrusts,
although he be himself a Scotchman. Since Lord de Winter
left him I am distracted, sirs. I ask much, too much,
perhaps, for I have no title to request it. Go to England,
join the king, be his friends, protectors, march to battle
at his side, and be near him in his house, where
conspiracies, more dangerous than the perils of war, are
hatching every day. And in exchange for the sacrifice that
you make, gentlemen, I promise -- not to reward you, I
believe that word would offend you -- but to love you as a
sister, to prefer you, next to my husband and my children,
to every one. I swear it before Heaven."

And the queen raised her eyes solemnly upward.

"Madame," said Athos, "when must we set out?"

"You consent then?" exclaimed the queen, joyfully.

"Yes, madame; only it seems to me that your majesty goes too
far in engaging to load us with a friendship so far above
our merit. We render service to God, madame in serving a
prince so unfortunate, a queen so virtuous. Madame, we are
yours, body and soul."

"Oh, sirs," said the queen, moved even to tears, "this is
the first time for five years I have felt the least approach
to joy or hope. God, who can read my heart, all the
gratitude I feel, will reward you! Save my husband! Save the
king, and although you care not for the price that is placed
upon a good action in this world, leave me the hope that we
shall meet again, when I may be able to thank you myself. In
the meantime, I remain here. Have you anything to ask of me?
From this moment I become your friend, and since you are
engaged in my affairs I ought to occupy myself in yours."

"Madame," replied Athos, "I have only to ask your majesty's
prayers."

"And I," said Aramis, "I am alone in the world and have only
your majesty to serve."

The queen held out her hand, which they kissed, and she said
in a low tone to De Winter:

"If you need money, my lord, separate the jewels I have
given you; detach the diamonds and sell them to some Jew.
You will receive for them fifty or sixty thousand francs;
spend them if necessary, but let these gentlemen be treated
as they deserve, that is to say, like kings."

The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the
other by her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were
addressed to King Charles. She gave the first to Athos and
the other to Aramis, so that should they be separated by
chance they might make themselves known to the king; after
which they withdrew.

At the foot of the staircase De Winter stopped.

"Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen," said he, "go your way
and I will go mine, and this evening at nine o'clock we will
assemble again at the Gate Saint Denis. We will travel on
horseback as far as our horses can go and afterward we can
take the post. Once more, let me thank you, my good friends,
both in my own name and the queen's."

The three gentlemen then shook hands, Lord de Winter taking
the Rue Saint Honore, and Athos and Aramis remaining
together.

"Well," said Aramis, when they were alone, "what do you
think of this business, my dear count?"

"Bad," replied Athos, "very bad."

"But you received it with enthusiasm."

"As I shall ever receive the defense of a great principle,
my dear D'Herblay. Monarchs are only strong by the
assistance of the aristocracy, but aristocracy cannot
survive without the countenance of monarchs. Let us, then,
support monarchy, in order to support ourselves.

"We shall be murdered there," said Aramis. "I hate the
English -- they are coarse, like every nation that swills
beer."

"Would it be better to remain here," said Athos, "and take a
turn in the Bastile or the dungeon of Vincennes for having
favored the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort? I'faith, Aramis,
believe me, there is little left to regret. We avoid
imprisonment and we play the part of heroes; the choice is
easy."

"It is true; but in everything, friend, one must always
return to the same question -- a stupid one, I admit, but
very necessary -- have you any money?"

"Something like a hundred pistoles, that my farmer sent to
me the day before I left Bragelonne; but out of that sum I
ought to leave fifty for Raoul -- a young man must live
respectably. I have then about fifty pistoles. And you?"

"As for me, I am quite sure that after turning out all my
pockets and emptying my drawers I shall not find ten louis
at home. Fortunately Lord de Winter is rich."

"Lord de Winter is ruined for the moment; Oliver Cromwell
has annexed his income resources."

"Now is the time when Baron Porthos would be useful."

"Now it is that I regret D'Artagnan."

"Let us entice them away."

"This secret, Aramis, does not belong to us; take my advice,
then, and let no one into our confidence. And moreover, in
taking such a step we should appear to be doubtful of
ourselves. Let us regret their absence to ourselves for our
own sakes, but not speak of it."

"You are right; but what are you going to do until this
evening? I have two things to postpone."

"And what are they?"

"First, a thrust with the coadjutor, whom I met last night
at Madame de Rambouillet's and whom I found particular in
his remarks respecting me."

"Oh, fie -- a quarrel between priests, a duel between
allies!"

"What can I do, friend? he is a bully and so am I; his
cassock is a burden to him and I imagine I have had enough
of mine; in fact, there is so much resemblance between us
that I sometimes believe he is Aramis and I am the
coadjutor. This kind of life fatigues and oppresses me;
besides, he is a turbulent fellow, who will ruin our party.
I am convinced that if I gave him a box on the ear, such as
I gave this morning to the little citizen who splashed me,
it would change the appearance of things."

"And I, my dear Aramis," quietly replied Athos, "I think it
would only change Monsieur de Retz's appearance. Take my
advice, leave things just as they are; besides, you are
neither of you now your own masters; he belongs to the
Fronde and you to the queen of England. So, if the second
matter which you regret being unable to attend to is not
more important than the first ---- "

"Oh! that is of the first importance."

"Attend to it, then, at once."

"Unfortunately, it is a thing that I can't perform at any
time I choose. It was arranged for the evening and no other
time will serve."

"I understand," said Athos smiling, "midnight."

"About that time."

"But, my dear fellow, those are things that bear
postponement and you must put it off, especially with so
good an excuse to give on your return ---- "

"Yes, if I return."

"If you do not return, how does it concern you? Be
reasonable. Come, you are no longer twenty years old."

"To my great regret, mordieu! Ah, if I were but twenty years
old!"

"Yes," said Athos, "doubtless you would commit great
follies! But now we must part. I have one or two visits to
make and a letter yet to write. Call for me at eight o'clock
or shall I wait supper for you at seven?"

"That will do very well," said Aramis. "I have twenty visits
to make and as many letters to write."

They then separated. Athos went to pay a visit to Madame de
Vendome, left his name at Madame de Chevreuse's and wrote
the following letter to D'Artagnan:



"Dear Friend, -- I am about to set off with Aramis on
important business. I wished to make my adieux to you, but
time does not permit. Remember that I write to you now to
repeat how much affection for you I still cherish.

"Raoul is gone to Blois and is ignorant of my departure;
watch over him in my absence as much as you possibly can;
and if by chance you receive no news of me three months
hence, tell him to open a packet which he will find
addressed to him in my bronze casket at Blois, of which I
send you now the key.

"Embrace Porthos from Aramis and myself. Adieu, perhaps
farewell."



At the hour agreed upon Aramis arrived; he was dressed as an
officer and had the old sword at his side which he had drawn
so often and which he was more than ever ready to draw.

"By-the-bye," he said, "I think that we are decidedly wrong
to depart thus, without leaving a line for Porthos and
D'Artagnan."

"The thing is done, dear friend," said Athos; "I foresaw
that and have embraced them both from you and myself."

"You are a wonderful man, my dear count," said Aramis; "you
think of everything."

"Well, have you made up your mind to this journey?"

"Quite; and now that I reflect about it, I am glad to leave
Paris at this moment."

"And so am I," replied Athos; "my only regret is not having
seen D'Artagnan; but the rascal is so cunning, he might have
guessed our project."

When supper was over Blaisois entered. "Sir," said he, "here
is Monsieur d'Artagnan's answer."

"But I did not tell you there would be an answer, stupid!"
said Athos.

"And I set off without waiting for one, but he called me
back and gave me this;" and he presented a little leather
bag, plump and giving out a golden jingle.

Athos opened it and began by drawing forth a little note,
written in these terms:

"My dear Count, -- When one travels, and especially for
three months, one never has a superfluity of money. Now,
recalling former times of mutual distress, I send you half
my purse; it is money to obtain which I made Mazarin sweat.
Don't make a bad use of it, I entreat you.

"As to what you say about not seeing you again, I believe
not a word of it; with such a heart as yours -- and such a
sword -- one passes through the valley of the shadow of
death a dozen times, unscathed and unalarmed. Au revoir, not
farewell.

"It is unnecessary to say that from the day I saw Raoul I
loved him; nevertheless, believe that I heartily pray that I
may not become to him a father, however much I might be
proud of such a son.

"Your

"D'Artagnan.



"P.S. -- Be it well understood that the fifty louis which I
send are equally for Aramis as for you -- for you as
Aramis."



Athos smiled, and his fine eye was dimmed by a tear.
D'Artagnan, who had loved him so tenderly, loved him still,
although a Mazarinist.

"There are the fifty louis, i'faith," said Aramis, emptying
the purse on the table, all bearing the effigy of Louis
XIII. "Well, what shall you do with this money, count? Shall
you keep it or send it back?"

"I shall keep it, Aramis, and even though I had no need of
it I still should keep it. What is offered from a generous
heart should be accepted generously. Take twenty-five of
them, Aramis, and give me the remaining twenty-five."

"All right; I am glad to see you are of my opinion. There
now, shall we start?"

"When you like; but have you no groom?"

"No; that idiot Bazin had the folly to make himself verger,
as you know, and therefore cannot leave Notre Dame.

"Very well, take Blaisois, with whom I know not what to do,
since I already have Grimaud."

"Willingly," said Aramis.

At this moment Grimaud appeared at the door. "Ready," said
he, with his usual curtness.

"Let us go, then," said Athos.

The two friends mounted, as did their servants. At the
corner of the Quai they encountered Bazin, who was running
breathlessly.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed he, "thank Heaven I have arrived in
time. Monsieur Porthos has just been to your house and has
left this for you, saying that the letter was important and
must be given to you before you left."

"Good," said Aramis, taking a purse which Bazin presented to
him. "What is this?"

"Wait, your reverence, there is a letter."

"You know I have already told you that if you ever call me
anything but chevalier I will break every bone in your body.
Give me the letter."

"How can you read?" asked Athos, "it is as dark as a cold
oven."

"Wait," said Bazin, striking a flint, and setting afire a
twisted wax-light, with which he started the church candles.
Thus illumined, Aramis read the following epistle:

My dear D'Herblay, -- I learned from D'Artagnan who has
embraced me on the part of the Comte de la Fere and
yourself, that you are setting out on a journey which may
perhaps last two or three months; as I know that you do not
like to ask money of your friends I offer you some of my own
accord. Here are two hundred pistoles, which you can dispose
of as you wish and return to me when opportunity occurs. Do
not fear that you put me to inconvenience; if I want money I
can send for some to any of my chateaux; at Bracieux alone,
I have twenty thousand francs in gold. So, if I do not send
you more it is because I fear you would not accept a larger
sum.

"I address you, because you know, that although I esteem him
from my heart I am a little awed by the Comte de la Fere;
but it is understood that what I offer you I offer him at
the same time.

"I am, as I trust you do not doubt, your devoted

"Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.



"Well," said Aramis, "what do you say to that?"

"I say, my dear D'Herblay, that it is almost sacrilege to
distrust Providence when one has such friends, and therefore
we will divide the pistoles from Porthos, as we divided the
louis sent by D'Artagnan."

The division being made by the light of Bazin's taper, the
two friends continued their road and a quarter of an hour
later they had joined De Winter at the Porte Saint Denis.



43

In which it is proved that first Impulses are oftentimes the
best.



The three gentlemen took the road to Picardy, a road so well
known to them and which recalled to Athos and Aramis some of
the most picturesque adventures of their youth.

"If Musqueton were with us," observed Athos, on reaching the
spot where they had had a dispute with the paviers, "how he
would tremble at passing this! Do you remember, Aramis, that
it was here he received that famous bullet wound?"

"By my faith, 'twould be excusable in him to tremble,"
replied Aramis, "for even I feel a shudder at the
recollection; hold, just above that tree is the little spot
where I thought I was killed."

It was soon time for Grimaud to recall the past. Arriving
before the inn at which his master and himself had made such
an enormous repast, he approached Athos and said, showing
him the airhole of the cellar:

"Sausages!"

Athos began to laugh, for this juvenile escapade of his
appeared to be as amusing as if some one had related it of
another person.

At last, after traveling two days and a night, they arrived
at Boulogne toward the evening, favored by magnificent
weather. Boulogne was a strong position, then almost a
deserted town, built entirely on the heights; what is now
called the lower town did not then exist.

"Gentlemen," said De Winter, on reaching the gate of the
town, "let us do here as at Paris -- let us separate to
avoid suspicion. I know an inn, little frequented, but of
which the host is entirely devoted to me. I will go there,
where I expect to find letters, and you go to the first
tavern in the town, to L'Epee du Grand Henri for instance,
refresh yourselves, and in two hours be upon the jetty; our
boat is waiting for us there."

The matter being thus decided, the two friends found, about
two hundred paces further, the tavern indicated. Their
horses were fed, but not unsaddled; the grooms supped, for
it was already late, and their two masters, impatient to
return, appointed a place of meeting with them on the jetty
and desired them on no account to exchange a word with any
one. It is needless to say that this caution concerned
Blaisois alone -- long enough since it had been a useless
one to Grimaud.

Athos and Aramis walked down toward the port. From their
dress, covered with dust, and from a certain easy manner by
means of which a man accustomed to travel is always
recognizable, the two friends excited the attention of a few
promenaders. There was more especially one upon whom their
arrival had produced a decided impression. This man, whom
they had noticed from the first for the same reason they had
themselves been remarked by others, was walking in a
listless way up and down the jetty. From the moment he
perceived them he did not cease to look at them and seemed
to burn with the wish to speak to them.

On reaching the jetty Athos and Aramis stopped to look at a
little boat made fast to a pile and ready rigged as if
waiting to start.

"That is doubtless our boat," said Athos.

"Yes," replied Aramis, "and the sloop out there making ready
to sail must be that which is to take us to our destination;
now," continued he, "if only De Winter does not keep us
waiting. It is not at all amusing here; there is not a
single woman passing."

"Hush!" said Athos, "we are overheard."

In truth, the walker, who, during the observations of the
two friends, had passed and repassed behind them several
times, stopped at the name of De Winter; but as his face
betrayed no emotion at mention of this name, it might have
been by chance he stood so still.

"Gentlemen," said the man, who was young and pale, bowing
with ease and courtesy, "pardon my curiosity, but I see you
come from Paris, or at least that you are strangers at
Boulogne."

"We come from Paris, yes," replied Athos, with the same
courtesy; "what is there we can do for you?"

"Sir," said the young man, "will you be so good as to tell
me if it be true that Cardinal Mazarin is no longer
minister?"

"That is a strange question," said Aramis.

"He is and he is not," replied Athos; "that is to say, he is
dismissed by one-half of France, but by intrigues and
promises he makes the other half sustain him; you will
perceive that this may last a long time."

"However, sir," said the stranger, "he has neither fled nor
is in prison?"

"No, sir, not at this moment at least."

"Sirs, accept my thanks for your politeness," said the young
man, retreating.

"What do you think of that interrogator?" asked Aramis.

"I think he is either a dull provincial person or a spy in
search of information."

"And you replied to him with that notion?"

"Nothing warranted me to answer him otherwise; he was polite
to me and I was so to him."

"But if he be a spy ---- "

"What do you think a spy would be about here? We are not
living in the time of Cardinal Richelieu, who would have
closed the ports on bare suspicion."

"It matters not; you were wrong to reply to him as you did,"
continued Aramis, following with his eyes the young man, now
vanishing behind the cliffs.

"And you," said Athos, "you forget that you committed a very
different kind of imprudence in pronouncing Lord de Winter's
name. Did you not see that at that name the young man
stopped?"

"More reason, then, when he spoke to you, for sending him
about his business."

"A quarrel?" asked Athos.

"And since when have you become afraid of a quarrel?"

"I am always afraid of a quarrel when I am expected at any
place and when such a quarrel might possibly prevent my
reaching it. Besides, let me own something to you. I am
anxious to see that young man nearer."

"And wherefore?"

"Aramis, you will certainly laugh at me, you will say that I
am always repeating the same thing, you will call me the
most timorous of visionaries; but to whom do you see a
resemblance in that young man?"

"In beauty or on the contrary?" asked Aramis, laughing.

"In ugliness, in so far as a man can resemble a woman."

"Ah! Egad!" cried Aramis, "you set me thinking. No, in truth
you are no visionary, my dear friend, and now I think of it
-- you -- yes, i'faith, you're right -- those delicate, yet
firm-set lips, those eyes which seem always at the command
of the intellect and never of the heart! Yes, it is one of
Milady's bastards!"

"You laugh Aramis."

"From habit, that is all. I swear to you, I like no better
than yourself to meet that viper in my path."

"Ah! here is De Winter coming," said Athos.

"Good! one thing now is only awanting and that is, that our
grooms should not keep us waiting."

"No," said Athos. "I see them about twenty paces behind my
lord. I recognize Grimaud by his long legs and his
determined slouch. Tony carries our muskets."

"Then we set sail to-night?" asked Aramis, glancing toward
the west, where the sun had left a single golden cloud,
which, dipping into the ocean, appeared by degrees to be
extinguished.

"Probably," said Athos.

"Diable!" resumed Aramis, "I have little fancy for the sea
by day, still less at night; the sounds of wind and wave,
the frightful movements of the vessel; I confess I prefer
the convent of Noisy."

Athos smiled sadly, for it was evident that he was thinking
of other things as he listened to his friend and moved
toward De Winter.

"What ails our friend?" said Aramis, "he resembles one of
Dante's damned, whose neck Apollyon has dislocated and who
are ever looking at their heels. What the devil makes him
glower thus behind him?"

When De Winter perceived them, in his turn he advanced
toward them with surprising rapidity.

"What is the matter, my lord?" said Athos, "and what puts
you out of breath thus?"

"Nothing," replied De Winter; "nothing; and yet in passing
the heights it seemed to me ---- " and he again turned
round.

Athos glanced at Aramis.

"But let us go," continued De Winter; "let us be off; the
boat must be waiting for us and there is our sloop at anchor
-- do you see it there? I wish I were on board already," and
he looked back again.

"He has seen him," said Athos, in a low tone, to Aramis.

They had reached the ladder which led to the boat. De Winter
made the grooms who carried the arms and the porters with
the luggage descend first and was about to follow them.

At this moment Athos perceived a man walking on the seashore
parallel to the jetty, and hastening his steps, as if to
reach the other side of the port, scarcely twenty steps from
the place of embarking. He fancied in the darkness that he
recognized the young man who had questioned him. Athos now
descended the ladder in his turn, without losing sight of
the young man. The latter, to make a short cut, had appeared
on a sluice.

"He certainly bodes us no good," said Athos; "but let us
embark; once out at sea, let him come."

And Athos sprang into the boat, which was immediately pushed
off and which soon sped seawards under the efforts of four
stalwart rowers.

But the young man had begun to follow, or rather to advance
before the boat. She was obliged to pass between the point
of the jetty, surmounted by a beacon just lighted, and a
rock which jutted out. They saw him in the distance climbing
the rock in order to look down upon the boat as it passed.

"Ay, but," said Aramis, "that young fellow is decidedly a
spy."

"Which is the young man?" asked De Winter, turning around.

"He who followed us and spoke to us awaits us there;
behold!"

De Winter turned and followed the direction of Aramis's
finger. The beacon bathed with light the little strait
through which they were about to pass and the rock where the
young man stood with bare head and crossed arms.

"It is he!" exclaimed De Winter, seizing the arm of Athos;
"it is he! I thought I recognized him and I was not
mistaken."

"Whom do you mean?" asked Aramis.

"Milady's son," replied Athos.

"The monk!" exclaimed Grimaud.

The young man heard these words and bent so forward over the
rock that one might have supposed he was about to
precipitate himself from it.

"Yes, it is I, my uncle -- I, the son of Milady -- I, the
monk -- I, the secretary and friend of Cromwell -- I know
you now, both you and your companions."

In that boat sat three men, unquestionably brave, whose
courage no man would have dared dispute; nevertheless, at
that voice, that accent and those gestures, they felt a
chill access of terror cramp their veins. As for Grimaud,
his hair stood on end and drops of sweat ran down his brow.

"Ah!" exclaimed Aramis, "that is the nephew, the monk, and
the son of Milady, as he says himself."

"Alas, yes," murmured De Winter.

"Then wait," said Aramis; and with the terrible coolness
which on important occasions he showed, he took one of the
muskets from Tony, shouldered and aimed it at the young man,
who stood, like the accusing angel, upon the rock.

"Fire!" cried Grimaud, unconsciously.

Athos threw himself on the muzzle of the gun and arrested
the shot which was about to be fired.

"The devil take you," said Aramis. "I had him so well at the
point of my gun I should have sent a ball into his breast."

"It is enough to have killed the mother," said Athos,
hoarsely.

"The mother was a wretch, who struck at us all and at those
dear to us."

"Yes, but the son has done us no harm."

Grimaud, who had risen to watch the effect of the shot, fell
back hopeless, wringing his hands.

The young man burst into a laugh.

"Ah, it is certainly you!" he cried. "I know you even better
now."

His mocking laugh and threatening words passed over their
heads, carried by the breeze, until lost in the depths of
the horizon. Aramis shuddered.

"Be calm," exclaimed Athos, "for Heaven's sake! have we
ceased to be men?"

"No," said Aramis, "but that fellow is a fiend; and ask the
uncle whether I was wrong to rid him of his dear nephew."

De Winter only replied by a groan.

"It was all up with him," continued Aramis; "ah I much fear
that with all your wisdom such mercy yet will prove supernal
folly."

Athos took Lord de Winter's hand and tried to turn the
conversation.

"When shall we land in England?" he asked; but De Winter
seemed not to hear his words and made no reply.

"Hold, Athos," said Aramis, "perhaps there is yet time. See
if he is still in the same place."

Athos turned around with an effort; the sight of the young
man was evidently painful to him, and there he still was, in
fact, on the rock, the beacon shedding around him, as it
were, a doubtful aureole.

"Decidedly, Aramis," said Athos, "I think I was wrong not to
let you fire."

"Hold your tongue," replied Aramis; "you would make me weep,
if such a thing were possible."

At this moment they were hailed by a voice from the sloop
and a few seconds later men, servants and baggage were
aboard. The captain was only waiting for his passengers;
hardly had they put foot on deck ere her head was turned
towards Hastings, where they were to disembark. At this
instant the three friends turned, in spite of themselves, a
last look on the rock, upon the menacing figure which
pursued them and now stood out with a distinctness still.
Then a voice reached them once more, sending this threat:
"To our next meeting, sirs, in England."



44

Te Deum for the Victory of Lens.



The bustle which had been observed by Henrietta Maria and
for which she had vainly sought to discover a reason, was
occasioned by the battle of Lens, announced by the prince's
messenger, the Duc de Chatillon, who had taken such a noble
part in the engagement; he was, besides, charged to hang
five and twenty flags, taken from the Lorraine party, as
well as from the Spaniards, upon the arches of Notre Dame.

Such news was decisive; it destroyed, in favor of the court,
the struggle commenced with parliament. The motive given for
all the taxes summarily imposed and to which the parliament
had made opposition, was the necessity of sustaining the
honor of France and the uncertain hope of beating the enemy.
Now, since the affair of Nordlingen, they had experienced
nothing but reverses; the parliament had a plea for calling
Mazarin to account for imaginary victories, always promised,
ever deferred; but this time there really had been fighting,
a triumph and a complete one. And this all knew so well that
it was a double victory for the court, a victory at home and
abroad; so that even when the young king learned the news he
exclaimed, "Ah, gentlemen of the parliament, we shall see
what you will say now!" Upon which the queen had pressed the
royal child to her heart, whose haughty and unruly
sentiments were in such harmony with her own. A council was
called on the same evening, but nothing transpired of what
had been decided on. It was only known that on the following
Sunday a Te Deum would be sung at Notre Dame in honor of the
victory of Lens.

The following Sunday, then, the Parisians arose with joy; at
that period a Te Deum was a grand affair; this kind of
ceremony had not then been abused and it produced a great
effect. The shops were deserted, houses closed; every one
wished to see the young king with his mother, and the famous
Cardinal Mazarin whom they hated so much that no one wished
to be deprived of his presence. Moreover, great liberty
prevailed throughout the immense crowd; every opinion was
openly expressed and chorused, so to speak, of coming
insurrection, as the thousand bells of all the Paris
churches rang out the Te Deum. The police belonging to the
city being formed by the city itself, nothing threatening
presented itself to disturb this concert of universal hatred
or freeze the frequent scoffs of slanderous lips.

Nevertheless, at eight o'clock in the morning the regiment
of the queen's guards, commanded by Guitant, under whom was
his nephew Comminges, marched publicly, preceded by drums
and trumpets, filing off from the Palais Royal as far as
Notre Dame, a manoeuvre which the Parisians witnessed
tranquilly, delighted as they were with military music and
brilliant uniforms.

Friquet had put on his Sunday clothes, under the pretext of
having a swollen face which he had managed to simulate by
introducing a handful of cherry kernels into one side of his
mouth, and had procured a whole holiday from Bazin. On
leaving Bazin, Friquet started off to the Palais Royal,
where he arrived at the moment of the turning out of the
regiment of guards; and as he had only gone there for the
enjoyment of seeing it and hearing the music, he took his
place at their head, beating the drum on two pieces of slate
and passing from that exercise to that of the trumpet, which
he counterfeited quite naturally with his mouth in a manner
which had more than once called forth the praises of
amateurs of imitative harmony.

This amusement lasted from the Barriere des Sergens to the
place of Notre Dame, and Friquet found in it very real
enjoyment; but when at last the regiment separated,
penetrated the heart of the city and placed itself at the
extremity of the Rue Saint Christophe, near the Rue
Cocatrix, in which Broussel lived, then Friquet remembered
that he had not had breakfast; and after thinking in which
direction he had better turn his steps in order to
accomplish this important act of the day, he reflected
deeply and decided that Councillor Broussel should bear the
cost of this repast.

In consequence he took to his heels, arrived breathlessly at
the councillor's door, and knocked violently.

His mother, the councillor's old servant, opened it.

"What doest thou here, good-for-nothing?" she said, "and why
art thou not at Notre Dame?"

"I have been there, mother," said Friquet, "but I saw things
happen of which Master Broussel ought to be warned, and so
with Monsieur Bazin's permission -- you know, mother,
Monsieur Bazin, the verger -- I came to speak to Monsieur
Broussel."

"And what hast thou to say, boy, to Monsieur Broussel?"

"I wish to tell him," replied Friquet, screaming with all
his might, "that there is a whole regiment of guards coming
this way. And as I hear everywhere that at the court they
are ill-disposed to him, I wish to warn him, that he may be
on his guard."

Broussel heard the scream of the young oddity, and,
enchanted with this excess of zeal, came down to the first
floor, for he was, in truth, working in his room on the
second.

"Well," said he, "friend, what matters the regiment of
guards to us, and art thou not mad to make such a
disturbance? Knowest thou not that it is the custom of these
soldiers to act thus and that it is usual for the regiment
to form themselves into two solid walls when the king goes
by?"

Friquet counterfeited surprise, and twisting his new cap
around in his fingers, said:

"It is not astonishing for you to know it, Monsieur
Broussel, who knows everything; but as for me, by holy
truth, I did not know it and I thought I would give you good
advice; you must not be angry with me for that, Monsieur
Broussel."

"On the contrary, my boy, on the contrary, I am pleased with
your zeal. Dame Nanette, look for those apricots which
Madame de Longueville sent to us yesterday from Noisy and
give half a dozen of them to your son, with a crust of new
bread."

"Oh, thank you, sir, thank you, Monsieur Broussel," said
Friquet; "I am so fond of apricots!"

Broussel then proceeded to his wife's room and asked for
breakfast; it was nine o'clock. The councillor placed
himself at the window; the street was completely deserted,
but in the distance was heard, like the noise of the tide
rushing in, the deep hum of the populous waves increasing
now around Notre Dame.

This noise redoubled when D'Artagnan, with a company of
musketeers, placed himself at the gates of Notre Dame to
secure the service of the church. He had instructed Porthos
to profit by this opportunity to see the ceremony; and
Porthos, in full dress, mounted his finest horse, taking the
part of supernumerary musketeer, as D'Artagnan had so often
done formerly. The sergeant of this company, a veteran of
the Spanish wars, had recognized Porthos, his old companion,
and very soon all those who served under him were placed in
possession of startling facts concerning the honor of the
ancient musketeers of Treville. Porthos had not only been
well received by the company, but he was moreover looked on
with great admiration.

At ten o'clock the guns of the Louvre announced the
departure of the king, and then a movement, similar to that
of trees in a stormy wind that bend and writhe with agitated
tops, ran though the multitude, which was compressed behind
the immovable muskets of the guard. At last the king
appeared with the queen in a gilded chariot. Ten other
carriages followed, containing the ladies of honor, the
officers of the royal household, and the court.

"God save the king!" was the cry in every direction; the
young monarch gravely put his head out of the window, looked
sufficiently grateful and even bowed; at which the cries of
the multitude were renewed.

Just as the court was settling down in the cathedral, a
carriage, bearing the arms of Comminges, quitted the line of
the court carriages and proceeded slowly to the end of the
Rue Saint Christophe, now entirely deserted. When it arrived
there, four guards and a police officer, who accompanied it,
mounted into the heavy machine and closed the shutters; then
through an opening cautiously made, the policeman began to
watch the length of the Rue Cocatrix, as if he was waiting
for some one.

All the world was occupied with the ceremony, so that
neither the chariot nor the precautions taken by those who
were within it had been observed. Friquet, whose eye, ever
on the alert, could alone have discovered them, had gone to
devour his apricots upon the entablature of a house in the
square of Notre Dame. Thence he saw the king, the queen and
Monsieur Mazarin, and heard the mass as well as if he had
been on duty.

Toward the end of the service, the queen, seeing Comminges
standing near her, waiting for a confirmation of the order
she had given him before quitting the Louvre, said in a
whisper:

"Go, Comminges, and may God aid you!"

Comminges immediately left the church and entered the Rue
Saint Christophe. Friquet, seeing this fine officer thus
walk away, followed by two guards, amused himself by
pursuing them and did this so much the more gladly as the
ceremony ended at that instant and the king remounted his
carriage.

Hardly had the police officer observed Comminges at the end
of the Rue Cocatrix when he said one word to the coachman,
who at once put his vehicle into motion and drove up before
Broussel's door. Comminges knocked at the door at the same
moment, and Friquet was waiting behind Comminges until the
door should be opened.

"What dost thou there, rascal?" asked Comminges.

"I want to go into Master Broussel's house, captain,"
replied Friquet, in that wheedling way the "gamins" of Paris
know so well how to assume when necessary.

"And on what floor does he live?" asked Comminges.

"In the whole house," said Friquet; "the house belongs to
him; he occupies the second floor when he works and descends
to the first to take his meals; he must be at dinner now; it
is noon."

"Good," said Comminges.

At this moment the door was opened, and having questioned
the servant the officer learned that Master Broussel was at
home and at dinner.

Broussel was seated at the table with his family, having his
wife opposite to him, his two daughters by his side, and his
son, Louvieres, whom we have already seen when the accident
happened to the councillor -- an accident from which he had
quite recovered -- at the bottom of the table. The worthy
man, restored to perfect health, was tasting the fine fruit
which Madame de Longueville had sent to him.

At sight of the officer Broussel was somewhat moved, but
seeing him bow politely he rose and bowed also. Still, in
spite of this reciprocal politeness, the countenances of the
women betrayed a certain amount of uneasiness; Louvieres
became very pale and waited impatiently for the officer to
explain himself.

"Sir," said Comminges, "I am the bearer of an order from the
king."

"Very well, sir," replied Broussel, "what is this order?"
And he held out his hand.

"I am commissioned to seize your person, sir," said
Comminges, in the same tone and with the same politeness;
"and if you will believe me you had better spare yourself
the trouble of reading that long letter and follow me."

A thunderbolt falling in the midst of these good people, so
peacefully assembled there, would not have produced a more
appalling effect. It was a horrible thing at that period to
be imprisoned by the enmity of the king. Louvieres sprang
forward to snatch his sword, which stood against a chair in
a corner of the room; but a glance from the worthy Broussel,
who in the midst of It all did not lose his presence of
mind, checked this foolhardy action of despair. Madame
Broussel, separated by the width of the table from her
husband, burst into tears, and the young girls clung to
their father's arms.

"Come, sir," said Comminges, "make haste; you must obey the
king."

"Sir," said Broussel, "I am in bad health and cannot give
myself up a prisoner in this state; I must have time."

"It is impossible," said Comminges; "the order is strict and
must be put into execution this instant."

"Impossible!" said Louvieres; "sir, beware of driving us to
despair."

"Impossible!" cried a shrill voice from the end of the room.

Comminges turned and saw Dame Nanette, her eyes flashing
with anger and a broom in her hand.

"My good Nanette, be quiet, I beseech you," said Broussel.

"Me! keep quiet while my master is being arrested! he, the
support, the liberator, the father of the people! Ah! well,
yes; you have to know me yet. Are you going?" added she to
Comminges.

The latter smiled.

"Come, sir," said he, addressing Broussel, "silence that
woman and follow me."

"Silence me! me! me!" said Nanette. "Ah! yet one wants some
one besides you for that, my fine king's cockatoo! You shall
see." And Dame Nanette sprang to the window, threw it open,
and in such a piercing voice that it might have been heard
in the square of Notre Dame:

"Help!" she screamed, "my master is being arrested; the
Councillor Broussel is being arrested! Help!"

"Sir," said Comminges, "declare yourself at once; will you
obey or do you intend to rebel against the king?"

"I obey, I obey, sir!" cried Broussel, trying to disengage
himself from the grasp of his two daughters and by a look
restrain his son, who seemed determined to dispute
authority.

"In that case," commanded Comminges, "silence that old
woman."

"Ah! old woman!" screamed Nanette.

And she began to shriek more loudly, clinging to the bars of
the window:

"Help! help! for Master Broussel, who is arrested because he
has defended the people! Help!"

Comminges seized the servant around the waist and would have
dragged her from her post; but at that instant a treble
voice, proceeding from a kind of entresol, was heard
screeching:

"Murder! fire! assassins! Master Broussel is being killed!
Master Broussel is being strangled."

It was Friquet's voice; and Dame Nanette, feeling herself
supported, recommenced with all her strength to sound her
shrilly squawk.

Many curious faces had already appeared at the windows and
the people attracted to the end of the street began to run,
first men, then groups, and then a crowd of people; hearing
cries and seeing a chariot they could not understand it; but
Friquet sprang from the entresol on to the top of the
carriage.

"They want to arrest Master Broussel!" he cried; "the guards
are in the carriage and the officer is upstairs!"

The crowd began to murmur and approached the house. The two
guards who had remained in the lane mounted to the aid of
Comminges; those who were in the chariot opened the doors
and presented arms.

"Don't you see them?" cried Friquet, "don't you see? there
they are!"

The coachman turning around, gave Friquet a slash with his
whip which made him scream with pain.

"Ah! devil's coachman!" cried Friquet, "you're meddling too!
Wait!"

And regaining his entresol he overwhelmed the coachman with
every projectile he could lay hands on.

The tumult now began to increase; the street was not able to
contain the spectators who assembled from every direction;
the crowd invaded the space which the dreaded pikes of the
guards had till then kept clear between them and the
carriage. The soldiers, pushed back by these living walls,
were in danger of being crushed against the spokes of the
wheels and the panels of the carriages. The cries which the
police officer repeated twenty times: "In the king's name,"
were powerless against this formidable multitude -- seemed,
on the contrary, to exasperate it still more; when, at the
shout, "In the name of the king," an officer ran up, and
seeing the uniforms ill-treated, he sprang into the scuffle
sword in hand, and brought unexpected help to the guards.
This gentleman was a young man, scarcely sixteen years of
age, now white with anger. He leaped from his charger,
placed his back against the shaft of the carriage, making a
rampart of his horse, drew his pistols from their holsters
and fastened them to his belt, and began to fight with the
back sword, like a man accustomed to the handling of his
weapon.

During ten minutes he alone kept the crowd at bay; at last
Comminges appeared, pushing Broussel before him.

"Let us break the carriage!" cried the people.

"In the king's name!" cried Comminges.

"The first who advances is a dead man!" cried Raoul, for it
was in fact he, who, feeling himself pressed and almost
crushed by a gigantic citizen, pricked him with the point of
his sword and sent him howling back.

Comminges, so to speak, threw Broussel into the carriage and
sprang in after him. At this moment a shot was fired and a
ball passed through the hat of Comminges and broke the arm
of one of the guards. Comminges looked up and saw amidst the
smoke the threatening face of Louvieres appearing at the
window of the second floor.

"Very well, sir," said Comminges, "you shall hear of this
anon."

"And you of me, sir," said Louvieres; "and we shall see then
who can speak the loudest."

Friquet and Nanette continued to shout; the cries, the noise
of the shot and the intoxicating smell of powder produced
their usual maddening effects.

"Down with the officer! down with him!" was the cry.

"One step nearer," said Comminges, putting down the sashes,
that the interior of the carriage might be well seen, and
placing his sword on his prisoner's breast, "one step
nearer, and I kill the prisoner; my orders were to carry him
off alive or dead. I will take him dead, that's all."

A terrible cry was heard, and the wife and daughters of
Broussel held up their hands in supplication to the people;
the latter knew that this officer, who was so pale, but who
appeared so determined, would keep his word; they continued
to threaten, but they began to disperse.

"Drive to the palace," said Comminges to the coachman, who
was by then more dead than alive.

The man whipped his animals, which cleared a way through the
crowd; but on arriving on the Quai they were obliged to
stop; the carriage was upset, the horses carried off,
stifled, mangled by the crowd. Raoul, on foot, for he had
not time to mount his horse again, tired, like the guards,
of distributing blows with the flat of his sword, had
recourse to its point. But this last and dreaded resource
served only to exasperate the multitude. From time to time a
shot from a musket or the blade of a rapier flashed among
the crowd; projectiles continued to hail down from the
windows and some shots were heard, the echo of which, though
they were probably fired in the air, made all hearts
vibrate. Voices, unheard except on days of revolution, were
distinguished; faces were seen that only appeared on days of
bloodshed. Cries of "Death! death to the guards! to the
Seine with the officer!" were heard above all the noise,
deafening as it was. Raoul, his hat in ribbons, his face
bleeding, felt not only his strength but also his reason
going; a red mist covered his sight, and through this mist
he saw a hundred threatening arms stretched over him, ready
to seize upon him when he fell. The guards were unable to
help any one -- each one was occupied with his
self-preservation. All was over; carriages, horses, guards,
and perhaps even the prisoner were about to be torn to
shreds, when all at once a voice well known to Raoul was
heard, and suddenly a great sword glittered in the air; at
the same time the crowd opened, upset, trodden down, and an
officer of the musketeers, striking and cutting right and
left, rushed up to Raoul and took him in his arms just as he
was about to fall.

"God's blood!" cried the officer, "have they killed him? Woe
to them if it be so!"

And he turned around, so stern with anger, strength and
threat, that the most excited rebels hustled back on one
another, in order to escape, and some of them even rolled
into the Seine.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" murmured Raoul.

"Yes, 'sdeath! in person, and fortunately it seems for you,
my young friend. Come on, here, you others," he continued,
rising in his stirrups, raising his sword, and addressing
those musketeers who had not been able to follow his rapid
onslaught. "Come, sweep away all that for me! Shoulder
muskets! Present arms! Aim ---- "

At this command the mountain of populace thinned so suddenly
that D'Artagnan could not repress a burst of Homeric
laughter.

"Thank you, D'Artagnan," said Comminges, showing half of his
body through the window of the broken vehicle, "thanks, my
young friend; your name -- that I may mention it to the
queen."

Raoul was about to reply when D'Artagnan bent down to his
ear.

"Hold your tongue," said he, "and let me answer. Do not lose
time, Comminges," he continued; "get out of the carriage if
you can and make another draw up; be quick, or in five
minutes the mob will be on us again with swords and muskets
and you will be killed. Hold! there's a carriage coming over
yonder."

Then bending again to Raoul, he whispered: "Above all things
do not divulge your name."

"That's right. I will go," said Comminges; "and if they come
back, fire!"

"Not at all -- not at all," replied D'Artagnan; "let no one
move. On the contrary, one shot at this moment would be paid
for dearly to-morrow."

Comminges took his four guards and as many musketeers and
ran to the carriage, from which he made the people inside
dismount, and brought them to the vehicle which had upset.
But when it was necessary to convey the prisoner from one
carriage to the other, the people, catching sight of him
whom they called their liberator, uttered every imaginable
cry and knotted themselves once more around the vehicle.

"Start, start!" said D'Artagnan. "There are ten men to
accompany you. I will keep twenty to hold in check the mob;
go, and lose not a moment. Ten men for Monsieur de
Comminges."

As the carriage started off the cries were redoubled and
more than ten thousand people thronged the Quai and
overflowed the Pont Neuf and adjacent streets. A few shots
were fired and one musketeer was wounded.

"Forward!" cried D'Artagnan, driven to extremities, biting
his moustache; and then he charged with his twenty men and
dispersed them in fear. One man alone remained in his place,
gun in hand.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "it is thou who wouldst have him
assassinated? Wait an instant." And he pointed his gun at
D'Artagnan, who was riding toward him at full speed.
D'Artagnan bent down to his horse's neck the young man
fired, and the ball severed the feathers from the hat. The
horse started, brushed against the imprudent man, who
thought by his strength alone to stay the tempest, and he
fell against the wall. D'Artagnan pulled up his horse, and
whilst his musketeers continued to charge, he returned and
bent with drawn sword over the man he had knocked down.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Raoul, recognizing the young man as
having seen him in the Rue Cocatrix, "spare him! it is his
son!"

D'Artagnan's arm dropped to his side. "Ah, you are his son!"
he said; "that is a different thing."

"Sir, I surrender," said Louvieres, presenting his unloaded
musket to the officer.

"Eh, no! do not surrender, egad! On the contrary, be off,
and quickly. If I take you, you will be hung!"

The young man did not wait to be told twice, but passing
under the horse's head disappeared at the corner of the Rue
Guenegaud.

"I'faith!" said D'Artagnan to Raoul, "you were just in time
to stay my hand. He was a dead man; and on my honor, if I
had discovered that it was his son, I should have regretted
having killed him."

"Ah! sir!" said Raoul, "allow me, after thanking you for
that poor fellow's life, to thank you on my own account. I
too, sir, was almost dead when you arrived."

"Wait, wait, young man; do not fatigue yourself with
speaking. We can talk of it afterward."

Then seeing that the musketeers had cleared the Quai from
the Pont Neuf to the Quai Saint Michael, he raised his sword
for them to double their speed. The musketeers trotted up,
and at the same time the ten men whom D'Artagnan had given
to Comminges appeared.

"Halloo!" cried D'Artagnan; "has something fresh happened?"

"Eh, sir!" replied the sergeant, "their vehicle has broken
down a second time; it really must be doomed."

"They are bad managers," said D'Artagnan, shrugging his
shoulders. "When a carriage is chosen, it ought to be
strong. The carriage in which a Broussel is to be arrested
ought to be able to bear ten thousand men."

"What are your commands, lieutenant?"

"Take the detachment and conduct him to his place."

"But you will be left alone?"

"Certainly. So you suppose I have need of an escort? Go."

The musketeers set off and D'Artagnan was left alone with
Raoul.

"Now," he said, "are you in pain?"

"Yes; my head is not only swimming but burning."

"What's the matter with this head?" said D'Artagnan, raising
the battered hat. "Ah! ah! a bruise."

"Yes, I think I received a flower-pot upon my head."

"Brutes!" said D'Artagnan. "But were you not on horseback?
you have spurs."

"Yes, but I got down to defend Monsieur de Comminges and my
horse was taken away. Here it is, I see."

At this very moment Friquet passed, mounted on Raoul's
horse, waving his parti-colored cap and crying, "Broussel!
Broussel!"

"Halloo! stop, rascal!" cried D'Artagnan. "Bring hither that
horse."

Friquet heard perfectly, but he pretended not to do so and
tried to continue his road. D'Artagnan felt inclined for an
instant to pursue Master Friquet, but not wishing to leave
Raoul alone he contented himself with taking a pistol from
the holster and cocking it.

Friquet had a quick eye and a fine ear. He saw D'Artagnan's
movement, heard the sound of the click, and stopped at once.

"Ah! it is you, your honor," he said, advancing toward
D'Artagnan; "and I am truly pleased to meet you."

D'Artagnan looked attentively at Friquet and recognized the
little chorister of the Rue de la Calandre.

"Ah! 'tis thou, rascal!" said he, "come here: so thou hast
changed thy trade; thou art no longer a choir boy nor a
tavern boy; thou hast become a horse stealer?"

"Ah, your honor, how can you say so?" exclaimed Friquet. "I
was seeking the gentleman to whom this horse belongs -- an
officer, brave and handsome as a youthful Caesar; "then,
pretending to see Raoul for the first time:

"Ah! but if I mistake not," continued he, "here he is; you
won't forget the boy, sir."

Raoul put his hand in his pocket.

"What are you about?" asked D'Artagnan.

"To give ten francs to this honest fellow," replied Raoul,
taking a pistole from his pocket.

"Ten kicks on his back!" said D'Artagnan; "be off, you
little villain, and forget not that I have your address."

Friquet, who did not expect to be let off so cheaply,
bounded off like a gazelle up the Quai a la Rue Dauphine,
and disappeared. Raoul mounted his horse, and both leisurely
took their way to the Rue Tiquetonne.

D'Artagnan watched over the youth as if he had been his own
son.

They arrived without accident at the Hotel de la Chevrette.

The handsome Madeleine announced to D'Artagnan that Planchet
had returned, bringing Musqueton with him, who had
heroically borne the extraction of the ball and was as well
as his state would permit.

D'Artagnan desired Planchet to be summoned, but he had
disappeared.

"Then bring some wine," said D'Artagnan. "You are much
pleased with yourself," said he to Raoul when they were
alone, "are you not?"

"Well, yes," replied Raoul. "It seems to me I did my duty. I
defended the king."

"And who told you to defend the king?"

"The Comte de la Fere himself."

"Yes, the king; but to-day you have not fought for the king,
you have fought for Mazarin; which is not quite the same
thing."

"But you yourself?"

"Oh, for me; that is another matter. I obey my captain's
orders. As for you, your captain is the prince, understand
that rightly; you have no other. But has one ever seen such
a wild fellow," continued he, "making himself a Mazarinist
and helping to arrest Broussel! Breathe not a word of that,
or the Comte de la Fere will be furious."

"You think the count will be angry with me?"

"Think it? I'm certain of it; were it not for that, I should
thank you, for you have worked for us. However, I scold you
instead of him, and in his place; the storm will blow over
more easily, believe me. And moreover, my dear child,"
continued D'Artagnan, "I am making use of the privilege
conceded to me by your guardian."

"I do not understand you, sir," said Raoul.

D'Artagnan rose, and taking a letter from his writing-desk,
presented it to Raoul. The face of the latter became serious
when he had cast his eyes upon the paper.

"Oh, mon Dieu!" he said, raising his fine eyes to
D'Artagnan, moist with tears, "the count has left Paris
without seeing me?"

"He left four days ago," said D'Artagnan.

"But this letter seems to intimate that he is about to incur
danger, perhaps death."

"He -- he -- incur danger of death! No, be not anxious; he
is traveling on business and will return ere long. I hope
you have no repugnance to accept me as your guardian in the
interim."

"Oh, no, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Raoul, "you are such a
brave gentleman and the Comte de la Fere has so much
affection for you!"

"Eh! Egad! love me too; I will not torment you much, but
only on condition that you become a Frondist, my young
friend, and a hearty Frondist, too."

"But can I continue to visit Madame de Chevreuse?"

"I should say you could! and the coadjutor and Madame de
Longueville; and if the worthy Broussel were there, whom you
so stupidly helped arrest, I should tell you to excuse
yourself to him at once and kiss him on both cheeks."

"Well, sir, I will obey you, although I do not understand
you.

"It is unnecessary for you to understand. Hold," continued
D'Artagnan, turning toward the door, which had just opened,
"here is Monsieur du Vallon, who comes with his coat torn."

"Yes, but in exchange," said Porthos, covered with
perspiration and soiled by dust, "in exchange, I have torn
many skins. Those wretches wanted to take away my sword!
Deuce take 'em, what a popular commotion!" continued the
giant, in his quiet manner; "but I knocked down more than
twenty with the hilt of Balizarde. A draught of wine,
D'Artagnan."

"Oh" I'll aswer for you," said the Gascon, filling Porthos's
glass to the brim; "but when you have drunk, give me your
opinion."

"Upon what?" asked Porthos.

"Look here," resumed D'Artagnan; "here is Monsieur de
Bragelonne, who determined at all risks to aid the arrest of
Broussel and whom I had great difficulty to prevent
defending Monsieur de Comminges."

"The devil!" said Porthos; "and his guardian, what would he
have said to that?"

"Do you hear?" interrupted D'Artagnan; "become a Frondist,
my friend, belong to the Fronde, and remember that I fill
the count's place in everything;" and he jingled his money.

"Will you come?" said he to Porthos.

"Where?" asked Porthos, filling a second glass of wine.

"To present our respects to the cardinal."

Porthos swallowed the second glass with the same grace with
which he had imbibed the first, took his beaver and followed
D'Artagnan. As for Raoul, he remained bewildered with what
he had seen, having been forbidden by D'Artagnan to leave
the room until the tumult was over.



45

The Beggar of St. Eustache.



D'Artagnan had calculated that in not going at once to the
Palais Royal he would give Comminges time to arrive before
him, and consequently to make the cardinal acquainted with
the eminent services which he, D'Artagnan, and his friend
had rendered to the queen's party in the morning.

They were indeed admirably received by Mazarin, who paid
them numerous compliments, and announced that they were more
than half on their way to obtain what they desired, namely,
D'Artagnan his captaincy, Porthos his barony.

D'Artagnan would have preferred money in hand to all that
fine talk, for he knew well that to Mazarin it was easy to
promise and hard to perform. But, though he held the
cardinal's promises as of little worth, he affected to be
completely satisfied, for he was unwilling to discourage
Porthos.

Whilst the two friends were with the cardinal, the queen
sent for him. Mazarin, thinking that it would be the means
of increasing the zeal of his two defenders if he procured
them personal thanks from the queen, motioned them to follow
him. D'Artagnan and Porthos pointed to their dusty and torn
dresses, but the cardinal shook his head.

"Those costumes," he said, "are of more worth than most of
those which you will see on the backs of the queen's
courtiers; they are costumes of battle."

D'Artagnan and Porthos obeyed. The court of Anne of Austria
was full of gayety and animation; for, after having gained a
victory over the Spaniard, it had just gained another over
the people. Broussel had been conducted out of Paris without
further resistance, and was at this time in the prison of
Saint Germain; while Blancmesnil, who was arrested at the
same time, but whose arrest had been made without difficulty
or noise, was safe in the Castle of Vincennes.

Comminges was near the queen, who was questioning him upon
the details of his expedition, and every one was listening
to his account, when D'Artagnan and Porthos were perceived
at the door, behind the cardinal.

"Ah, madame," said Comminges, hastening to D'Artagnan, "here
is one who can tell you better than myself, for he was my
protector. Without him I should probably at this moment be a
dead fish in the nets at Saint Cloud, for it was a question
of nothing less than throwing me into the river. Speak,
D'Artagnan, speak."

D'Artagnan had been a hundred times in the same room with
the queen since he had become lieutenant of the musketeers,
but her majesty had never once spoken to him.

"Well, sir," at last said Anne of Austria, "you are silent,
after rendering such a service?"

"Madame," replied D'Artagnan, "I have nought to say, save
that my life is ever at your majesty's service, and that I
shall only be happy the day I lose it for you.

"I know that, sir; I have known that," said the queen, "a
long time; therefore I am delighted to be able thus publicly
to mark my gratitude and my esteem."

"Permit me, madame," said D'Artagnan, "to reserve a portion
for my friend; like myself" (he laid an emphasis on these
words) "an ancient musketeer of the company of Treville; he
has done wonders."

"His name?" asked the queen.

"In the regiment," said D'Artagnan, "he is called Porthos"
(the queen started), "but his true name is the Chevalier du
Vallon."

"De Bracieux de Pierrefonds," added Porthos.

"These names are too numerous for me to remember them all,
and I will content myself with the first," said the queen,
graciously. Porthos bowed. At this moment the coadjutor was
announced; a cry of surprise ran through the royal
assemblage. Although the coadjutor had preached that same
morning it was well known that he leaned much to the side of
the Fronde; and Mazarin, in requesting the archbishop of
Paris to make his nephew preach, had evidently had the
intention of administering to Monsieur de Retz one of those
Italian kicks he so much enjoyed giving.

The fact was, in leaving Notre Dame the coadjutor had
learned the event of the day. Although almost engaged to the
leaders of the Fronde he had not gone so far but that
retreat was possible should the court offer him the
advantages for which he was ambitious and to which the
coadjutorship was but a stepping-stone. Monsieur de Retz
wished to become archbishop in his uncle's place, and
cardinal, like Mazarin; and the popular party could with
difficulty accord him favors so entirely royal. He therefore
hastened to the palace to congratulate the queen on the
battle of Lens, determined beforehand to act with or against
the court, as his congratulations were well or ill received.

The coadjutor possessed, perhaps, as much wit as all those
put together who were assembled at the court to laugh at
him. His speech, therefore, was so well turned, that in
spite of the great wish felt by the courtiers to laugh, they
could find no point on which to vent their ridicule. He
concluded by saying that he placed his feeble influence at
her majesty's command.

During the whole time he was speaking, the queen appeared to
be well pleased with the coadjutor's harangue; but
terminating as it did with such a phrase, the only one which
could be caught at by the jokers, Anne turned around and
directed a glance toward her favorites, which announced that
she delivered up the coadjutor to their tender mercies.
Immediately the wits of the court plunged into satire.
Nogent-Beautin, the fool of the court, exclaimed that "the
queen was very happy to have the succor of religion at such
a moment." This caused a universal burst of laughter. The
Count de Villeroy said that "he did not know how any fear
could be entertained for a moment, when the court had, to
defend itself against the parliament and the citizens of
Paris, his holiness the coadjutor, who by a signal could
raise an army of curates, church porters and vergers."

The Marechal de la Meilleraie added that in case the
coadjutor should appear on the field of battle it would be a
pity that he should not be distinguished in the melee by
wearing a red hat, as Henry IV. had been distinguished by
his white plume at the battle of Ivry.

During this storm, Gondy, who had it in his power to make it
most unpleasant for the jesters, remained calm and stern.
The queen at last asked him if he had anything to add to the
fine discourse he had just made to her.

"Yes, madame," replied the coadjutor; "I have to beg you to
reflect twice ere you cause a civil war in the kingdom."

The queen turned her back and the laughing recommenced.

The coadjutor bowed and left the palace, casting upon the
cardinal such a glance as is best understood by mortal foes.
That glance was so sharp that it penetrated the heart of
Mazarin, who, reading in it a declaration of war, seized
D'Artagnan by the arm and said:

"If occasion requires, monsieur, you will remember that man
who has just gone out, will you not?"

"Yes, my lord," he replied. Then, turning toward Porthos,
"The devil!" said he, "this has a bad look. I dislike these
quarrels among men of the church."

Gondy withdrew, distributing benedictions on his way, and
finding a malicious satisfaction in causing the adherents of
his foes to prostrate themselves at his feet.

"Oh!" he murmured, as he left the threshold of the palace:
"ungrateful court! faithless court! cowardly court! I will
teach you how to laugh to-morrow -- but in another manner."

But whilst they were indulging in extravagant joy at the
Palais Royal, to increase the hilarity of the queen,
Mazarin, a man of sense, and whose fear, moreover, gave him
foresight, lost no time in making idle and dangerous jokes;
he went out after the coadjutor, settled his account, locked
up his gold, and had confidential workmen to contrive hiding
places in his walls.

On his return home the coadjutor was informed that a young
man hail come in after his departure and was waiting for
him; he started with delight when, on demanding the name of
this young man, he learned that it was Louvieres. He
hastened to his cabinet. Broussel's son was there, still
furious, and still bearing bloody marks of his struggle with
the king's officers. The only precaution he had taken in
coming to the archbishopric was to leave his arquebuse in
the hands of a friend.

The coadjutor went to him and held out his hand. The young
man gazed at him as if he would have read the secret of his
heart.

"My dear Monsieur Louvieres," said the coadjutor, "believe
me, I am truly concerned for the misfortune which has
happened to you."

"Is that true, and do you speak seriously?" asked Louvieres.

"From the depth of my heart," said Gondy.

"In that case, my lord, the time for words has passed and
the hour for action is at hand; my lord, in three days, if
you wish it, my father will be out of prison and in six
months you may be cardinal."

The coadjutor started.

"Oh! let us speak frankly," continued Louvieres, "and act in
a straightforward manner. Thirty thousand crowns in alms is
not given, as you have done for the last six months, out of
pure Christian charity; that would be too grand. You are
ambitious -- it is natural; you are a man of genius and you
know your worth. As for me, I hate the court and have but
one desire at this moment -- vengeance. Give us the clergy
and the people, of whom you can dispose, and I will bring
you the citizens and the parliament; with these four
elements Paris is ours in a week; and believe me, monsieur
coadjutor, the court will give from fear what it will not
give from good-will."

It was now the coadjutor's turn to fix his piercing eyes on
Louvieres.

"But, Monsieur Louvieres, are you aware that it is simply
civil war you are proposing to me?"

"You have been preparing long enough, my lord, for it to be
welcome to you now."

"Never mind," said the coadjutor; "you must be well aware
that this requires reflection."

"And how many hours of reflection do you ask?"

"Twelve hours, sir; is it too long?"

"It is now noon; at midnight I will be at your house."

"If I should not be in, wait for me."

"Good! at midnight, my lord."

"At midnight, my dear Monsieur Louvieres."

When once more alone Gondy sent to summon all the curates
with whom he had any connection to his house. Two hours
later, thirty officiating ministers from the most populous,
and consequently the most disturbed parishes of Paris had
assembled there. Gondy related to them the insults he had
received at the Palais Royal and retailed the jests of
Beautin, the Count de Villeroy and Marechal de la
Meilleraie. The curates asked him what was to be done.

"Simply this," said the coadjutor. "You are the directors of
all consciences. Well, undermine in them the miserable
prejudice of respect and fear of kings; teach your flocks
that the queen is a tyrant; and repeat often and loudly, so
that all may know it, that the misfortunes of France are
caused by Mazarin, her lover and her destroyer; begin this
work to-day, this instant even, and in three days I shall
expect the result. For the rest, if any one of you have
further or better counsel to expound, I will listen to him
with the greatest pleasure."

Three curates remained -- those of St. Merri, St. Sulpice
and St. Eustache. The others withdrew.

"You think, then, that you can help me more efficaciously
than your brothers?" said Gondy.

"We hope so," answered the curates.

"Let us hear. Monsieur de St. Merri, you begin."

"My lord, I have in my parish a man who might be of the
greatest use to you."

"Who and what is this man?"

"A shopkeeper in the Rue des Lombards, who has great
influence upon the commerce of his quarter."

"What is his name?"

"He is named Planchet, who himself also caused a rising
about six weeks ago; but as he was searched for after this
emeute he disappeared."

"And can you find him?"

"I hope so. I think he has not been arrested, and as I am
his wife's confessor, if she knows where he is I shall know
it too."

"Very well, sir, find this man, and when you have found him
bring him to me."

"We will be with you at six o'clock, my lord."

"Go, my dear curate, and may God assist you!"

"And you, sir?" continued Gondy, turning to the curate of
St. Sulpice.

"I, my lord," said the latter, "I know a man who has
rendered great services to a very popular prince and who
would make an excellent leader of revolt. Him I can place at
your disposal; it is Count de Rochefort."

"I know him also, but unfortunately he is not in Paris."

"My lord, he has been for three days at the Rue Cassette."

"And wherefore has he not been to see me?"

"He was told -- my lord will pardon me ---- "

"Certainly, speak."

"That your lordship was about to treat with the court."

Gondy bit his lips.

"They are mistaken; bring him here at eight o'clock, sir,
and may Heaven bless you as I bless you!"

"And now 'tis your turn," said the coadjutor, turning to the
last that remained; "have you anything as good to offer me
as the two gentlemen who have left us?"

"Better, my lord."

"Diable! think what a solemn engagement you are making; one
has offered a wealthy shopkeeper, the other a count; you are
going, then, to offer a prince, are you?"

"I offer you a beggar, my lord."

"Ah! ah!" said Gondy, reflecting, "you are right, sir; some
one who could raise the legion of paupers who choke up the
crossings of Paris; some one who would know how to cry aloud
to them, that all France might hear it, that it is Mazarin
who has reduced them to poverty."

"Exactly your man."

"Bravo! and the man?"

"A plain and simple beggar, as I have said, my lord, who
asks for alms, as he gives holy water; a practice he has
carried on for six years on the steps of St. Eustache."

"And you say that he has a great influence over his
compeers?"

"Are you aware, my lord, that mendacity is an organized
body, a kind of association of those who have nothing
against those who have everything; an association in which
every one takes his share; one that elects a leader?"

"Yes, I have heard it said," replied the coadjutor.

"Well, the man whom I offer you is a general syndic."

"And what do you know of him?"

"Nothing, my lord, except that he is tormented with
remorse."

"What makes you think so?"

"On the twenty-eighth of every month he makes me say a mass
for the repose of the soul of one who died a violent death;
yesterday I said this mass again."

"And his name?"

"Maillard; but I do not think it is his right one."

"And think you that we should find him at this hour at his
post?"

"Certainly."

"Let us go and see your beggar, sir, and if he is such as
you describe him, you are right -- it will be you who have
discovered the true treasure."

Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put on a felt cap with
a red feather, hung on a long sword, buckled spurs to his
boots, wrapped himself in an ample cloak and followed the
curate.

The coadjutor and his companion passed through all the
streets lying between the archbishopric and the St. Eustache
Church, watching carefully to ascertain the popular feeling.
The people were in an excited mood, but, like a swarm of
frightened bees, seemed not to know at what point to
concentrate; and it was very evident that if leaders of the
people were not provided all this agitation would pass off
in idle buzzing.

On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires, the curate pointed
toward the square before the church.

"Stop!" he said, "there he is at his post."

Gondy looked at the spot indicated and perceived a beggar
seated in a chair and leaning against one of the moldings; a
little basin was near him and he held a holy water brush in
his hand.

"Is it by permission that he remains there?" asked Gondy.

"No, my lord; these places are bought. I believe this man
paid his predecessor a hundred pistoles for his."

"The rascal is rich, then?"

"Some of those men sometimes die worth twenty thousand and
twenty-five and thirty thousand francs and sometimes more."

"Hum!" said Gondy, laughing; "I was not aware my alms were
so well invested."

In the meantime they were advancing toward the square, and
the moment the coadjutor and the curate put their feet on
the first church step the mendicant arose and proffered his
brush.

He was a man between sixty-six and sixty-eight years of age,
little, rather stout, with gray hair and light eyes. His
countenance denoted the struggle between two opposite
principles -- a wicked nature, subdued by determination,
perhaps by repentance.

He started on seeing the cavalier with the curate. The
latter and the coadjutor touched the brush with the tips of
their fingers and made the sign of the cross; the coadjutor
threw a piece of money into the hat, which was on the
ground.

"Maillard," began the curate, "this gentleman and I have
come to talk with you a little."

"With me!" said the mendicant; "it is a great honor for a
poor distributor of holy water."

There was an ironical tone in his voice which he could not
quite disguise and which astonished the coadjutor.

"Yes," continued the curate, apparently accustomed to this
tone, "yes, we wish to know your opinion of the events of
to-day and what you have heard said by people going in and
out of the church."

The mendicant shook his head.

"These are melancholy doings, your reverence, which always
fall again upon the poor. As to what is said, everybody is
discontented, everybody complains, but `everybody' means
`nobody.'"

"Explain yourself, my good friend," said the coadjutor.

"I mean that all these cries, all these complaints, these
curses, produce nothing but storms and flashes and that is
all; but the lightning will not strike until there is a hand
to guide it."

"My friend," said Gondy, "you seem to be a clever and a
thoughtful man; are you disposed to take a part in a little
civil war, should we have one, and put at the command of the
leader, should we find one, your personal influence and the
influence you have acquired over your comrades?"

"Yes, sir, provided this war were approved of by the church
and would advance the end I wish to attain -- I mean, the
remission of my sins."

"The war will not only be approved of, but directed by the
church. As for the remission of your sins, we have the
archbishop of Paris, who has the very greatest power at the
court of Rome, and even the coadjutor, who possesses some
plenary indulgences; we will recommend you to him."

"Consider, Maillard," said the curate, "that I have
recommended you to this gentleman, who is a powerful lord,
and that I have made myself responsible for you."

"I know, monsieur le cure," said the beggar, "that you have
always been very kind to me, and therefore I, in my turn,
will be serviceable to you."

"And do you think your power as great with the fraternity as
monsieur le cure told me it was just now?"

"I think they have some esteem for me," said the mendicant
with pride, "and that not only will they obey me, but
wherever I go they will follow me."

"And could you count on fifty resolute men, good,
unemployed, but active souls, brawlers, capable of bringing
down the walls of the Palais Royal by crying, `Down with
Mazarin,' as fell those at Jericho?"

"I think," said the beggar, "I can undertake things more
difficult and more important than that."

"Ah, ah," said Gondy, "you will undertake, then, some night,
to throw up some ten barricades?"

"I will undertake to throw up fifty, and when the day comes,
to defend them."

"I'faith!" exclaimed Gondy, "you speak with a certainty that
gives me pleasure; and since monsieur le cure can answer for
you ---- "

"I answer for him," said the curate.

"Here is a bag containing five hundred pistoles in gold;
make all your arrangements, and tell me where I shall be
able to find you this evening at ten o'clock."

"It must be on some elevated place, whence a given signal
may be seen in every part of Paris."

"Shall I give you a line for the vicar of St. Jacques de la
Boucherie? he will let you into the rooms in his tower,"
said the curate.

"Capital," answered the mendicant.

"Then," said the coadjutor, "this evening, at ten o'clock,
and if I am pleased with you another bag of five hundred
pistoles will be at your disposal."

The eyes of the mendicant dashed with cupidity, but he
quickly suppressed his emotion.

"This evening, sir," he replied, "all will be ready."



46

The Tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie.



At a quarter to six o'clock, Monsieur de Gondy, having
finished his business, returned to the archiepiscopal
palace.

At six o'clock the curate of St. Merri was announced.

The coadjutor glanced rapidly behind and saw that he was
followed by another man. The curate then entered, followed
by Planchet.

"Your holiness," said the curate, "here is the person of
whom I had the honor to speak to you."

Planchet saluted in the manner of one accustomed to fine
houses.

"And you are disposed to serve the cause of the people?"
asked Gondy.

"Most undoubtedly," said Planchet. "I am a Frondist from my
heart. You see in me, such as I am, a person sentenced to be
hung."

"And on what account?"

"I rescued from the hands of Mazarin's police a noble lord
whom they were conducting back to the Bastile, where he had
been for five years."

"Will you name him?"

"Oh, you know him well, my lord -- it is Count de
Rochefort."

"Ah! really, yes," said the coadjutor, "I have heard this
affair mentioned. You raised the whole district, so they
told me!"

"Very nearly," replied Planchet, with a self-satisfied air.

"And your business is ---- "

"That of a confectioner, in the Rue des Lombards."

"Explain to me how it happens that, following so peaceful a
business, you had such warlike inclinations."

"Why does my lord, belonging to the church, now receive me
in the dress of an officer, with a sword at his side and
spurs to his boots?"

"Not badly answered, i'faith," said Gondy, laughing; "but I
have, you must know, always had, in spite of my bands,
warlike inclinations."

"Well, my lord, before I became a confectioner I myself was
three years sergeant in the Piedmontese regiment, and before
I became sergeant I was for eighteen months the servant of
Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"The lieutenant of musketeers?" asked Gondy.

"Himself, my lord."

"But he is said to be a furious Mazarinist."

"Phew!" whistled Planchet.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, my lord; Monsieur d'Artagnan belongs to the
service; Monsieur d'Artagnan makes it his business to defend
the cardinal, who pays him, as much as we make it ours, we
citizens, to attack him, whom he robs."

"You are an intelligent fellow, my friend; can we count upon
you?"

"You may count upon me, my lord, provided you want to make a
complete upheaval of the city."

"'Tis that exactly. How many men, think you, you could
collect together to-night?"

"Two hundred muskets and five hundred halberds."

"Let there be only one man in every district who can do as
much and by to-morrow we shall have quite a powerful army.
Are you disposed to obey Count de Rochefort?"

"I would follow him to hell, and that is saying not a
little, as I believe him entirely capable of the descent."

"Bravo!"

"By what sign to-morrow shall we be able to distinguish
friends from foes?"

"Every Frondist must put a knot of straw in his hat."

"Good! Give the watchword."

"Do you want money?"

"Money never comes amiss at any time, my lord; if one has it
not, one must do without it; with it, matters go on much
better and more rapidly."

Gondy went to a box and drew forth a bag.

"Here are five hundred pistoles," he said; "and if the
action goes off well you may reckon upon a similar sum
to-morrow."

"I will give a faithful account of the sum to your
lordship," said Planchet, putting the bag under his arm.

"That is right; I recommend the cardinal to your attention."

"Make your mind easy, he is in good hands."

Planchet went out, the curate remaining for a moment

"Are you satisfied, my lord?" he asked.

"Yes; he appears to be a resolute fellow."

"Well, he will do more than he has promised."

"He will do wonders then."

The curate rejoined Planchet, who was waiting for him on the
stairs. Ten minutes later the curate of St. Sulpice was
announced. As soon as the door of Gondy's study was opened a
man rushed in. It was the Count de Rochefort.

"'Tis you, then, my dear count," cried Gondy, offering his
hand.

"You have made up your mind at last, my lord?" said
Rochefort.

"It has been made up a long time," said Gondy.

"Let us say no more on the subject; you tell me so, I
believe you. Well, we are going to give a ball to Mazarin."

"I hope so."

"And when will the dance begin?"

"The invitations are given for this evening," said the
coadjutor, "but the violins will not begin to play until
to-morrow morning."

"You may reckon upon me and upon fifty soldiers which the
Chevalier d'Humieres has promised me whenever I need them."

"Upon fifty soldiers?"

"Yes, he is making recruits and he will lend them to me; if
any are missing when the fete is over, I shall replace
them."

"Good, my dear Rochefort; but that is not all. What have you
done with Monsieur de Beaufort?"

"He is in Vendome, where he will wait until I write to him
to return to Paris."

"Write to him; now's the time."

"You are sure of your enterprise?"

"Yes, but he must make haste; for hardly will the people of
Paris have revolted before we shall have a score of princes
begging to lead them. If he defers he will find the place of
honor taken."

"Shall I send word to him as coming from you?"

"Yes certainly."

"Shall I tell him that he can count on you?"

"To the end."

"And you will leave the command to him?"

"Of the war, yes, but in politics ---- "

"You must know it is not his element."

"He must leave me to negotiate for my cardinal's hat in my
own fashion."

"You care about it, then, so much?"

"Since they force me to wear a hat of a form which does not
become me," said Gondy, "I wish at least that the hat should
be red."

"One must not dispute matters of taste and colors," said
Rochefort, laughing. "I answer for his consent."

"How soon can he be here?"

"In five days."

"Let him come and he will find a change, I will answer for
it."

"Therefore, go and collect your fifty men and hold yourself
in readiness."

"For what?"

"For everything."

"Is there any signal for the general rally?"

"A knot of straw in the hat."

"Very good. Adieu, my lord."

"Adieu, my dear Rochefort."

"Ah, Monsieur Mazarin, Monsieur Mazarin," said Rochefort,
leading off his curate, who had not found an opportunity of
uttering a single word during the foregoing dialogue, "you
will see whether I am too old to be a man of action."

It was half-past nine o'clock and the coadjutor required
half an hour to go from the archbishop's palace to the tower
of St. Jacques de la Boucherie. He remarked that a light was
burning in one of the highest windows of the tower. "Good,"
said he, "our syndic is at his post."

He knocked and the door was opened. The vicar himself
awaited him, conducted him to the top of the tower, and when
there pointed to a little door, placed the light which he
had brought with him in a corner of the wall, that the
coadjutor might be able to find it on his return, and went
down again. Although the key was in the door the coadjutor
knocked.

"Come in," said a voice which he recognized as that of the
mendicant, whom he found lying on a kind of truckle bed. He
rose on the entrance of the coadjutor, and at that moment
ten o'clock struck.

"Well," said Gondy, "have you kept your word with me?"

"Not exactly," replied the mendicant.

"How is that?"

"You asked me for five hundred men, did you not? Well, I
have ten thousand for you."

"You are not boasting?"

"Do you wish for a proof?"

"Yes."

There were three candles alight, each of which burnt before
a window, one looking upon the city, the other upon the
Palais Royal, and a third upon the Rue Saint Denis.

The man went silently to each of the candles and blew them
out one after the other.

"What are you doing?" asked the coadjutor.

"I have given the signal."

"For what?"

"For the barricades. When you leave this you will behold my
men at work. Only take care you do not break your legs in
stumbling over some chain or your neck by falling in a
hole."

"Good! there is your money, the same sum as that you have
received already. Now remember that you are a general and do
not go and drink."

"For twenty years I have tasted nothing but water."

The man took the bag from the hands of the coadjutor, who
heard the sound of his fingers counting and handling the
gold pieces.

"Ah! ah!" said the coadjutor, "you are avaricious, my good
fellow."

The mendicant sighed and threw down the bag.

"Must I always be the same?" said he, "and shall I never
succeed in overcoming the old leaven? Oh, misery, oh,
vanity!"

"You take it, however."

"Yes, but I make hereby a vow in your presence, to employ
all that remains to me in pious works."

His face was pale and drawn, like that of a man who had just
undergone some inward struggle.

"Singular man!" muttered Gondy, taking his hat to go away;
but on turning around he saw the beggar between him and the
door. His first idea was that this man intended to do him
some harm, but on the contrary he saw him fall on his knees
before him with his hands clasped.

"Your blessing, your holiness, before you go, I beseech
you!" he cried.

"Your holiness!" said Gondy; "my friend, you take me for
some one else."

"No, your holiness, I take you for what you are, that is to
say, the coadjutor; I recognized you at the first glance."

Gondy smiled. "And you want my blessing?" he said.

"Yes, I have need of it."

The mendicant uttered these words in a tone of such
humility, such earnest repentance, that Gondy placed his
hand upon him and gave him his benediction with all the
unction of which he was capable.

"Now," said Gondy, "there is a communion between us. I have
blessed you and you are sacred to me. Come, have you
committed some crime, pursued by human justice, from which I
can protect you?"

The beggar shook his head. "The crime which I have
committed, my lord, has no call upon human justice, and you
can only deliver me from it by blessing me frequently, as
you have just done."

"Come, be candid," said the coadjutor, "you have not all
your life followed the trade which you do now?"

"No, my lord. I have pursued it for six years only."

"And previously, where were you?"

"In the Bastile."

"And before you went to the Bastile?"

"I will tell you, my lord, on the day when you are willing
to hear my confession."

"Good! At whatsoever hour of the day or night you may
present yourself, remember that I shall be ready to give you
absolution."

"Thank you, my lord," said the mendicant in a hoarse voice.
"But I am not yet ready to receive it."

"Very well. Adieu."

"Adieu, your holiness," said the mendicant, opening the door
and bending low before the prelate.



47

The Riot.



It was about eleven o'clock at night. Gondy had not walked a
hundred steps ere he perceived the strange change which had
been made in the streets of Paris.

The whole city seemed peopled with fantastic beings; silent
shadows were seen unpaving the streets and others dragging
and upsetting great wagons, whilst others again dug ditches
large enough to ingulf whole regiments of horsemen. These
active beings flitted here and there like so many demons
completing some unknown labor; these were the beggars of the
Court of Miracles -- the agents of the giver of holy water
in the Square of Saint Eustache, preparing barricades for
the morrow.

Gondy gazed on these deeds of darkness, on these nocturnal
laborers, with a kind of fear; he asked himself, if, after
having called forth these foul creatures from their dens, he
should have the power of making them retire again. He felt
almost inclined to cross himself when one of these beings
happened to approach him. He reached the Rue Saint Honore
and went up it toward the Rue de la Ferronnerie; there the
aspect changed; here it was the tradesmen who were running
from shop to shop; their doors seemed closed like their
shutters, but they were only pushed to in such a manner as
to open and allow the men, who seemed fearful of showing
what they carried, to enter, closing immediately. These men
were shopkeepers, who had arms to lend to those who had
none.

One individual went from door to door, bending under the
weight of swords, guns, muskets and every kind of weapon,
which he deposited as fast as he could. By the light of a
lantern the coadjutor recognized Planchet.

The coadjutor proceeded onward to the quay by way of the Rue
de la Monnaie; there he found groups of bourgeois clad in
black cloaks or gray, according as they belonged to the
upper or lower bourgeoisie. They were standing motionless,
while single men passed from one group to another. All these
cloaks, gray or black, were raised behind by the point of a
sword, or before by the barrel of an arquebuse or a musket.

On reaching the Pont Neuf the coadjutor found it strictly
guarded and a man approached him.

"Who are you?" asked the man. "I do not know you for one of
us."

"Then it is because you do not know your friends, my dear
Monsieur Louvieres," said the coadjutor, raising his hat.

Louvieres recognized him and bowed.

Gondy continued his way and went as far as the Tour de
Nesle. There he saw a lengthy chain of people gliding under
the walls. They might be said to be a procession of ghosts,
for they were all wrapped in white cloaks. When they reached
a certain spot these men appeared to be annihilated, one
after the other, as if the earth had opened under their
feet. Gondy, edged into a corner, saw them vanish from the
first until the last but one. The last raised his eyes, to
ascertain, doubtless, that neither his companions nor
himself had been watched, and, in spite of the darkness, he
perceived Gondy. He walked straight up to him and placed a
pistol to his throat.

"Halloo! Monsieur de Rochefort," said Gondy, laughing, "are
you a boy to play with firearms?"

Rochefort recognized the voice.

"Ah, it is you, my lord!" said he.

"The very same. What people are you leading thus into the
bowels of the earth?"

"My fifty recruits from the Chevalier d'Humieres, who are
destined to enter the light cavalry and who have only
received as yet for their equipment their white cloaks."

"And where are you going?"

"To the house of one of my friends, a sculptor, only we
enter by the trap through which he lets down his marble."

"Very good," said Gondy, shaking Rochefort by the hand, who
descended in his turn and closed the trap after him.

It was now one o'clock in the morning and the coadjutor
returned home. He opened a window and leaned out to listen.
A strange, incomprehensible, unearthly sound seemed to
pervade the whole city; one felt that something unusual and
terrible was happening in all the streets, now dark as
ocean's most unfathomable caves. From time to time a dull
sound was heard, like that of a rising tempest or a billow
of the sea; but nothing clear, nothing distinct, nothing
intelligible; it was like those mysterious subterraneous
noises that precede an earthquake.

The work of revolt continued the whole night thus. The next
morning, on awaking, Paris seemed to be startled at her own
appearance. It was like a besieged town. Armed men,
shouldering muskets, watched over the barricades with
menacing looks; words of command, patrols, arrests,
executions, even, were encountered at every step. Those
bearing plumed hats and gold swords were stopped and made to
cry, "Long live Broussel!" "Down with Mazarin!" and whoever
refused to comply with this ceremony was hooted at, spat
upon and even beaten. They had not yet begun to slay, but it
was well felt that the inclination to do so was not wanting.

The barricades had been pushed as far as the Palais Royal.
From the Rue de Bons Enfants to that of the Ferronnerie,
from the Rue Saint Thomas-du-Louvre to the Pont Neuf, from
the Rue Richelieu to the Porte Saint Honore, there were more
than ten thousand armed men; those who were at the front
hurled defiance at the impassive sentinels of the regiment
of guards posted around the Palais Royal, the gates of which
were closed behind them, a precaution which made their
situation precarious. Among these thousands moved, in bands
numbering from one hundred to two hundred, pale and haggard
men, clothed in rags, who bore a sort of standard on which
was inscribed these words: "Behold the misery of the
people!" Wherever these men passed, frenzied cries were
heard; and there were so many of these bands that the cries
were to be heard in all directions.

The astonishment of Mazarin and of Anne of Austria was great
when it was announced to them that the city, which the
previous evening they had left entirely tranquil, had
awakened to such feverish commotion; nor would either the
one or the other believe the reports that were brought to
them, declaring they would rather rely on the evidence of
their own eyes and ears. Then a window was opened and when
they saw and heard they were convinced.

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and pretended to despise the
populace; but he turned visibly pale and ran to his closet,
trembling all over, locked up his gold and jewels in his
caskets and put his finest diamonds on his fingers. As for
the queen, furious, and left to her own guidance, she went
for the Marechal de la Meilleraie and desired him to take as
many men as he pleased and to go and see what was the
meaning of this pleasantry.

The marshal was ordinarily very adventurous and was wont to
hesitate at nothing; and he had that lofty contempt for the
populace which army officers usually profess. He took a
hundred and fifty men and attempted to go out by the Pont du
Louvre, but there he met Rochefort and his fifty horsemen,
attended by more than five hundred men. The marshal made no
attempt to force that barrier and returned up the quay. But
at Pont Neuf he found Louvieres and his bourgeois. This time
the marshal charged, but he was welcomed by musket shots,
while stones fell like hail from all the windows. He left
there three men.

He beat a retreat toward the market, but there he met
Planchet with his halberdiers; their halberds were leveled
at him threateningly. He attempted to ride over those gray
cloaks, but the gray cloaks held their ground and the
marshal retired toward the Rue Saint Honore, leaving four of
his guards dead on the field of battle.

The marshal then entered the Rue Saint Honore, but there he
was opposed by the barricades of the mendicant of Saint
Eustache. They were guarded, not only by armed men, but even
by women and children. Master Friquet, the owner of a pistol
and of a sword which Louvieres had given him, had organized
a company of rogues like himself and was making a tremendous
racket.

The marshal thought this barrier not so well fortified as
the others and determined to break through it. He dismounted
twenty men to make a breach in the barricade, whilst he and
others, remaining on their horses, were to protect the
assailants. The twenty men marched straight toward the
barrier, but from behind the beams, from among the
wagon-wheels and from the heights of the rocks a terrible
fusillade burst forth and at the same time Planchet's
halberdiers appeared at the corner of the Cemetery of the
Innocents, and Louvieres's bourgeois at the corner of the
Rue de la Monnaie.

The Marechal de la Meilleraie was caught between two fires,
but he was brave and made up his mind to die where he was.
He returned blow for blow and cries of pain began to be
heard in the crowd. The guards, more skillful, did greater
execution; but the bourgeois, more numerous, overwhelmed
them with a veritable hurricane of iron. Men fell around him
as they had fallen at Rocroy or at Lerida. Fontrailles, his
aide-de-camp, had an arm broken; his horse had received a
bullet in his neck and he had difficulty in controlling him,
maddened by pain. In short, he had reached that supreme
moment when the bravest feel a shudder in their veins, when
suddenly, in the direction of the Rue de l'Arbre-Sec, the
crowd opened, crying: "Long live the coadjutor!" and Gondy,
in surplice and cloak, appeared, moving tranquilly in the
midst of the fusillade and bestowing his benedictions to the
right and left, as undisturbed as if he were leading a
procession of the Fete Dieu.

All fell to their knees. The marshal recognized him and
hastened to meet him.

"Get me out of this, in Heaven's name!" he said, "or I shall
leave my carcass here and those of all my men."

A great tumult arose, in the midst of which even the noise
of thunder could not have been heard. Gondy raised his hand
and demanded silence. All were still.

"My children," he said, "this is the Marechal de la
Meilleraie, as to whose intentions you have been deceived
and who pledges himself, on returning to the Louvre, to
demand of the queen, in your name, our Broussel's release.
You pledge yourself to that, marshal?" added Gondy, turning
to La Meilleraie.

"Morbleu!" cried the latter, "I should say that I do pledge
myself to it! I had no hope of getting off so easily."

"He gives you his word of honor," said Gondy.

The marshal raised his hand in token of assent.

"Long live the coadjutor!" cried the crowd. Some voices even
added: "Long live the marshal!" But all took up the cry in
chorus: "Down with Mazarin!"

The crowd gave place, the barricade was opened, and the
marshal, with the remnant of his company, retreated,
preceded by Friquet and his bandits, some of them making a
presence of beating drums and others imitating the sound of
the trumpet. It was almost a triumphal procession; only,
behind the guards the barricades were closed again. The
marshal bit his fingers.

In the meantime, as we have said, Mazarin was in his closet,
putting his affairs in order. He called for D'Artagnan, but
in the midst of such tumult he little expected to see him,
D'Artagnan not being on service. In about ten minutes
D'Artagnan appeared at the door, followed by the inseparable
Porthos.

"Ah, come in, come in, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the
cardinal, "and welcome your friend too. But what is going on
in this accursed Paris?"

"What is going on, my lord? nothing good," replied
D'Artagnan, shaking his head. "The town is in open revolt,
and just now, as I was crossing the Rue Montorgueil with
Monsieur du Vallon, who is here, and is your humble servant,
they wanted in spite of my uniform, or perhaps because of my
uniform, to make us cry `Long live Broussel!' and must I
tell you, my lord what they wished us to cry as well?"

"Speak, speak."

"`Down with Mazarin!' I'faith, the treasonable word is out."

Mazarin smiled, but became very pale.

"And you did cry?" he asked.

"I'faith, no," said D'Artagnan; "I was not in voice;
Monsieur du Vallon has a cold and did not cry either. Then,
my lord ---- "

"Then what?" asked Mazarin.

"Look at my hat and cloak."

And D'Artagnan displayed four gunshot holes in his cloak and
two in his beaver. As for Porthos's coat, a blow from a
halberd had cut it open on the flank and a pistol shot had
cut his feather in two.

"Diavolo!" said the cardinal, pensively gazing at the two
friends with lively admiration; "I should have cried, I
should."

At this moment the tumult was heard nearer.

Mazarin wiped his forehead and looked around him. He had a
great desire to go to the window, but he dared not.

"See what is going on, Monsieur D'Artagnan," said he.

D'Artagnan went to the window with his habitual composure.
"Oho!" said he, "what is this? Marechal de la Meilleraie
returning without a hat -- Fontrailles with his arm in a
sling -- wounded guards -- horses bleeding; eh, then, what
are the sentinels about? They are aiming -- they are going
to fire!"

"They have received orders to fire on the people if the
people approach the Palais Royal!" exclaimed Mazarin.

"But if they fire, all is lost!" cried D'Artagnan.

"We have the gates."

"The gates! to hold for five minutes -- the gates, they will
be torn down, twisted into iron wire, ground to powder!
God's death, don't fire!" screamed D'Artagnan, throwing open
the window.

In spite of this recommendation, which, owing to the noise,
could scarcely have been heard, two or three musket shots
resounded, succeeded by a terrible discharge. The balls
might be heard peppering the facade of the Palais Royal, and
one of them, passing under D'Artagnan's arm, entered and
broke a mirror, in which Porthos was complacently admiring
himself.

"Alack! alack!" cried the cardinal, "a Venetian glass!"

"Oh, my lord," said D'Artagnan, quietly shutting the window,
"it is not worth while weeping yet, for probably an hour
hence there will not be one of your mirrors remaining in the
Palais Royal, whether they be Venetian or Parisian."

"But what do you advise, then?" asked Mazarin, trembling.

"Eh, egad, to give up Broussel as they demand! What the
devil do you want with a member of the parliament? He is of
no earthly use to anybody."

"And you, Monsieur du Vallon, is that your advice? What
would you do?"

"I should give up Broussel," said Porthos.

"Come, come with me, gentlemen!" exclaimed Mazarin. "I will
go and discuss the matter with the queen."

He stopped at the end of the corridor and said:

"I can count upon you, gentlemen, can I not?"

"We do not give ourselves twice over," said D'Artagnan; "we
have given ourselves to you; command, we shall obey."

"Very well, then," said Mazarin; "enter this cabinet and
wait till I come back."

And turning off he entered the drawing-room by another door.



48

The Riot becomes a Revolution.



The closet into which D'Artagnan and Porthos had been
ushered was separated from the drawing-room where the queen
was by tapestried curtains only, and this thin partition
enabled them to hear all that passed in the adjoining room,
whilst the aperture between the two hangings, small as it
was, permitted them to see.

The queen was standing in the room, pale with anger; her
self-control, however, was so great that it might have been
imagined that she was calm. Comminges, Villequier and
Guitant were behind her and the women again were behind the
men. The Chancellor Sequier, who twenty years previously had
persecuted her so ruthlessly, stood before her, relating how
his carriage had been smashed, how he had been pursued and
had rushed into the Hotel d'O ---- , that the hotel was
immediately invaded, pillaged and devastated; happily he had
time to reach a closet hidden behind tapestry, in which he
was secreted by an old woman, together with his brother, the
Bishop of Meaux. Then the danger was so imminent, the
rioters came so near, uttering such threats, that the
chancellor thought his last hour had come and confessed
himself to his brother priest, so as to be all ready to die
in case he was discovered. Fortunately, however, he had not
been taken; the people, believing that he had escaped by
some back entrance, retired and left him at liberty to
retreat. Then, disguised in he clothes of the Marquis d'O
---- , he had left the hotel, stumbling over the bodies of
an officer and two guards who had been killed whilst
defending the street door.

During the recital Mazarin entered and glided noiselessly up
to the queen to listen.

"Well," said the queen, when the chancellor had finished
speaking; "what do you think of it all?"

"I think that matters look very gloomy, madame."

"But what step would you propose to me?"

"I could propose one to your majesty, but I dare not."

"You may, you may, sir," said the queen with a bitter smile;
"you were not so timid once."

The chancellor reddened and stammered some words.

"It is not a question of the past, but of the present," said
the queen; "you said you could give me advice -- what is
it?"

"Madame," said the chancellor, hesitating, "it would be to
release Broussel."

The queen, although already pale, became visibly paler and
her face was contracted.

"Release Broussel!" she cried, "never!"

At this moment steps were heard in the ante-room and without
any announcement the Marechal de la Meilleraie appeared at
the door.

"Ah, there you are, marechal," cried Anne of Austria
joyfully. "I trust you have brought this rabble to reason."

"Madame," replied the marechal, "I have left three men on
the Pont Neuf, four at the Halle, six at the corner of the
Rue de l'Arbre-Sec and two at the door of your palace --
fifteen in all. I have brought away ten or twelve wounded. I
know not where I have left my hat, and in all probability I
should have been left with my hat, had the coadjutor not
arrived in time to rescue me."

"Ah, indeed," said the queen, "it would have much astonished
me if that low cur, with his distorted legs, had not been
mixed up with all this."

"Madame," said La Meilleraie, "do not say too much against
him before me, for the service he rendered me is still
fresh."

"Very good," said the queen, "be as grateful as you like, it
does not implicate me; you are here safe and sound, that is
all I wished for; you are not only welcome, but welcome
back."

"Yes, madame; but I only came back on one condition -- that
I would transmit to your majesty the will of the people."

"The will!" exclaimed the queen, frowning. "Oh! oh! monsieur
marechal, you must indeed have found yourself in wondrous
peril to have undertaken so strange a commission!"

The irony with which these words were uttered did not escape
the marechal.

"Pardon, madame," he said, "I am not a lawyer, I am a mere
soldier, and probably, therefore, I do not quite comprehend
the value of certain words; I ought to have said the wishes,
and not the will, of the people. As for what you do me the
honor to say, I presume you mean I was afraid?"

The queen smiled.

"Well, then, madame, yes, I did feel fear; and though I have
been through twelve pitched battles and I cannot count how
many charges and skirmishes, I own for the third time in my
life I was afraid. Yes, and I would rather face your
majesty, however threatening your smile, than face those
demons who accompanied me hither and who sprung from I know
not whence, unless from deepest hell."

(" Bravo," said D'Artagnan in a whisper to Porthos; "well
answered.")

"Well," said the queen, biting her lips, whilst her
courtiers looked at each other with surprise, "what is the
desire of my people?"

"That Broussel shall be given up to them, madame."

"Never!" said the queen, "never!"

"Your majesty is mistress," said La Meilleraie, retreating a
few steps.

"Where are you going, marechal?" asked the queen.

"To give your majesty's reply to those who await it."

"Stay, marechal; I will not appear to parley with rebels."

"Madame, I have pledged my word, and unless you order me to
be arrested I shall be forced to return."

Anne of Austria's eyes shot glances of fire.

"Oh! that is no impediment, sir," said she; "I have had
greater men than you arrested -- Guitant!"

Mazarin sprang forward.

"Madame, "said he, "if I dared in my turn advise ---- "

"Would it be to give up Broussel, sir? If so, you can spare
yourself the trouble."

"No," said Mazarin; "although, perhaps, that counsel is as
good as any other."

"Then what may it be?"

"To call for monsieur le coadjuteur."

"The coadjutor!" cried the queen, "that dreadful mischief
maker! It is he who has raised all this revolt."

"The more reason," said Mazarin; "if he has raised it he can
put it down."

"And hold, madame," suggested Comminges, who was near a
window, out of which he could see; "hold, the moment is a
happy one, for there he is now, giving his blessing in the
square of the Palais Royal."

The queen sprang to the window.

"It is true," she said, "the arch hypocrite -- see!"

"I see," said Mazarin, "that everybody kneels before him,
although he be but coadjutor, whilst I, were I in his place,
though I am cardinal, should be torn to pieces. I persist,
then, madame, in my wish" (he laid an emphasis on the word),
"that your majesty should receive the coadjutor."

"And wherefore do you not say, like the rest, your will?"
replied the queen, in a low voice.

Mazarin bowed.

"Monsieur le marechal," said the queen, after a moment's
reflection, "go and find the coadjutor and bring him to me."

"And what shall I say to the people?"

"That they must have patience," said Anne, "as I have."

The fiery Spanish woman spoke in a tone so imperative that
the marechal made no reply; he bowed and went out.

(D'Artagnan turned to Porthos. "How will this end?" he said.

"We shall soon see," said Porthos, in his tranquil way.)

In the meantime Anne of Austria approached Comminges and
conversed with him in a subdued tone, whilst Mazarin glanced
uneasily at the corner occupied by D'Artagnan and Porthos.
Ere long the door opened and the marechal entered, followed
by the coadjutor.

"There, madame," he said, "is Monsieur Gondy, who hastens to
obey your majesty's summons."

The queen advanced a few steps to meet him, and then
stopped, cold, severe, unmoved, with her lower lip
scornfully protruded.

Gondy bowed respectfully.

"Well, sir," said the queen, "what is your opinion of this
riot?"

"That it is no longer a riot, madame," he replied, "but a
revolt."

"The revolt is at the door of those who think my people can
rebel," cried Anne, unable to dissimulate before the
coadjutor, whom she looked upon, and probably with reason,
as the promoter of the tumult. "Revolt! thus it is called by
those who have wished for this demonstration and who are,
perhaps, the cause of it; but, wait, wait! the king's
authority will put all this to rights."

"Was it to tell me that, madame," coldly replied Gondy,
"that your majesty admitted me to the honor of entering your
presence?"

"No, my dear coadjutor," said Mazarin; "it was to ask your
advice in the unhappy dilemma in which we find ourselves."

"Is it true," asked Gondy, feigning astonishment, "that her
majesty summoned me to ask for my opinion?"

"Yes," said the queen, "it is requested."

The coadjutor bowed.

"Your majesty wishes, then ---- "

"You to say what you would do in her place," Mazarin
hastened to reply.

The coadjutor looked at the queen, who replied by a sign in
the affirmative.

"Were I in her majesty's place," said Gondy, coldly, "I
should not hesitate; I should release Broussel."

"And if I do not give him up, what think you will be the
result?" exclaimed the queen.

"I believe that not a stone in Paris will remain unturned,"
put in the marechal.

"It was not your opinion that I asked," said the queen,
sharply, without even turning around.

"If it is I whom your majesty interrogates," replied the
coadjutor in the same calm manner, "I reply that I hold
monsieur le marechal's opinion in every respect."

The color mounted to the queen's face; her fine blue eyes
seemed to start out of her head and her carmine lips,
compared by all the poets of the day to a pomegranate in
flower, were trembling with anger. Mazarin himself, who was
well accustomed to the domestic outbreaks of this disturbed
household, was alarmed.

"Give up Broussel!" she cried; "fine counsel, indeed. Upon
my word! one can easily see it comes from a priest.

Gondy remained firm, and the abuse of the day seemed to
glide over his head as the sarcasms of the evening before
had done; but hatred and revenge were accumulating in his
heart silently and drop by drop. He looked coldly at the
queen, who nudged Mazarin to make him say something in his
turn.

Mazarin, according to his custom, was thinking much and
saying little.

"Ho! ho!" said he, "good advice, advice of a friend. I, too,
would give up that good Monsieur Broussel, dead or alive,
and all would be at an end."

"If you yield him dead, all will indeed be at an end, my
lord, but quite otherwise than you mean."

"Did I say `dead or alive?'" replied Mazarin. "It was only a
way of speaking. You know I am not familiar with the French
language, which you, monsieur le coadjuteur, both speak and
write so well."

("This is a council of state," D'Artagnan remarked to
Porthos; "but we held better ones at La Rochelle, with Athos
and Aramis."

"At the Saint Gervais bastion," said Porthos.

"There and elsewhere.")

The coadjutor let the storm pass over his head and resumed,
still with the same tranquillity:

"Madame, if the opinion I have submitted to you does not
please you it is doubtless because you have better counsels
to follow. I know too well the wisdom of the queen and that
of her advisers to suppose that they will leave the capital
long in trouble that may lead to a revolution."

"Thus, then, it is your opinion," said Anne of Austria, with
a sneer and biting her lips with rage, "that yesterday's
riot, which to-day is already a rebellion, to-morrow may
become a revolution?"

"Yes, madame," replied the coadjutor, gravely.

"But if I am to believe you, sir, the people seem to have
thrown off all restraint."

"It is a bad year for kings," said Gondy, shaking his head;
"look at England, madame."

"Yes; but fortunately we have no Oliver Cromwell in France,"
replied the queen.

"Who knows?" said Gondy; "such men are like thunderbolts --
one recognizes them only when they have struck."

Every one shuddered and there was a moment of silence,
during which the queen pressed her hand to her side,
evidently to still the beatings of her heart.

("Porthos," murmured D'Artagnan, "look well at that priest."

"Yes," said Porthos, "I see him. What then?"

"Well, he is a man."

Porthos looked at D'Artagnan in astonishment. Evidently he
did not understand his meaning.)

"Your majesty," continued the coadjutor, pitilessly, "is
about to take such measures as seem good to you, but I
foresee that they will be violent and such as will still
further exasperate the rioters."

"In that case, you, monsieur le coadjuteur, who have such
power over them and are at the same time friendly to us,"
said the queen, ironically, "will quiet them by bestowing
your blessing upon them."

"Perhaps it will be too late," said Gondy, still unmoved;
"perhaps I shall have lost all influence; while by giving up
Broussel your majesty will strike at the root of the
sedition and will gain the right to punish severely any
revival of the revolt."

"Have I not, then, that right?" cried the queen.

"If you have it, use it," replied Gondy.

("Peste!" said D'Artagnan to Porthos. "There is a man after
my own heart. Oh! if he were minister and I were his
D'Artagnan, instead of belonging to that beast of a Mazarin,
mordieu! what fine things we would do together!"

"Yes," said Porthos.)

The queen made a sign for every one, except Mazarin, to quit
the room; and Gondy bowed, as if to leave with the rest.

"Stay, sir," said Anne to him.

"Good," thought Gondy, "she is going to yield."

("She is going to have him killed," said D'Artagnan to
Porthos, "but at all events it shall not be by me. I swear
to Heaven, on the contrary, that if they fall upon him I
will fall upon them."

"And I, too," said Porthos.)

"Good," muttered Mazarin, sitting down, "we shall soon see
something startling."

The queen's eyes followed the retreating figures and when
the last had closed the door she turned away. It was evident
that she was making unnatural efforts to subdue her anger;
she fanned herself, smelled at her vinaigrette and walked up
and down. Gondy, who began to feel uneasy, examined the
tapestry with his eyes, touched the coat of mail which he
wore under his long gown and felt from time to time to see
if the handle of a good Spanish dagger, which was hidden
under his cloak, was well within reach.

"And now," at last said the queen, "now that we are alone,
repeat your counsel, monsieur le coadjuteur."

"It is this, madame: that you should appear to have
reflected, and publicly acknowledge an error, which
constitutes the extra strength of a strong government;
release Broussel from prison and give him back to the
people."

"Oh!" cried Anne, "to humble myself thus! Am I, or am I not,
the queen? This screaming mob, are they, or are they not, my
subjects? Have I friends? Have I guards? Ah! by Notre Dame!
as Queen Catherine used to say," continued she, excited by
her own words, "rather than give up this infamous Broussel
to them I will strangle him with my own hands!"

And she sprang toward Gondy, whom assuredly at that moment
she hated more than Broussel, with outstretched arms. The
coadjutor remained immovable and not a muscle of his face
was discomposed; only his glance flashed like a sword in
returning the furious looks of the queen.

("He were a dead man)" said the Gascon, "if there were still
a Vitry at the court and if Vitry entered at this moment;
but for my part, before he could reach the good prelate I
would kill Vitry at once; the cardinal would be infinitely
pleased with me."

"Hush!" said Porthos; "listen.")

"Madame," cried the cardinal, seizing hold of Anne and
drawing her back, "Madame, what are you about?"

Then he added in Spanish, "Anne, are you mad? You, a queen
to quarrel like a washerwoman! And do you not perceive that
in the person of this priest is represented the whole people
of Paris and that it is dangerous to insult him at this
moment, and if this priest wished it, in an hour you would
be without a crown? Come, then, on another occasion you can
be firm and strong; but to-day is not the proper time;
to-day, flatter and caress, or you are only a common woman."

(At the first words of this address D'Artagnan had seized
Porthos's arm, which he pressed with gradually increasing
force. When Mazarin ceased speaking he said to Porthos in a
low tone:

"Never tell Mazarin that I understand Spanish, or I am a
lost man and you are also."

"All right," said Porthos.)

This rough appeal, marked by the eloquence which
characterized Mazarin when he spoke in Italian or Spanish
and which he lost entirely in speaking French, was uttered
with such impenetrable expression that Gondy, clever
physiognomist as he was, had no suspicion of its being more
than a simple warning to be more subdued.

The queen, on her part, thus chided, softened immediately
and sat down, and in an almost weeping voice, letting her
arms fall by her side, said:

"Pardon me, sir, and attribute this violence to what I
suffer. A woman, and consequently subject to the weaknesses
of my sex, I am alarmed at the idea of civil war; a queen,
accustomed to be obeyed, I am excited at the first
opposition."

"Madame," replied Gondy, bowing, "your majesty is mistaken
in qualifying my sincere advice as opposition. Your majesty
has none but submissive and respectful subjects. It is not
the queen with whom the people are displeased; they ask for
Broussel and are only too happy, if you release him to them,
to live under your government."

Mazarin, who at the words, "It is not the queen with whom
the people are displeased," had pricked up his ears,
thinking that the coadjutor was about to speak of the cries,
"Down with Mazarin," and pleased with Gondy's suppression of
this fact, he said with his sweetest voice and his most
gracious expression:

"Madame, credit the coadjutor, who is one of the most able
politicians we have; the first available cardinal's hat
seems to belong already to his noble brow."

"Ah! how much you have need of me, cunning rogue!" thought
Gondy.

("And what will he promise us?" said D'Artagnan. "Peste, if
he is giving away hats like that, Porthos, let us look out
and both demand a regiment to-morrow. Corbleu! let the civil
war last but one year and I will have a constable's sword
gilt for me."

"And for me?" put in Porthos.

"For you? I will give you the baton of the Marechal de la
Meilleraie, who does not seem to be much in favor just
now.")

"And so, sir," said the queen, "you are seriously afraid of
a public tumult."

"Seriously," said Gondy, astonished at not having further
advanced; "I fear that when the torrent has broken its
embankment it will cause fearful destruction."

"And I," said the queen, "think that in such a case other
embankments should be raised to oppose it. Go; I will
reflect."

Gondy looked at Mazarin, astonished, and Mazarin approached
the queen to speak to her, but at this moment a frightful
tumult arose from the square of the Palais Royal.

Gondy smiled, the queen's color rose and Mazarin grew even
paler.

"What is that again?" he asked.

At this moment Comminges rushed into the room.

"Pardon, your majesty," he cried, "but the people have
dashed the sentinels against the gates and they are now
forcing the doors; what are your commands?"

"Listen, madame," said Gondy.

The moaning of waves, the noise of thunder, the roaring of a
volcano, cannot be compared with the tempest of cries heard
at that moment.

"What are my commands?" said the queen.

"Yes, for time presses."

"How many men have you about the Palais Royal?"

"Six hundred."

"Place a hundred around the king and with the remainder
sweep away this mob for me."

"Madame," cried Mazarin, "what are you about?"

"Go!" said the queen.

Comminges went out with a soldier's passive obedience.

At this moment a monstrous battering was heard. One of the
gates began to yield.

"Oh! madame," cried Mazarin, "you have ruined us all -- the
king, yourself and me."

At this cry from the soul of the frightened cardinal, Anne
became alarmed in her turn and would have recalled
Comminges.

"It is too late," said Mazarin, tearing his hair, "too
late!"

The gale had given way. Hoarse shouts were heard from the
excited mob. D'Artagnan put his hand to his sword, motioning
to Porthos to follow his example.

"Save the queen!" cried Mazarin to the coadjutor.

Gondy sprang to the window and threw it open; he recognized
Louvieres at the head of a troop of about three or four
thousand men.

"Not a step further," he shouted, "the queen is signing!"

"What are you saying?" asked the queen.

"The truth, madame," said Mazarin, placing a pen and a paper
before her, "you must;" then he added: "Sign, Anne, I
implore you -- I command you."

The queen fell into a chair, took the pen and signed.

The people, kept back by Louvieres, had not made another
step forward; but the awful murmuring, which indicates an
angry people, continued.

The queen had written, "The keeper of the prison at Saint
Germain will set Councillor Broussel at liberty;" and she
had signed it.

The coadjutor, whose eyes devoured her slightest movements,
seized the paper immediately the signature had been affixed
to it, returned to the window and waved it in his hand.

"This is the order," he said.

All Paris seemed to shout with joy, and then the air
resounded with the cries of "Long live Broussel!" "Long live
the coadjutor!"

"Long live the queen!" cried De Gondy; but the cries which
replied to his were poor and few, and perhaps he had but
uttered it to make Anne of Austria sensible of her weakness.

"And now that you have obtained what you want, go," said
she, "Monsieur de Gondy."

"Whenever her majesty has need of me," replied the
coadjutor, bowing, "her majesty knows I am at her command."

"Ah, cursed priest!" cried Anne, when he had retired,
stretching out her arm to the scarcely closed door, "one day
I will make you drink the dregs of the atrocious gall you
have poured out on me to-day."

Mazarin wished to approach her. "Leave me!" she exclaimed;
"you are not a man!" and she went out of the room.

"It is you who are not a woman," muttered Mazarin.

Then, after a moment of reverie, he remembered where he had
left D'Artagnan and Porthos and that they must have
overheard everything. He knit his brows and went direct to
the tapestry, which he pushed aside. The closet was empty.

At the queen's last word, D'Artagnan had dragged Porthos
into the gallery. Thither Mazarin went in his turn and found
the two friends walking up and down.

"Why did you leave the closet, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" asked
the cardinal.

"Because," replied D'Artagnan, "the queen desired every one
to leave and I thought that this command was intended for us
as well as for the rest."

"And you have been here since ---- "

"About a quarter of an hour," said D'Artagnan, motioning to
Porthos not to contradict him.

Mazarin saw the sign and remained convinced that D'Artagnan
had seen and heard everything; but he was pleased with his
falsehood.

"Decidedly, Monsieur d'Artagnan, you are the man I have been
seeking. You may reckon upon me and so may your friend."
Then bowing to the two musketeers with his most gracious
smile, he re-entered his closet more calmly, for on the
departure of De Gondy the uproar had ceased as though by
enchantment.



49

Misfortune refreshes the Memory.



Anne of Austria returned to her oratory, furious.

"What!" she cried, wringing her beautiful hands, "What! the
people have seen Monsieur de Conde, a prince of the blood
royal, arrested by my mother-in-law, Maria de Medicis; they
saw my mother-in-law, their former regent, expelled by the
cardinal; they saw Monsieur de Vendome, that is to say, the
son of Henry IV., a prisoner at Vincennes; and whilst these
great personages were imprisoned, insulted and threatened,
they said nothing; and now for a Broussel -- good God! what,
then, is to become of royalty?"

The queen unconsciously touched here upon the exciting
question. The people had made no demonstration for the
princes, but they had risen for Broussel; they were taking
the part of a plebeian and in defending Broussel they
instinctively felt they were defending themselves.

During this time Mazarin walked up and down the study,
glancing from time to time at his beautiful Venetian mirror,
starred in every direction. "Ah!" he said, "it is sad, I
know well, to be forced to yield thus; but, pshaw! we shall
have our revenge. What matters it about Broussel -- it is a
name, not a thing."

Mazarin, clever politician as he was, was for once mistaken;
Broussel was a thing, not a name.

The next morning, therefore, when Broussel made his entrance
into Paris in a large carriage, having his son Louvieres at
his side and Friquet behind the vehicle, the people threw
themselves in his way and cries of "Long live Broussel!"
"Long live our father!" resounded from all parts and was
death to Mazarin's ears; and the cardinal's spies brought
bad news from every direction, which greatly agitated the
minister, but was calmly received by the queen. The latter
seemed to be maturing in her mind some great stroke, a fact
which increased the uneasiness of the cardinal, who knew the
proud princess and dreaded much the determination of Anne of
Austria.

The coadjutor returned to parliament more a monarch than
king, queen, and cardinal, all three together. By his advice
a decree from parliament summoned the citizens to lay down
their arms and demolish the barricades. They now knew that
it required but one hour to take up arms again and one night
to reconstruct the barricades.

Rochefort had returned to the Chevalier d'Humieres his fifty
horsemen, less two, missing at roll call. But the chevalier
was himself at heart a Frondist and would hear nothing said
of compensation.

The mendicant had gone to his old place on the steps of
Saint Eustache and was again distributing holy water with
one hand and asking alms with the other. No one could
suspect that those two hands had been engaged with others in
drawing out from the social edifice the keystone of royalty.

Louvieres was proud and satisfied; he had taken revenge on
Mazarin and had aided in his father's deliverance from
prison. His name had been mentioned as a name of terror at
the Palais Royal. Laughingly he said to the councillor,
restored to his family:

"Do you think, father, that if now I should ask for a
company the queen would give it to me?"

D'Artagnan profited by this interval of calm to send away
Raoul, whom he had great difficulty in keeping shut up
during the riot, and who wished positively to strike a blow
for one party or the other. Raoul had offered some
opposition at first; but D'Artagnan made use of the Comte de
la Fere's name, and after paying a visit to Madame de
Chevreuse, Raoul started to rejoin the army.

Rochefort alone was dissatisfied with the termination of
affairs. He had written to the Duc de Beaufort to come and
the duke was about to arrive, and he world find Paris
tranquil. He went to the coadjutor to consult with him
whether it would not be better to send word to the duke to
stop on the road, but Gondy reflected for a moment, and then
said:

"Let him continue his journey."

"All is not then over?" asked Rochefort.

"My dear count, we have only just begun."

"What induces you to think so?"

"The knowledge that I have of the queen's heart; she will
not rest contented beaten."

"Is she, then, preparing for a stroke?"

"I hope so."

"Come, let us see what you know."

"I know that she has written to the prince to return in
haste from the army."

"Ah! ha!" said Rochefort, "you are right. We must let
Monsieur de Beaufort come."

In fact, the evening after this conversation the report was
circulated that the Prince de Conde had arrived. It was a
very simple, natural circumstance and yet it created a
profound sensation. It was said that Madame de Longueville,
for whom the prince had more than a brother's affection and
in whom he had confided, had been indiscreet. His confidence
had unveiled the sinister project of the queen.

Even on the night of the prince's return, some citizens,
bolder than the rest, such as the sheriffs, captains and the
quartermaster, went from house to house among their friends,
saying:

"Why do we not take the king and place him in the Hotel de
Ville? It is a shame to leave him to be educated by our
enemies, who will give him evil counsel; whereas, brought up
by the coadjutor, for instance, he would imbibe national
principles and love his people."

That night the question was secretly agitated and on the
morrow the gray and black cloaks, the patrols of armed
shop-people, and the bands of mendicants reappeared.

The queen had passed the night in lonely conference with the
prince, who had entered the oratory at midnight and did not
leave till five o'clock in the morning.

At five o'clock Anne went to the cardinal's room. If she had
not yet taken any repose, he at least was already up. Six
days had already passed out of the ten he had asked from
Mordaunt; he was therefore occupied in revising his reply to
Cromwell, when some one knocked gently at the door of
communication with the queen's apartments. Anne of Austria
alone was permitted to enter by that door. The cardinal
therefore rose to open it.

The queen was in a morning gown, but it became her still;
for, like Diana of Poictiers and Ninon, Anne of Austria
enjoyed the privilege of remaining ever beautiful;
nevertheless, this morning she looked handsomer than usual,
for her eyes had all the sparkle inward satisfaction adds to
expression.

"What is the matter, madame?" said Mazarin, uneasily. "You
seem secretly elated."

"Yes, Giulio," she said, "proud and happy; for I have found
the means of strangling this hydra."

"You are a great politician, my queen," said Mazarin; "let
us hear the means." And he hid what he had written by
sliding the letter under a folio of blank paper.

"You know," said the queen, "that they want to take the king
away from me?"

"Alas! yes, and to hang me."

"They shall not have the king."

"Nor hang me."

"Listen. I want to carry off my son from them, with
yourself. I wish that this event, which on the day it is
known will completely change the aspect of affairs, should
be accomplished without the knowledge of any others but
yourself, myself, and a third person."

"And who is this third person?"

"Monsieur le Prince."

"He has come, then, as they told me?"

"Last evening."

"And you have seen him?"

"He has just left me."

"And will he aid this project?"

"The plan is his own."

"And Paris?"

"He will starve it out and force it to surrender at
discretion."

"The plan is not wanting in grandeur; I see but one
impediment."

"What is it?"

"Impossibility."

"A senseless word. Nothing is impossible."

"On paper."

"In execution. We have money?"

"A little," said Mazarin, trembling, lest Anne should ask to
draw upon his purse.

"Troops?"

"Five or six thousand men."

"Courage?"

"Plenty."

"Then the thing is easy. Oh! do think of it, Giulio! Paris,
this odious Paris, waking up one morning without queen or
king, surrounded, besieged, famished -- having for its sole
resource its stupid parliament and their coadjutor with
crooked limbs!"

"Charming! charming!" said Mazarin. "I can imagine the
effect, I do not see the means."

"I will find the means myself."

"You are aware it will be war, civil war, furious,
devouring, implacable?"

"Oh! yes, yes, war," said Anne of Austria. "Yes, I will
reduce this rebellious city to ashes. I will extinguish the
fire with blood! I will perpetuate the crime and punishment
by making a frightful example. Paris!; I -- I detest, I
loathe it!"

"Very fine, Anne. You are now sanguinary; but take care. We
are not in the time of Malatesta and Castruccio Castracani.
You will get yourself decapitated, my beautiful queen, and
that would be a pity."

"You laugh."

"Faintly. It is dangerous to go to war with a nation. Look
at your brother monarch, Charles I. He is badly off, very
badly."

"We are in France, and I am Spanish."

"So much the worse; I had much rather you were French and
myself also; they would hate us both less."

"Nevertheless, you consent?"

"Yes, if the thing be possible."

"It is; it is I who tell you so; make preparations for
departure."

"I! I am always prepared to go, only, as you know, I never
do go, and perhaps shall go this time as little as before."

"In short, if I go, will you go too?"

"I will try."

"You torment me, Giulio, with your fears; and what are you
afraid of, then?"

"Of many things."

"What are they?"

Mazarin's face, smiling as it was, became clouded.

"Anne," said he, "you are but a woman and as a woman you may
insult men at your ease, knowing that you can do it with
impunity. You accuse me of fear; I have not so much as you
have, since I do not fly as you do. Against whom do they cry
out? is it against you or against myself? Whom would they
hang, yourself or me? Well, I can weather the storm -- I,
whom, notwithstanding, you tax with fear -- not with
bravado, that is not my way; but I am firm. Imitate me. Make
less hubbub and think more deeply. You cry very loud, you
end by doing nothing; you talk of flying ---- "

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and taking the queen's hand
led her to the window.

"Look!" he said.

"Well?" said the queen, blinded by her obstinacy.

"Well, what do you see from this window? If I am not
mistaken those are citizens, helmeted and mailed, armed with
good muskets, as in the time of the League, and whose eyes
are so intently fixed on this window that they will see you
if you raise that curtain much; and now come to the other
side -- what do you see? Creatures of the people, armed with
halberds, guarding your doors. You will see the same at
every opening from this palace to which I should lead you.
Your doors are guarded, the airholes of your cellars are
guarded, and I could say to you, as that good La Ramee said
to me of the Duc de Beaufort, you must be either bird or
mouse to get out."

"He did get out, nevertheless."

"Do you think of escaping in the same way?"

"I am a prisoner, then?"

"Parbleu!" said Mazarin, "I have been proving it to you this
last hour."

And he quietly resumed his dispatch at the place where he
had been interrupted.

Anne, trembling with anger and scarlet with humiliation,
left the room, shutting the door violently after her.
Mazarin did not even turn around. When once more in her own
apartment Anne fell into a chair and wept; then suddenly
struck with an idea:

"I am saved!" she exclaimed, rising; "oh, yes! yes! I know a
man who will find the means of taking me from Paris, a man I
have too long forgotten." Then falling into a reverie, she
added, however, with an expression of joy, "Ungrateful woman
that I am, for twenty years I have forgotten this man, whom
I ought to have made a marechal of France. My mother-in-law
expended gold, caresses, dignities on Concini, who ruined
her; the king made Vitry marechal of France for an
assassination: while I have left in obscurity, in poverty,
the noble D'Artagnan, who saved me!"

And running to a table, on which were paper, pens and ink,
she hastily began to write.



50

The Interview.



It had been D'Artagnan's practice, ever since the riots, to
sleep in the same room as Porthos, and on this eventful
morning he was still there, sleeping, and dreaming that a
yellow cloud had overspread the sky and was raining gold
pieces into his hat, which he held out till it was
overflowing with pistoles. As for Porthos, he dreamed that
the panels of his carriage were not capacious enough to
contain the armorial bearings he had ordered to be painted
on them. They were both aroused at seven o'clock by the
entrance of an unliveried servant, who brought a letter for
D'Artagnan.

"From whom?" asked the Gascon.

"From the queen," replied the servant.

"Ho!" said Porthos, raising himself in his bed; "what does
she say?"

D'Artagnan requested the servant to wait in the next room
and when the door was closed he sprang up from his bed and
read rapidly, whilst Porthos looked at him with starting
eyes, not daring to ask a single question.

"Friend Porthos," said D'Artagnan, handing the letter to
him, "this time, at least, you are sure of your title of
baron, and I of my captaincy. Read for yourself and judge."

Porthos took the letter and with a trembling voice read the
following words:

"The queen wishes to speak to Monsieur d'Artagnan, who must
follow the bearer."

"Well!" exclaimed Porthos; "I see nothing in that very
extraordinary."

"But I see much that is very extraordinary in it," replied
D'Artagnan. "It is evident, by their sending for me, that
matters are becoming complicated. Just reflect a little what
an agitation the queen's mind must be in for her to have
remembered me after twenty years."

"It is true," said Porthos.

"Sharpen your sword, baron, load your pistols, and give some
corn to the horses, for I will answer for it,

something lightning-like will happen ere to-morrow."

"But, stop; do you think it can be a trap that they are
laying for us?" suggested Porthos, incessantly thinking how
his greatness must be irksome to inferior people.

"If it is a snare," replied D'Artagnan, "I shall scent it
out, be assured. If Mazarin is an Italian, I am a Gascon."

And D'Artagnan dressed himself in an instant.

Whilst Porthos, still in bed, was hooking on his cloak for
him, a second knock at the door was heard.

"Come in," exclaimed D'Artagnan; and another servant
entered.

"From His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin," presenting a letter.

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos.

"A complicated affair," said Porthos; "where will you
begin?"

"It is arranged capitally; his eminence expects me in half
an hour."

"Good."

"My friend," said D'Artagnan, turning to the servant, "tell
his eminence that in half an hour I shall be at his
command."

"It is very fortunate," resumed the Gascon, when the valet
had retired, "that he did not meet the other one."

"Do you not think that they have sent for you, both for the
same thing?"

"I do not think it, I am certain of it."

"Quick, quick, D'Artagnan. Remember that the queen awaits
you, and after the queen, the cardinal, and after the
cardinal, myself."

D'Artagnan summoned Anne of Austria's servant and signified
that he was ready to follow him into the queen's presence.

The servant conducted him by the Rue des Petits Champs and
turning to the left entered the little garden gate leading
into the Rue Richelieu; then they gained the private
staircase and D'Artagnan was ushered into the oratory. A
certain emotion, for which he could not account, made the
lieutenant's heart beat: he had no longer the assurance of
youth; experience had taught him the importance of past
events. Formerly he would have approached the queen as a
young man who bends before a woman; but now it was a
different thing; he answered her summons as an humble
soldier obeys an illustrious general.

The silence of the oratory was at last disturbed by the
slight rustling of silk, and D'Artagnan started when he
perceived the tapestry raised by a white hand, which, by its
form, its color and its beauty he recognized as that royal
hand which had one day been presented to him to kiss. The
queen entered.

"It is you, Monsieur d'Artagnan," she said, fixing a gaze
full of melancholy interest on the countenance of the
officer, "and I know you well. Look at me well in your turn.
I am the queen; do you recognize me?"

"No, madame," replied D'Artagnan.

"But are you no longer aware," continued Anne, giving that
sweet expression to her voice which she could do at will,
"that in former days the queen had once need of a young,
brave and devoted cavalier -- that she found this cavalier
-- and that, although he might have thought that she had
forgotten him, she had kept a place for him in the depths of
her heart?"

"No, madame, I was ignorant of that," said the musketeer.

"So much the worse, sir," said Anne of Austria; "so much the
worse, at least for the queen, for to-day she has need of
the same courage and the same devotion."

"What!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, "does the queen, surrounded as
she is by such devoted servants, such wise counselors, men,
in short, so great by merit or position -- does she deign to
cast her eyes on an obscure soldier?"

Anne understood this covert reproach and was more moved than
irritated by it. She had many a time felt humiliated by the
self-sacrifice and disinterestedness shown by the Gascon
gentleman. She had allowed herself to be exceeded in
generosity.

"All that you tell me of those by whom I am surrounded,
Monsieur d'Artagnan, is doubtless true," said the queen,
"but I have confidence in you alone. I know that you belong
to the cardinal, but belong to me as well, and I will take
upon myself the making of your fortune. Come, will you do
to-day what formerly the gentleman you do not know did for
the queen?"

"I will do everything your majesty commands," replied
D'Artagnan.

The queen reflected for a moment and then, seeing the
cautious demeanor of the musketeer:

"Perhaps you like repose?" she said.

"I do not know, for I have never had it, madame."

"Have you any friends?"

"I had three, two of whom have left Paris, to go I know not
where. One alone is left to me, but he is one of those
known, I believe, to the cavalier of whom your majesty did
me the honor to speak."

"Very good," said the queen; "you and your friend are worth
an army."

"What am I to do, madame?"

"Return at five o'clock and I will tell you; but do not
breathe to a living soul, sir, the rendezvous which I give
you."

"No, madame."

"Swear it upon the cross."

"Madame, I have never been false to my word; when I say I
will not do a thing, I mean it."

The queen, although astonished at this language, to which
she was not accustomed from her courtiers, argued from it a
happy omen of the zeal with which D'Artagnan would serve her
in the accomplishment of her project. It was one of the
Gascon's artifices to hide his deep cunning occasionally
under an appearance of rough loyalty.

"Has the queen any further commands for me now?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"No, sir," replied Anne of Austria, "and you may retire
until the time that I mentioned to you."

D'Artagnan bowed and went out.

"Diable!" he exclaimed when the door was shut, "they seem to
have the greatest need of me just now."

Then, as the half hour had already glided by, he crossed the
gallery and knocked at the cardinal's door.

Bernouin introduced him.

"I come for your commands, my lord," he said.

And according to his custom D'Artagnan glanced rapidly
around and remarked that Mazarin had a sealed letter before
him. But it was so placed on the desk that he could not see
to whom it was addressed.

"You come from the queen?" said Mazarin, looking fixedly at
D'Artagnan.

"I! my lord -- who told you that?"

"Nobody, but I know it."

"I regret infinitely to tell you, my lord, that you are
mistaken," replied the Gascon, impudently, firm to the
promise he had just made to Anne of Austria.

"I opened the door of the ante-room myself and I saw you
enter at the end of the corridor."

"Because I was shown up the private stairs."

"How so?"

"I know not; it must have been a mistake."

Mazarin was aware that it was not easy to make D'Artagnan
reveal anything he was desirous of hiding, so he gave up,
for the time, the discovery of the mystery the Gascon was
concealing.

"Let us speak of my affairs," said Mazarin, "since you will
tell me naught of yours. Are you fond of traveling?"

"My life has been passed on the high road."

"Would anything retain you particularly in Paris?"

"Nothing but an order from a superior would retain me in
Paris."

"Very well. Here is a letter, which must be taken to its
address."

"To its address, my lord? But it has none."

In fact, the side of the letter opposite the seal was blank.

"I must tell you," resumed Mazarin, "that it is in a double
envelope."

"I understand; and I am to take off the first one when I
have reached a certain place?"

"Just so, take it and go. You have a friend, Monsieur du
Vallon, whom I like much; let him accompany you."

"The devil!" said D'Artagnan to himself. "He knows that we
overheard his conversation yesterday and he wants to get us
away from Paris."

"Do you hesitate?" asked Mazarin.

"No, my lord, and I will set out at once. There is one thing
only which I must request."

"What is it? Speak."

"That your eminence will go at once to the queen."

"What for?"

"Merely to say these words: `I am going to send Monsieur
d'Artagnan away and I wish him to set out directly.'"

"I told you," said Mazarin, "that you had seen the queen."

"I had the honor of saying to your eminence that there had
been some mistake."

"What is the meaning of that?"

"May I venture to repeat my prayer to your eminence?"

"Very well; I will go. Wait here for me." And looking
attentively around him, to see if he had left any of his
keys in his closets, Mazarin went out. Ten minutes elapsed,
during which D'Artagnan made every effort to read through
the first envelope what was written on the second. But he
did not succeed.

Mazarin returned, pale, and evidently thoughtful. He seated
himself at his desk and D'Artagnan proceeded to examine his
face, as he had just examined the letter he held, but the
envelope which covered his countenance appeared as
impenetrable as that which covered the letter.

"Ah!" thought the Gascon; "he looks displeased. Can it be
with me? He meditates. Is it about sending me to the
Bastile? All very fine, my lord, but at the very first hint
you give of such a thing I will strangle you and become
Frondist. I should be carried home in triumph like Monsieur
Broussel and Athos would proclaim me the French Brutus. It
would be exceedingly droll."

The Gascon, with his vivid imagination, had already seen the
advantage to be derived from his situation. Mazarin gave,
however, no order of the kind, but on the contrary began to
be insinuating.

"You were right," he said, "my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, and
you cannot set out yet. I beg you to return me that
dispatch."

D'Artagnan obeyed, and Mazarin ascertained that the seal was
intact.

"I shall want you this evening," he said "Return in two
hours."

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "I have an appointment in two
hours which I cannot miss."

"Do not be uneasy," said Mazarin; "it is the same."

"Good!" thought D'Artagnan; "I fancied it was so."

"Return, then, at five o'clock and bring that worthy
Monsieur du Vallon with you. Only, leave him in the
ante-room, as I wish to speak to you alone."

D'Artagnan bowed, and thought: "Both at the same hour; both
commands alike; both at the Palais Royal. Monsieur de Gondy
would pay a hundred thousand francs for such a secret!"

"You are thoughtful," said Mazarin, uneasily.

"Yes, I was thinking whether we ought to come armed or not."

"Armed to the teeth!" replied Mazarin.

"Very well, my lord; it shall be so."

D'Artagnan saluted, went out and hastened to repeat to his
friend Mazarin's flattering promises, which gave Porthos an
indescribable happiness.



51

The Flight.



When D'Artagnan returned to the Palais Royal at five
o'clock, it presented, in spite of the excitement which
reigned in the town, a spectacle of the greatest rejoicing.
Nor was that surprising. The queen had restored Broussel and
Blancmesnil to the people and had therefore nothing to fear,
since the people had nothing more just then to ask for. The
return, also, of the conqueror of Lens was the pretext for
giving a grand banquet. The princes and princesses were
invited and their carriages had crowded the court since
noon; then after dinner the queen was to have a play in her
apartment. Anne of Austria had never appeared more brilliant
than on that day -- radiant with grace and wit. Mazarin
disappeared as they rose from table. He found D'Artagnan
waiting for him already at his post in the ante-room.

The cardinal advanced to him with a smile and taking him by
the hand led him into his study.

"My dear M. d'Artagnan," said the minister, sitting down, "I
am about to give you the greatest proof of confidence that a
minister can give an officer."

"I hope," said D'Artagnan, bowing, "that you give it, my
lord, without hesitation and with the conviction that I am
worthy of it."

"More worthy than any one in Paris my dear friend; therefore
I apply to you. We are about to leave this evening,"
continued Mazarin. "My dear M. d'Artagnan, the welfare of
the state is deposited in your hands." He paused.

"Explain yourself, my lord, I am listening."

"The queen has resolved to make a little excursion with the
king to Saint Germain."

"Aha!" said D'Artagnan, "that is to say, the queen wishes to
leave Paris."

"A woman's caprice -- you understand."

"Yes, I understand perfectly," said D'Artagnan.

"It was for this she summoned you this morning and that she
told you to return at five o'clock."

"Was it worth while to wish me to swear this morning that I
would mention the appointment to no one?" muttered
D'Artagnan. "Oh, women! women! whether queens or not, they
are always the same."

"Do you disapprove of this journey, my dear M. d'Artagnan?"
asked Mazarin, anxiously.

"I, my lord?" said D'Artagnan; "why should I?"

"Because you shrug your shoulders."

"It is a way I have of speaking to myself. I neither approve
nor disapprove, my lord; I merely await your commands."

"Good; it is you, accordingly, that I have pitched upon to
conduct the king and the queen to Saint Germain."

"Liar!" thought D'Artagnan.

"You see, therefore," continued the cardinal, perceiving
D'Artagnan's composure, "that, as I have told you, the
welfare of the state is placed in your hands."

"Yes, my lord, and I feel the whole responsibility of such a
charge."

"You accept, however?"

"I always accept."

"Do you think the thing possible?"

"Everything is possible."

"Shall you be attacked on the road?"

"Probably."

"And what will you do in that case?"

"I shall pass through those who attack me."

"And suppose you cannot pass through them?"

"So much the worse for them; I shall pass over them."

"And you will place the king and queen in safety also, at
Saint Germain?"

"Yes."

"On your life?"

"On my life."

"You are a hero, my friend," said Mazarin, gazing at the
musketeer with admiration.

D'Artagnan smiled.

"And I?" asked Mazarin, after a moment's silence.

"How? and you, my lord?"

"If I wish to leave?"

"That would be much more difficult."

"Why so?"

"Your eminence might be recognized."

"Even under this disguise?" asked Mazarin, raising a cloak
which covered an arm-chair, upon which lay a complete dress
for an officer, of pearl-gray and red, entirely embroidered
with silver.

"If your eminence is disguised it will be almost easy."

"Ah!" said Mazarin, breathing more freely.

"But it will be necessary for your eminence to do what the
other day you declared you should have done in our place --
cry, `Down with Mazarin!'"

"I will: `Down with Mazarin'"

"In French, in good French, my lord, take care of your
accent; they killed six thousand Angevins in Sicily because
they pronounced Italian badly. Take care that the French do
not take their revenge on you for the Sicilian vespers."

"I will do my best."

"The streets are full of armed men," continued D'Artagnan.
"Are you sure that no one is aware of the queen's project?"

Mazarin reflected.

"This affair would give a fine opportunity for a traitor, my
lord; the chance of being attacked would be an excuse for
everything."

Mazarin shuddered, but he reflected that a man who had the
least intention to betray would not warn first.

"And therefore," added he, quietly, "I have not confidence
in every one; the proof of which is, that I have fixed upon
you to escort me."

"Shall you not go with the queen?"

"No," replied Mazarin.

"Then you will start after the queen?"

"No," said Mazarin again.

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, who began to understand.

"Yes," continued the cardinal. "I have my plan. With the
queen I double her risk; after the queen her departure would
double mine; then, the court once safe, I might be
forgotten. The great are often ungrateful."

"Very true," said D'Artagnan, fixing his eyes, in spite of
himself, on the queen's diamond, which Mazarin wore on his
finger. Mazarin followed the direction of his eyes and
gently turned the hoop of the ring inside.

"I wish," he said, with his cunning smile, "to prevent them
from being ungrateful to me."

"It is but Christian charity," replied D'Artagnan, "not to
lead one's neighbors into temptation."

"It is exactly for that reason," said Mazarin, "that I wish
to start before them."

D'Artagnan smiled -- he was just the man to understand the
astute Italian. Mazarin saw the smile and profited by the
moment.

"You will begin, therefore, by taking me first out of Paris,
will you not, my dear M. d'Artagnan?"

"A difficult commission, my lord," replied D'Artagnan,
resuming his serious manner.

"But," said Mazarin, "you did not make so many difficulties
with regard to the king and queen."

"The king and the queen are my king and queen," replied the
musketeer, "my life is theirs and I must give it for them.
If they ask it what have I to say?"

"That is true," murmured Mazarin, in a low tone, "but as thy
life is not mine I suppose I must buy it, must I not?" and
sighing deeply he began to turn the hoop of his ring outside
again. D'Artagnan smiled. These two men met at one point and
that was, cunning; had they been actuated equally by
courage, the one would have done great things for the other.

"But, also," said Mazarin, "you must understand that if I
ask this service from you it is with the intention of being
grateful."

"Is it still only an intention, your eminence?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"Stay," said Mazarin, drawing the ring from his finger, "my
dear D'Artagnan, there is a diamond which belonged to you
formerly, it is but just it should return to you; take it, I
pray."

D'Artagnan spared Mazarin the trouble of insisting, and
after looking to see if the stone was the same and assuring
himself of the purity of its water, he took it and passed it
on his finger with indescribable pleasure.

"I valued it much," said Mazarin, giving a last look at it;
"nevertheless, I give it to you with great pleasure."

"And I, my lord," said D'Artagnan, "accept it as it is
given. Come, let us speak of your little affairs. You wish
to leave before everybody and at what hour?"

"At ten o'clock."

"And the queen, at what time is it her wish to start?"

"At midnight."

"Then it is possible. I can get you out of Paris and leave
you beyond the barriere, and can return for her."

"Capital; but how will you get me out of Paris?"

"Oh! as to that, you must leave it to me."

"I give you absolute power, therefore; take as large an
escort as you like."

D'Artagnan shook his head.

"It seems to me, however," said Mazarin, "the safest
method."

"Yes, for you, my lord, but not for the queen; you must
leave it to me and give me the entire direction of the
undertaking."

"Nevertheless ---- "

"Or find some one else," continued D'Artagnan, turning his
back.

"Oh!" muttered Mazarin, "I do believe he is going off with
the diamond! M. d'Artagnan, my dear M. d'Artagnan," he
called out in a coaxing voice, "will you answer for
everything?"

"I will answer for nothing. I will do my best."

"Well, then, let us go -- I must trust to you."

"It is very fortunate," said D'Artagnan to himself.

"You will be here at half-past nine."

"And I shall find your eminence ready?"

"Certainly, quite ready."

"Well, then, it is a settled thing; and now, my lord, will
you obtain for me an audience with the queen?"

"For what purpose?"

"I wish to receive her majesty's commands from her own
lips."

"She desired me to give them to you."

"She may have forgotten something."

"You really wish to see her?"

"It is indispensable, my lord."

Mazarin hesitated for one instant, but D'Artagnan was firm.

"Come, then," said the minister; "I will conduct you to her,
but remember, not one word of our conversation."

"What has passed between us concerns ourselves alone. my
lord," replied D'Artagnan.

"Swear to be mute."

"I never swear, my lord, I say yes or no; and, as I am a
gentleman, I keep my word."

"Come, then, I see that I must trust unreservedly to you."

"Believe me, my lord, it will be your best plan."

"Come," said Mazarin, conducting D'Artagnan into the queen's
oratory and desiring him to wait there. He did not wait
long, for in five minutes the queen entered in full gala
costume. Thus dressed she scarcely appeared thirty-five
years of age. She was still exceedingly handsome.

"It is you, Monsieur D'Artagnan," she said, smiling
graciously; "I thank you for having insisted on seeing me."

"I ought to ask your majesty's pardon, but I wished to
receive your commands from your own mouth."

"Do you accept the commission which I have intrusted to
you?"

"With gratitude."

"Very well, be here at midnight."

"I will not fail."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued the queen, "I know your
disinterestedness too well to speak of my own gratitude at
such a moment, but I swear to you that I shall not forget
this second service as I forgot the first."

"Your majesty is free to forget or to remember, as it
pleases you; and I know not what you mean," said D'Artagnan,
bowing.

"Go, sir," said the queen, with her most bewitching smile,
"go and return at midnight."

And D'Artagnan retired, but as he passed out he glanced at
the curtain through which the queen had entered and at the
bottom of the tapestry he remarked the tip of a velvet
slipper.

"Good," thought he; "Mazarin has been listening to discover
whether I betrayed him. In truth, that Italian puppet does
not deserve the services of an honest man."

D'Artagnan was not less exact to his appointment and at
half-past nine o'clock he entered the ante-room.

He found the cardinal dressed as an officer, and he looked
very well in that costume, which, as we have already said,
he wore elegantly; only he was very pale and trembled
slightly.

"Quite alone?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"And that worthy Monsieur du Vallon, are we not to enjoy his
society?"

"Certainly, my lord; he is waiting in his carriage at the
gate of the garden of the Palais Royal."

"And we start in his carriage, then?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And with us no other escort but you two?"

"Is it not enough? One of us would suffice."

"Really, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the cardinal,
"your coolness startles me."

"I should have thought, on the contrary, that it ought to
have inspired you with confidence."

"And Bernouin -- do I not take him with me?"

"There is no room for him, he will rejoin your eminence."

"Let us go," said Mazarin, "since everything must be done as
you wish."

"My lord, there is time to draw back," said D'Artagnan, "and
your eminence is perfectly free."

"Not at all, not at all," said Mazarin; "let us be off."

And so they descended the private stair, Mazarin leaning on
the arm of D'Artagnan a hand the musketeer felt trembling.
At last, after crossing the courts of the Palais Royal,
where there still remained some of the conveyances of late
guests, they entered the garden and reached the little gate.
Mazarin attempted to open it by a key which he took from his
pocket, but with such shaking fingers that he could not find
the keyhole.

"Give it to me," said D'Artagnan, who when the gate was open
deposited the key in his pocket, reckoning upon returning by
that gate.

The steps were already down and the door open. Musqueton
stood at the door and Porthos was inside the carriage.

"Mount, my lord," said D'Artagnan to Mazarin, who sprang
into the carriage without waiting for a second bidding.
D'Artagnan followed him, and Musqueton, having closed the
door, mounted behind the carriage with many groans. He had
made some difficulties about going, under pretext that he
still suffered from his wound, but D'Artagnan had said to
him:

"Remain if you like, my dear Monsieur Mouston, but I warn
you that Paris will be burnt down to-night;" upon which
Musqueton had declared, without asking anything further,
that he was ready to follow his master and Monsieur
d'Artagnan to the end of the world.

The carriage started at a measured pace, without betraying
by the slightest sign that it contained people in a hurry.
The cardinal wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and
looked around him. On his left was Porthos, whilst
D'Artagnan was on his right; each guarded a door and served
as a rampart to him on either side. Before him, on the front
seat, lay two pairs of pistols -- one in front of Porthos
and the other of D'Artagnan. About a hundred paces from the
Palais Royal a patrol stopped the carriage.

"Who goes?" asked the captain.

"Mazarin!" replied D'Artagnan, bursting into a laugh. The
cardinal's hair stood on end. But the joke appeared an
excellent one to the citizens, who, seeing the conveyance
without escort and unarmed, would never have believed in the
possibility of so great an imprudence.

"A good journey to ye," they cried, allowing it to pass.

"Hem!" said D'Artagnan, "what does my lord think of that
reply?"

"Man of talent!" cried Mazarin.

"In truth," said Porthos, "I understand; but now ---- "

About the middle of the Rue des Petits Champs they were
stopped by a second patrol.

"Who goes there?" inquired the captain of the patrol.

"Keep back, my lord," said D'Artagnan. And Mazarin buried
himself so far behind the two friends that he disappeared,
completely hidden between them.

"Who goes there?" cried the same voice, impatiently whilst
D'Artagnan perceived that they had rushed to the horses'
heads. But putting hid head out of the carriage:

"Eh! Planchet," said he.

The chief approached, and it was indeed Planchet; D'Artagnan
had recognized the voice of his old servant.

"How, sir!" said Planchet, "is it you?"

"Eh! mon Dieu! yes, my good friend, this worthy Porthos has
just received a sword wound and I am taking him to his
country house at Saint Cloud."

"Oh! really," said Planchet.

"Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "if you can still speak, say a
word, my dear Porthos, to this good Planchet."

"Planchet, my friend," said Porthos, in a melancholy voice,
"I am very ill; should you meet a doctor you will do me a
favor by sending him to me."

"Oh! good Heaven," said Planchet, "what a misfortune! and
how did it happen?"

"I will tell you all about it," replied Musqueton.

Porthos uttered a deep groan.

"Make way for us, Planchet," said D'Artagnan in a whisper to
him, "or he will not arrive alive; the lungs are attacked,
my friend."

Planchet shook his head with the air of a man who says, "In
that case things look ill." Then he exclaimed, turning to
his men:

"Let them pass; they are friends.

The carriage resumed its course, and Mazarin, who had held
his breath, ventured to breathe again.

"Bricconi!" muttered he.

A few steps in advance of the gate of Saint Honore they met
a third troop; this latter party was composed of ill-looking
fellows, who resembled bandits more than anything else; they
were the men of the beggar of Saint Eustache.

"Attention, Porthos!" cried D'Artagnan.

Porthos placed his hand on the pistols.

"What is it?" asked Mazarin.

"My lord, I think we are in bad company."

A man advanced to the door with a kind of scythe in his
hand. "Qui vive?" he asked.

"Eh, rascal!" said D'Artagnan, "do you not recognize his
highness the prince's carriage?"

"Prince or not," said the man, "open. We are here to guard
the gate, and no one whom we do not know shall pass."

"What is to be done?" said Porthos.

"Pardieu! pass," replied D'Artagnan.

"But how?" asked Mazarin.

"Through or over; coachman, gallop on."

The coachman raised his whip.

"Not a step further," said the man, who appeared to be the
captain, "or I will hamstring your horses."

"Peste!" said Porthos, "it would be a pity; animals which
cost me a hundred pistoles each."

"I will pay you two hundred for them," said Mazarin.

"Yes, but when once they are hamstrung, our necks will be
strung next."

"If one of them comes to my side," asked Porthos, "must I
kill him?"

"Yes, by a blow of your fist, if you can; we will not fire
but at the last extremity."

"I can do it," said Porthos.

"Come and open, then!" cried D'Artagnan to the man with the
scythe, taking one of the pistols up by the muzzle and
preparing to strike with the handle. And as the man
approached, D'Artagnan, in order to have more freedom for
his actions, leaned half out of the door; his eyes were
fixed upon those of the mendicant, which were lighted up by
a lantern. Without doubt he recognized D'Artagnan, for he
became deadly pale; doubtless the musketeer knew him, for
his hair stood up on his head.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" he cried, falling back a step; "it is
Monsieur d'Artagnan! let him pass."

D'Artagnan was perhaps about to reply, when a blow, similar
to that of a mallet falling on the head of an ox, was heard.
The noise was caused by Porthos, who had just knocked down
his man.

D'Artagnan turned around and saw the unfortunate man upon
his back about four paces off.

"'Sdeath!" cried he to the coachman. "Spur your horses!
whip! get on!"

The coachman bestowed a heavy blow of the whip upon his
horses; the noble animals bounded forward; then cries of men
who were knocked down were heard; then a double concussion
was felt, and two of the wheels seemed to pass over a round
and flexible body. There was a moment's silence, then the
carriage cleared the gate.

"To Cours la Reine!" cried D'Artagnan to the coachman; then
turning to Mazarin he said, "Now, my lord, you can say five
paters and five aves, in thanks to Heaven for your
deliverance. You are safe -- you are free."

Mazarin replied only by a groan; he could not believe in
such a miracle. Five minutes later the carriage stopped,
having reached Cours la Reine.

"Is my lord pleased with his escort?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Enchanted, monsieur," said Mazarin, venturing his head out
of one of the windows; "and now do as much for the queen."

"It will not be so difficult," replied D'Artagnan, springing
to the ground. "Monsieur du Vallon, I commend his eminence
to your care."

"Be quite at ease," said Porthos, holding out his hand,
which D'Artagnan took and shook in his.

"Oh!" cried Porthos, as if in pain.

D'Artagnan looked with surprise at his friend.

"What is the matter, then?" he asked.

"I think I have sprained my wrist,' said Porthos.

"The devil! why, you strike like a blind or a deaf man."

"It was necessary; my man was going to fire a pistol at me;
but you -- how did you get rid of yours?"

"Oh, mine," replied D'Artagnan, "was not a man."

"What was it then?"

"It was an apparition."

"And ---- "

"I charmed it away."

Without further explanation D'Artagnan took the pistols
which were upon the front seat, placed them in his belt,
wrapped himself in his cloak, and not wishing to enter by
the same gate as that through which they had left, he took
his way toward the Richelieu gate.



52

The Carriage of Monsieur le Coadjuteur.



Instead of returning, then, by the Saint Honore gate,
D'Artagnan, who had time before him, walked around and
re-entered by the Porte Richelieu. He was approached to be
examined, and when it was discovered by his plumed hat and
his laced coat, that he was an officer of the musketeers, he
was surrounded, with the intention of making him cry, "Down
with Mazarin!" The demonstration did not fail to make him
uneasy at first; but when he discovered what it meant, he
shouted it in such a voice that even the most exacting were
satisfied. He walked down the Rue Richelieu, meditating how
he should carry off the queen in her turn, for to take her
in a carriage bearing the arms of France was not to be
thought of, when he perceived an equipage standing at the
door of the hotel belonging to Madame de Guemenee.

He was struck by a sudden idea.

"Ah, pardieu!" he exclaimed; "that would be fair play."

And approaching the carriage, he examined the arms on the
panels and the livery of the coachman on his box. This
scrutiny was so much the more easy, the coachman being sound
asleep.

"It is, in truth, monsieur le coadjuteur's carriage," said
D'Artagnan; "upon my honor I begin to think that Heaven
favors us."

He mounted noiselessly into the chariot and pulled the silk
cord which was attached to the coachman's little finger.

"To the Palais Royal," he called out.

The coachman awoke with a start and drove off in the
direction he was desired, never doubting but that the order
had come from his master. The porter at the palace was about
to close the gates, but seeing such a handsome equipage he
fancied that it was some visit of importance and the
carriage was allowed to pass and to stop beneath the porch.
It was then only the coachman perceived the grooms were not
behind the vehicle; he fancied monsieur le coadjuteur had
sent them back, and without dropping the reins he sprang
from his box to open the door. D'Artagnan, in his turn,
sprang to the ground, and just at the moment when the
coachman, alarmed at not seeing his master, fell back a
step, he seized him by his collar with the left, whilst with
the right hand he placed the muzzle of a pistol at his
breast.

"Pronounce one single word," muttered D'Artagnan, "and you
are a dead man."

The coachman perceived at once, by the expression of the man
who thus addressed him, that he had fallen into a trap, and
he remained with his mouth wide open and his eyes
portentously staring.

Two musketeers were pacing the court, to whom D'Artagnan
called by their names.

"Monsieur de Belliere," said he to one of them, "do me the
favor to take the reins from the hands of this worthy man,
mount upon the box and drive to the door of the private
stair, and wait for me there; it is an affair of importance
on the service of the king."

The musketeer, who knew that his lieutenant was incapable of
jesting with regard to the service, obeyed without a word,
although he thought the order strange. Then turning toward
the second musketeer, D'Artagnan said:

"Monsieur du Verger, help me to place this man in a place of
safety."

The musketeer, thinking that his lieutenant had just
arrested some prince in disguise, bowed, and drawing his
sword, signified that he was ready. D'Artagnan mounted the
staircase, followed by his prisoner, who in his turn was
followed by the soldier, and entered Mazarin's ante-room.
Bernouin was waiting there, impatient for news of his
master.

"Well, sir?" he said.

"Everything goes on capitally, my dear Monsieur Bernouin,
but here is a man whom I must beg you to put in a safe
place."

"Where, then, sir?"

"Where you like, provided that the place which you shall
choose has iron shutters secured by padlocks and a door that
can be locked."

"We have that, sir," replied Bernouin; and the poor coachman
was conducted to a closet, the windows of which were barred
and which looked very much like a prison.

"And now, my good friend," said D'Artagnan to him, "I must
invite you to deprive yourself, for my sake, of your hat and
cloak."

The coachman, as we can well understand, made no resistance;
in fact, he was so astonished at what had happened to him
that he stammered and reeled like a drunken man; D'Artagnan
deposited his clothes under the arm of one of the valets.

"And now, Monsieur du Verger," he said, "shut yourself up
with this man until Monsieur Bernouin returns to open the
door. The duty will be tolerably long and not very amusing,
I know; but," added he, seriously, "you understand, it is on
the king's service."

"At your command, lieutenant," replied the musketeer, who
saw the business was a serious one.

"By-the-bye," continued D'Artagnan, "should this man attempt
to fly or to call out, pass your sword through his body."

The musketeer signified by a nod that these commands should
be obeyed to the letter, and D'Artagnan went out, followed
by Bernouin. Midnight struck.

"Lead me into the queen's oratory," said D'Artagnan,
"announce to her I am here, and put this parcel, with a
well-loaded musket, under the seat of the carriage which is
waiting at the foot of the private stair."

Bernouin conducted D'Artagnan to the oratory, where he sat
down pensively. Everything had gone on as usual at the
Palais Royal. As we said before, by ten o'clock almost all
the guests had dispersed; those who were to fly with the
court had the word of command and they were each severally
desired to be from twelve o'clock to one at Cours la Reine.

At ten o'clock Anne of Austria had entered the king's room.
Monsieur had just retired, and the youthful Louis, remaining
the last, was amusing himself by placing some lead soldiers
in a line of battle, a game which delighted him much. Two
royal pages were playing with him.

"Laporte," said the queen, "it is time for his majesty to go
to bed."

The king asked to remain up, having, he said, no wish to
sleep; but the queen was firm.

"Are you not going to-morrow morning at six o'clock, Louis,
to bathe at Conflans? I think you wished to do so of your
own accord?"

"You are right, madame," said the king, "and I am ready to
retire to my room when you have kissed me. Laporte, give the
light to Monsieur the Chevalier de Coislin."

The queen touched with her lips the white, smooth brow the
royal child presented to her with a gravity which already
partook of etiquette.

"Go to sleep soon, Louis," said the queen, "for you must be
awakened very early."

"I will do my best to obey you, madame," said the youthful
king, "but I have no inclination to sleep."

"Laporte," said Anne of Austria, in an undertone, "find some
very dull book to read to his majesty, but do not undress
yourself."

The king went out, accompanied by the Chevalier de Coislin,
bearing the candlestick, and then the queen returned to her
own apartment. Her ladies -- that is to say Madame de Bregy,
Mademoiselle de Beaumont, Madame de Motteville, and
Socratine, her sister, so called on account of her sense --
had just brought into her dressing-room the remains of the
dinner, on which, according to her usual custom, she supped.
The queen then gave her orders, spoke of a banquet which the
Marquis de Villequier was to give to her on the day after
the morrow, indicated the persons she would admit to the
honor of partaking of it, announced another visit on the
following day to Val-de-Grace, where she intended to pay her
devotions, and gave her commands to her senior valet to
accompany her. When the ladies had finished their supper the
queen feigned extreme fatigue and passed into her bedroom.
Madame de Motteville, who was on especial duty that evening,
followed to aid and undress her. The queen then began to
read, and after conversing with her affectionately for a few
minutes, dismissed her.

It was at this moment D'Artagnan entered the courtyard of
the palace, in the coadjutor's carriage, and a few seconds
later the carriages of the ladies-in-waiting drove out and
the gates were shut after them.

A few minutes after twelve o'clock Bernouin knocked at the
queen's bedroom door, having come by the cardinal's secret
corridor. Anne of Austria opened the door to him herself.
She was dressed, that is to say, in dishabille, wrapped in a
long, warm dressing-gown.

"It is you, Bernouin," she said. "Is Monsieur d'Artagnan
there?"

"Yes, madame, in your oratory. He is waiting till your
majesty is ready."

"I am. Go and tell Laporte to wake and dress the king, and
then pass on to the Marechal de Villeroy and summon him to
me."

Bernouin bowed and retired.

The queen entered her oratory, which was lighted by a single
lamp of Venetian crystal, She saw D'Artagnan, who stood
expecting her.

"Is it you?" she said.

"Yes, madame."

"Are you ready?"

"I am."

"And his eminence, the cardinal?"

"Has got off without any accident. He is awaiting your
majesty at Cours la Reine."

"But in what carriage do we start?"

"I have provided for everything; a carriage below is waiting
for your majesty."

"Let us go to the king."

D'Artagnan bowed and followed the queen. The young Louis was
already dressed, with the exception of his shoes and
doublet; he had allowed himself to be dressed, in great
astonishment, overwhelming Laporte with questions, who
replied only in these words, "Sire, it is by the queen's
commands."

The bedclothes were thrown back, exposing the king's bed
linen, which was so worn that here and there holes could be
seen. It was one of the results of Mazarin's niggardliness.

The queen entered and D'Artagnan remained at the door. As
soon as the child perceived the queen he escaped from
Laporte and ran to meet her. Anne then motioned to
D'Artagnan to approach, and he obeyed.

"My son," said Anne of Austria, pointing to the musketeer,
calm, standing uncovered, "here is Monsieur d'Artagnan, who
is as brave as one of those ancient heroes of whom you like
so much to hear from my women. Remember his name well and
look at him well, that his face may not be forgotten, for
this evening he is going to render us a great service."

The young king looked at the officer with his large-formed
eye, and repeated:

"Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"That is it, my son."

The young king slowly raised his little hand and held it out
to the musketeer; the latter bent on his knee and kissed it.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," repeated Louis; "very well, madame."

At this moment they were startled by a noise as if a tumult
were approaching.

"What is that?" exclaimed the queen.

"Oh, oh!" replied D'Artagnan, straining both at the same
time his quick ear and his intelligent glance, "it is the
murmur of the populace in revolution."

"We must fly," said the queen.

"Your majesty has given me the control of this business; we
had better wait and see what they want."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!"

"I will answer for everything."

Nothing is so catching as confidence. The queen, full of
energy and courage, was quickly alive to these two virtues
in others.

"Do as you like," she said, "I rely upon you."

"Will your majesty permit me to give orders in your name
throughout this business?"

"Command, sir."

"What do the people want this time?" demanded the king.

"We are about to ascertain, sire," replied D'Artagnan, as he
rapidly left the room.

The tumult continued to increase and seemed to surround the
Palais Royal entirely. Cries were heard from the interior,
of which they could not comprehend the sense. It was evident
that there was clamor and sedition.

The king, half dressed, the queen and Laporte remained each
in the same state and almost in the same place, where they
were listening and waiting. Comminges, who was on guard that
night at the Palais Royal, ran in. He had about two hundred
men in the courtyards and stables, and he placed them at the
queen's disposal.

"Well," asked Anne of Austria, when D'Artagnan reappeared,
"what does it mean?"

"It means, madame, that the report has spread that the queen
has left the Palais Royal, carrying off the king, and the
people ask to have proof to the contrary, or threaten to
demolish the Palais Royal."

"Oh, this time it is too much!" exclaimed the queen, "and I
will prove to them I have not left."

D'Artagnan saw from the expression of the queen's face that
she was about to issue some violent command. He approached
her and said in a low voice:

"Has your majesty still confidence in me?"

This voice startled her. "Yes, sir," she replied, "every
confidence; speak."

"Will the queen deign to follow my advice?"

"Speak."

"Let your majesty dismiss M. de Comminges and desire him to
shut himself up with his men in the guardhouse and in the
stables."

Comminges glanced at D'Artagnan with the envious look with
which every courtier sees a new favorite spring up.

"You hear, Comminges?" said the queen.

D'Artagnan went up to him; with his usual quickness he
caught the anxious glance.

"Monsieur de Comminges," he said, "pardon me; we both are
servants of the queen, are we not? It is my turn to be of
use to her; do not envy me this happiness."

Comminges bowed and left.

"Come," said D'Artagnan to himself, "I have got one more
enemy."

"And now," said the queen, addressing D'Artagnan, "what is
to be done? for you hear that, instead of becoming calmer,
the noise increases."

"Madame," said D'Artagnan, "the people want to see the king
and they must see him."

"What! must see him! Where -- on the balcony?"

"Not at all, madame, but here, sleeping in his bed."

"Oh, your majesty," exclaimed Laporte, "Monsieur d'Artagnan
is right."

The queen became thoughtful and smiled, like a woman to whom
duplicity is no stranger.

"Without doubt," she murmured.

"Monsieur Laporte," said D'Artagnan, "go and announce to the
people through the grating that they are going to be
satisfied and that in five minutes they shall not only see
the king, but they shall see him in bed; add that the king
sleeps and that the queen begs that they will keep silence,
so as not to awaken him."

"But not every one; a deputation of two or four people."

"Every one, madame."

"But reflect, they will keep us here till daybreak.

"It shall take but a quarter of an hour, I answer for
everything, madame; believe me, I know the people; they are
like a great child, who only wants humoring. Before the
sleeping king they will be mute, gentle and timid as lambs."

"Go, Laporte," said the queen.

The young king approached his mother and said, "Why do as
these people ask?"

"It must be so, my son," said Anne of Austria.

"But if they say, `it must be' to me, am I no longer king?"

The queen remained silent.

"Sire," said D'Artagnan, "will your majesty permit me to ask
you a question?"

Louis XIV. turned around, astonished that any one should
dare to address him. But the queen pressed the child's hand.

"Yes, sir." he said.

"Does your majesty remember, when playing in the park of
Fontainebleau, or in the palace courts at Versailles, ever
to have seen the sky grow suddenly dark and heard the sound
of thunder?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Well, then, this noise of thunder, however much your
majesty may have wished to continue playing, has said, `go
in, sire. You must do so.'"

"Certainly, sir; but they tell me that the noise of thunder
is the voice of God."

"Well then, sire," continued D'Artagnan, "listen to the
noise of the people; you will perceive that it resembles
that of thunder."

In truth at that moment a terrible murmur was wafted to them
by the night breeze; then all at once it ceased.

"Hold, sire," said D'Artagnan, "they have just told the
people that you are asleep; you see, you still are king."

The queen looked with surprise at this strange man, whose
brilliant courage made him the equal of the bravest, and who
was, by his fine and quick intelligence, the equal of the
most astute.

Laporte entered.

"Well, Laporte?" asked the queen.

"Madame," he replied, "Monsieur d'Artagnan's prediction has
been accomplished; they are calm, as if by enchantment. The
doors are about to be opened and in five minutes they will
be here."

"Laporte," said the queen, "suppose you put one of your sons
in the king's place; we might be off during the time."

"If your majesty desires it," said Laporte, "my sons, like
myself, are at the queen's service."

"Not at all," said D'Artagnan; "should one of them know his
majesty and discover but a substitute, all would be lost."

"You are right, sir, always right," said Anne of Austria.
"Laporte, place the king in bed."

Laporte placed the king, dressed as he was, in the bed and
then covered him as far as the shoulders with the sheet. The
queen bent over him and kissed his brow.

"Pretend to sleep, Louis," said she.

"Yes," said the king, "but I do not wish to be touched by
any of those men."

"Sire, I am here," said D'Artagnan, "and I give you my word,
that if a single man has the audacity, his life shall pay
for it."

"And now what is to be done?" asked the queen, "for I hear
them."

"Monsieur Laporte, go to them and again recommend silence.
Madame, wait at the door, whilst I shall be at the head of
the king's bed, ready to die for him."

Laporte went out; the queen remained standing near the
hangings, whilst D'Artagnan glided behind the curtains.

Then the heavy and collected steps of a multitude of men
were heard, and the queen herself raised the tapestry
hangings and put her finger on her lips.

On seeing the queen, the men stopped short, respectfully.

"Enter, gentlemen, enter," said the queen.

There was then amongst that crowd a moment's hesitation,
which looked like shame. They had expected resistance, they
had expected to be thwarted, to have to force the gates, to
overturn the guards. The gates had opened of themselves, and
the king, ostensibly at least, had no other guard at his
bed-head but his mother. The foremost of them stammered and
attempted to fall back.

"Enter, gentlemen," said Laporte, "since the queen desires
you so to do."

Then one more bold than the rest ventured to pass the door
and to advance on tiptoe. This example was imitated by the
rest, until the room filled silently, as if these men had
been the humblest, most devoted courtiers. Far beyond the
door the heads of those who were not able to enter could be
seen, all craning to their utmost height to try and see.

D'Artagnan saw it all through an opening he had made in the
curtain, and in the very first man who entered he recognized
Planchet.

"Sir," said the queen to him, thinking he was the leader of
the band, "you wished to see the king and therefore I
determined to show him to you myself. Approach and look at
him and say if we have the appearance of people who wish to
run away."

"No, certainly," replied Planchet, rather astonished at the
unexpected honor conferred upon him.

"You will say, then, to my good and faithful Parisians,"
continued Anne, with a smile, the expression of which did
not deceive D'Artagnan, "that you have seen the king in bed,
asleep, and the queen also ready to retire."

"I shall tell them, madame, and those who accompany me will
say the same thing; but ---- "

"But what?" asked Anne of Austria.

"Will your majesty pardon me," said Planchet, "but is it
really the king who is lying there?"

Anne of Austria started. "If," she said, "there is one among
you who knows the king, let him approach and say whether it
is really his majesty lying there."

A man wrapped in a cloak, in the folds of which his face was
hidden, approached and leaned over the bed and looked.

For one second, D'Artagnan thought the man had some evil
design and he put his hand to his sword; but in the movement
made by the man in stooping a portion of his face was
uncovered and D'Artagnan recognized the coadjutor.

"It is certainly the king," said the man, rising again. "God
bless his majesty!"

"Yes," repeated the leader in a whisper, "God bless his
majesty!" and all these men, who had entered enraged, passed
from anger to pity and blessed the royal infant in their
turn.

"Now,', said Planchet, "let us thank the queen. My friends,
retire."

They all bowed, and retired by degrees as noiselessly as
they had entered. Planchet, who had been the first to enter,
was the last to leave. The queen stopped him.

"What is your name, my friend?" she said.

Planchet, much surprised at the inquiry, turned back.

"Yes," continued the queen, "I think myself as much honored
to have received you this evening as if you had been a
prince, and I wish to know your name."

"Yes," thought Planchet, "to treat me as a prince. No, thank
you."

D'Artagnan trembled lest Planchet, seduced, like the crow in
the fable, should tell his name, and that the queen, knowing
his name, would discover that Planchet had belonged to him.

"Madame," replied Planchet, respectfully, "I am called
Dulaurier, at your service."

"Thank you, Monsieur Dulaurier," said the queen; "and what
is your business?"

"Madame, I am a clothier in the Rue Bourdonnais."

"That is all I wished to know," said the queen. "Much
obliged to you, Monsieur Dulaurier. You will hear again from
me."

"Come, come," thought D'Artagnan, emerging from behind the
curtain, "decidedly Monsieur Planchet is no fool; it is
evident he has been brought up in a good school."

The different actors in this strange scene remained facing
one another, without uttering a single word; the queen
standing near the door, D'Artagnan half out of his hiding
place, the king raised on his elbow, ready to fall down on
his bed again at the slightest sound that would indicate the
return of the multitude, but instead of approaching, the
noise became more and more distant and very soon it died
entirely away.

The queen breathed more freely. D'Artagnan wiped his damp
forehead and the king slid off his bed, saying, "Let us go."

At this moment Laporte reappeared.

"Well?" asked the queen

"Well, madame," replied the valet, "I followed them as far
as the gates. They announced to all their comrades that they
had seen the king and that the queen had spoken to them;
and, in fact, they went away quite proud and happy."

"Oh, the miserable wretches!" murmured the queen, "they
shall pay dearly for their boldness, and it is I who promise
this."

Then turning to D'Artagnan, she said:

"Sir, you have given me this evening the best advice I have
ever received. Continue, and say what we must do now."

"Monsieur Laporte," said D'Artagnan, "finish dressing his
majesty."

"We may go, then?" asked the queen.

"Whenever your majesty pleases. You have only to descend by
the private stairs and you will find me at the door."

"Go, sir," said the queen; "I will follow you."

D'Artagnan went down and found the carriage at its post and
the musketeer on the box. D'Artagnan took out the parcel
which he had desired Bernouin to place under the seat. It
may be remembered that it was the hat and cloak belonging to
Monsieur de Gondy's coachman.

He placed the cloak on his shoulders and the hat on his
head, whilst the musketeer got off the box.

"Sir," said D'Artagnan, "you will go and release your
companion, who is guarding the coachman. You must mount your
horse and proceed to the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel de la
Chevrette, whence you will take my horse and that of
Monsieur du Vallon, which you must saddle and equip as if
for war, and then you will leave Paris, bringing them with
you to Cours la Reine. If, when you arrive at Cours la
Reine, you find no one, you must go on to Saint Germain. On
the king's service."

The musketeer touched his cap and went away to execute the
orders thus received.

D'Artagnan mounted the box, having a pair of pistols in his
belt, a musket under his feet and a naked sword behind him.

The queen appeared, and was followed by the king and the
Duke d'Anjou, his brother.

"Monsieur the coadjutor's carriage!" she exclaimed, falling
back.

"Yes, madame," said D'Artagnan; "but get in fearlessly, for
I myself will drive you."

The queen uttered a cry of surprise and entered the
carriage, and the king and monsieur took their places at her
side.

"Come, Laporte," said the queen.

"How, madame!" said the valet, "in the same carriage as your
majesties?"

"It is not a matter of royal etiquette this evening, but of
the king's safety. Get in, Laporte."

Laporte obeyed.

"Pull down the blinds," said D'Artagnan.

"But will that not excite suspicion, sir?" asked the queen.

"Your majesty's mind may be quite at ease," replied the
officer; "I have my answer ready."

The blinds were pulled down and they started at a gallop by
the Rue Richelieu. On reaching the gate the captain of the
post advanced at the head of a dozen men, holding a lantern
in his hand.

D'Artagnan signed to them to draw near.

"Do you recognize the carriage?" he asked the sergeant.

"No," replied the latter.

"Look at the arms."

The sergeant put the lantern near the panel.

"They are those of monsieur le coadjuteur," he said.

"Hush; he is enjoying a ride with Madame de Guemenee."

The sergeant began to laugh.

"Open the gate," he cried. "I know who it is!" Then putting
his face to the lowered blinds, he said:

"I wish you joy, my lord!"

"Impudent fellow!" cried D'Artagnan, "you will get me turned
off."

The gate groaned on its hinges, and D'Artagnan, seeing the
way clear, whipped his horses, who started at a canter, and
five minutes later they had rejoined the cardinal.

"Musqueton!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, "draw up the blinds of
his majesty's carriage."

"It is he!" cried Porthos.

"Disguised as a coachman!" exclaimed Mazarin.

"And driving the coadjutor's carriage!" said the queen.

"Corpo di Dio! Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said Mazarin, "you are
worth your weight in gold."



53

How D'Artagnan and Porthos earned by selling Straw, the one
Two Hundred and Nineteen, and the other Two Hundred and
Fifteen Louis d'or.



Mazarin was desirous of setting out instantly for Saint
Germain, but the queen declared that she should wait for the
people whom she had appointed to meet her. However, she
offered the cardinal Laporte's place, which he accepted and
went from one carriage to the other.

It was not without foundation that a report of the king's
intention to leave Paris by night had been circulated. Ten
or twelve persons had been in the secret since six o'clock,
and howsoever great their prudence might be, they could not
issue the necessary orders for the departure without
suspicion being generated. Besides, each individual had one
or two others for whom he was interested; and as there could
be no doubt but that the queen was leaving Paris full of
terrible projects of vengeance, every one had warned parents
and friends of what was about to transpire; so that the news
of the approaching exit ran like a train of lighted
gunpowder along the streets.

The first carriage which arrived after that of the queen was
that of the Prince de Conde, with the princess and dowager
princess. Both these ladies had been awakened in the middle
of the night and did not know what it all was about. The
second contained the Duke and Duchess of Orleans, the tall
young Mademoiselle and the Abbe de la Riviere; and the
third, the Duke de Longueville and the Prince de Conti,
brother and brother-in-law of Conde. They all alighted and
hastened to pay their respects to the king and queen in
their coach. The queen fixed her eyes upon the carriage they
had left, and seeing that it was empty, she said:

"But where is Madame de Longueville?"

"Ah, yes, where is my sister?" asked the prince.

"Madame de Longueville is ill," said the duke, "and she
desired me to excuse her to your majesty."

Anne gave a quick glance to Mazarin, who answered by an
almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"What do you say of this?" asked the queen.

"I say that she is a hostage for the Parisians," answered
the cardinal.

"Why is she not come?" asked the prince in a low voice,
addressing his brother.

"Silence," whispered the duke, "she has her reasons."

"She will ruin us!" returned the prince.

"She will save us," said Conti.

Carriages now arrived in crowds; those of the Marechal de
Villeroy, Guitant, Villequier and Comminges came into the
line. The two musketeers arrived in their turn, holding the
horses of D'Artagnan and Porthos in their hands. These two
instantly mounted, the coachman of the latter replacing
D'Artagnan on the coach-box of the royal coach. Musqueton
took the place of the coachman, and drove standing, for
reasons known to himself, like Automedon of antiquity.

The queen, though occupied by a thousand details, tried to
catch the Gascon's eye; but he, with his wonted prudence,
had mingled with the crowd.

"Let us be the avant guard," said he to Porthos, "and find
good quarters at Saint Germain; nobody will think of us, and
for my part I am greatly fatigued."

"As for me," replied Porthos, "I am falling asleep, which is
strange, considering we have not had any fighting; truly the
Parisians are idiots."

"Or rather, we are very clever," said D'Artagnan.

"Perhaps."

"And how is your wrist?"

"Better; but do you think that we've got them this time?"

"Got what?"

"You your command, and I my title?"

"I'faith! yes -- I should expect so; besides, if they
forget, I shall take the liberty of reminding them."

"The queen's voice! she is speaking," said Porthos; "I think
she wants to ride on horseback."

"Oh, she would like it, but ---- "

"But what?"

"The cardinal won't allow it. Gentlemen," he said,
addressing the two musketeers, "accompany the royal
carriage, we are going forward to look for lodgings."

D'Artagnan started off for Saint Germain, followed by
Porthos.

"We will go on, gentlemen," said the queen.

And the royal carriage drove on, followed by the other
coaches and about fifty horsemen.

They reached Saint German without any accident; on
descending, the queen found the prince awaiting her,
bare-headed, to offer her his hand.

"What an awakening for the Parisians!" said the queen,
radiant.

"It is war," said the prince.

"Well, then, let it be war! Have we not on our side the
conqueror of Rocroy, of Nordlingen, of Lens?"

The prince bowed low.

It was then three o'clock in the morning. The queen walked
first, every one followed her. About two hundred persons had
accompanied her in her flight.

"Gentlemen," said the queen, laughing, "pray take up your
abode in the chateau; it is large, and there will be no want
of room for you all; but, as we never thought of coming
here, I am informed that there are, in all, only three beds
in the whole establishment, one for the king, one for me
---- "

"And one for the cardinal," muttered the prince.

"Am I -- am I, then, to sleep on the floor?" asked Gaston
d'Orleans, with a forced smile.

"No, my prince," replied Mazarin, "the third bed is intended
for your highness."

"But your eminence?" replied the prince.

"I," answered Mazarin, "I shall not sleep at all; I have
work to do."

Gaston desired that he should be shown into the room wherein
he was to sleep, without in the least concerning himself as
to where his wife and daughter were to repose.

"Well, for my part, I shall go to bed," said D'Artagnan;
"come, Porthos."

Porthos followed the lieutenant with that profound
confidence he ever had in the wisdom of his friend. They
walked from one end of the chateau to the other, Porthos
looking with wondering eyes at D'Artagnan, who was counting
on his fingers.

"Four hundred, at a pistole each, four hundred pistoles."

"Yes," interposed Porthos, "four hundred pistoles; but who
is to make four hundred pistoles?"

"A pistole is not enough," said D'Artagnan, "'tis worth a
louis."

"What is worth a louis?"

"Four hundred, at a louis each, make four hundred louis."

"Four hundred?" said Porthos.

"Yes, there are two hundred of them, and each of them will
need two, which will make four hundred."

"But four hundred what?"

"Listen!" cried D'Artagnan.

But as there were all kinds of people about, who were in a
state of stupefaction at the unexpected arrival of the
court, he whispered in his friend's ear.

"I understand," answered Porthos, "I understand you
perfectly, on my honor; two hundred louis, each of us, would
be making a pretty thing of it; but what will people say?"

"Let them say what they will; besides, how will they know
that we are doing it?"

"But who will distribute these things?" asked Porthos.

"Isn't Musqueton there?"

"But he wears my livery; my livery will be known," replied
Porthos.

"He can turn his coat inside out."

"You are always in the right, my dear friend," cried
Porthos; "but where the devil do you discover all the
notions you put into practice?"

D'Artagnan smiled. The two friends turned down the first
street they came to. Porthos knocked at the door of a house
to the right, whilst D'Artagnan knocked at the door of a
house to the left.

"Some straw," they said.

"Sir, we don't keep any," was the reply of the people who
opened the doors; "but please ask at the hay dealer's."

"Where is the hay dealer's?"

"At the last large door in the street."

"Are there any other people in Saint Germain who sell
straw?"

"Yes; there's the landlord of the Lamb, and Gros-Louis the
farmer; they both live in the Rue des Ursulines."

"Very well."

D'Artagnan went instantly to the hay dealer and bargained
with him for a hundred and fifty trusses of straw, which he
obtained, at the rate of three pistoles each. He went
afterward to the innkeeper and bought from him two hundred
trusses at the same price. Finally, Farmer Louis sold them
eighty trusses, making in all four hundred and thirty.

There was no more to be had in Saint Germain. This foraging
did not occupy more than half an hour. Musqueton, duly
instructed, was put at the head of this sudden and new
business. He was cautioned not to let a bit of straw out of
his hands under a louis the truss, and they intrusted to him
straw to the amount of four hundred and thirty louis.
D'Artagnan, taking with him three trusses of straw, returned
to the chateau, where everybody, freezing with cold and more
than half asleep, envied the king, the queen, and the Duke
of Orleans, on their camp beds. The lieutenant's entrance
produced a burst of laughter in the great drawing-room; but
he did not appear to notice that he was the object of
general attention, but began to arrange, with so much
cleverness, nicety and gayety, his straw bed, that the
mouths of all these poor creatures, who could not go to
sleep, began to water.

"Straw!" they all cried out, "straw! where is there any to
be found?"

"I can show you," answered the Gascon.

And he conducted them to Musqueton, who freely distributed
the trusses at the rate of a louis apiece. It was thought
rather dear, but people wanted to sleep, and who would not
give even two or three louis for a few hours of sound sleep?

D'Artagnan gave up his bed to any one who wanted it, making
it over about a dozen times; and since he was supposed to
have paid, like the others, a louis for his truss of straw,
he pocketed in that way thirty louis in less than half an
hour. At five o'clock in the morning the straw was worth
eighty francs a truss and there was no more to be had.

D'Artagnan had taken the precaution to set apart four
trusses for his own use. He put in his pocket the key of the
room where he had hidden them, and accompanied by Porthos
returned to settle with Musqueton, who, naively, and like
the worthy steward that he was, handed them four hundred and
thirty louis and kept one hundred for himself.

Musqueton, who knew nothing of what was going on in the
chateau, wondered that the idea had not occurred to him
sooner. D'Artagnan put the gold in his hat, and in going
back to the chateau settled the reckoning with Porthos, each
of them had cleared two hundred and fifteen louis.

Porthos, however, found that he had no straw left for
himself. He returned to Musqueton, but the steward had sold
the last wisp. He then repaired to D'Artagnan, who, thanks
to his four trusses of straw, was in the act of making up
and tasting, by anticipation, the luxury of a bed so soft,
so well stuffed at the head, so well covered at the foot,
that it would have excited the envy of the king himself, if
his majesty had not been fast asleep in his own. D'Artagnan
could on no account consent to pull his bed to pieces again
for Porthos, but for a consideration of four louis that the
latter paid him for it, he consented that Porthos should
share his couch with him. He laid his sword at the head, his
pistols by his side, stretched his cloak over his feet,
placed his felt hat on the top of his cloak and extended
himself luxuriously on the straw, which rustled under him.
He was already enjoying the sweet dream engendered by the
possession of two hundred and nineteen louis, made in a
quarter of an hour, when a voice was heard at the door of
the hall, which made him stir.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" it cried.

"Here!" cried Porthos, "here!"

Porthos foresaw that if D'Artagnan was called away he should
remain the sole possessor of the bed. An officer approached.

"I am come to fetch you, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"From whom?"

"His eminence sent me."

"Tell my lord that I'm going to sleep, and I advise him, as
a friend, to do the same."

"His eminence is not gone to bed and will not go to bed, and
wants you instantly."

"The devil take Mazarin, who does not know when to sleep at
the proper time. What does he want with me? Is it to make me
a captain? In that case I will forgive him."

And the musketeer rose, grumbling, took his sword, hat,
pistols, and cloak, and followed the officer, whilst
Porthos, alone and sole possessor of the bed, endeavored to
follow the good example of falling asleep, which his
predecessor had set him.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the cardinal, on perceiving him,
"I have not forgotten with what zeal you have served me. I
am going to prove to you that I have not."

"Good," thought the Gascon, "this is a promising beginning."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," he resumed, "do you wish to become a
captain?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And your friend still longs to be made a baron?"

"At this very moment, my lord, he no doubt dreams that he is
one already."

"Then," said Mazarin, taking from his portfolio the letter
which he had already shown D'Artagnan, "take this dispatch
and carry it to England."

D'Artagnan looked at the envelope; there was no address on
it.

"Am I not to know to whom to present it?"

"You will know when you reach London; at London you may tear
off the outer envelope."

"And what are my instructions?"

"To obey in every particular the man to whom this letter is
addressed. You must set out for Boulogne. At the Royal Arms
of England you will find a young gentleman named Mordaunt."

"Yes, my lord; and what am I to do with this young
gentleman?"

"Follow wherever he leads you."

D'Artagnan looked at the cardinal with a stupefied air.

"There are your instructions," said Mazarin; "go!"

"Go! 'tis easy to say so, but that requires money, and I
haven't any."

"Ah!" replied Mazarin, "so you have no money?"

"None, my lord."

"But the diamond I gave you yesterday?"

"I wish to keep it in remembrance of your eminence."

Mazarin sighed.

"'Tis very dear living in England, my lord, especially as
envoy extraordinary."

"Zounds!" replied Mazarin, "the people there are very
sedate, and their habits, since the revolution, simple; but
no matter."

He opened a drawer and took out a purse.

"What do you say to a thousand crowns?"

D'Artagnan pouted out his lower lip in a most extraordinary
manner.

"I reply, my lord, 'tis but little, as certainly I shall not
go alone."

"I suppose not. Monsieur du Vallon, that worthy gentleman,
for, with the exception of yourself, Monsieur d'Artagnan,
there's not a man in France that I esteem and love so much
as him ---- "

"Then, my lord," replied D'Artagnan, pointing to the purse
which Mazarin still held, "if you love and esteem him so
much, you -- understand me?"

"Be it so! on his account I add two hundred crowns."

"Scoundrel!" muttered D'Artagnan. "But on our return," he
said aloud, "may we, that is, my friend and I, depend on
having, he his barony, and I my promotion?"

"On the honor of Mazarin."

"I should like another sort of oath better," said D'Artagnan
to himself; then aloud, "May I not offer my duty to her
majesty the queen?"

"Her majesty is asleep and you must set off directly,"
replied Mazarin; "go, pray, sir ---- "

"One word more, my lord; if there's any fighting where I'm
going, must I fight?"

"You are to obey the commands of the personage to whom I
have addressed the inclosed letter."

"'Tis well," said D'Artagnan, holding out his hand to
receive the money. "I offer my best respects and services to
you, my lord."

D'Artagnan then, returning to the officer, said:

"Sir, have the kindness also to awaken Monsieur du Vallon
and to say 'tis by his eminence's order, and that I shall
await him at the stables."

The officer went off with an eagerness that showed the
Gascon that he had some personal interest in the matter.

Porthos was snoring most musically when some one touched him
on the shoulder.

"I come from the cardinal," said the officer.

"Heigho!" said Porthos, opening his large eyes; "what have
you got to say?"

"That his eminence has ordered you to England and that
Monsieur d'Artagnan is waiting for you in the stables."

Porthos sighed heavily, arose, took his hat, his pistols,
and his cloak, and departed, casting a look of regret upon
the couch where he had hoped to sleep so well.

No sooner had he turned his back than the officer laid
himself down in it, and he had scarcely crossed the
threshold before his successor, in his turn, was snoring
immoderately. It was very natural, he being the only person
in the whole assemblage, except the king, the queen, and the
Duke of Orleans, who slept gratuitously.



54

In which we hear Tidings of Aramis.



D'Artagnan went straight to the stables; day was just
dawning. He found his horse and that of Porthos fastened to
the manger, but to an empty manger. He took pity on these
poor animals and went to a corner of the stable, where he
saw a little straw, but in doing so he struck his foot
against a human body, which uttered a cry and arose on its
knees, rubbing its eyes. It was Musqueton, who, having no
straw to lie upon, had helped himself to that of the horses.

"Musqueton," cried D'Artagnan, "let us be off! Let us set
off."

Musqueton, recognizing the voice of his master's friend, got
up suddenly, and in doing so let fall some louis which he
had appropriated to himself illegally during the night.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, picking up a louis and
displaying it; "here's a louis that smells confoundedly of
straw."

Musqueton blushed so confusedly that the Gascon began to
laugh at him and said:

"Porthos would be angry, my dear Monsieur Musqueton, but I
pardon you, only let us remember that this gold must serve
us as a joke, so be gay -- come along."

Musqueton instantly assumed a jovial countenance, saddled
the horses quickly and mounted his own without making faces
over it.

Whilst this went on, Porthos arrived with a very cross look
on his face, and was astonished to find the lieutenant
resigned and Musqueton almost merry.

"Ah, that's it!" he cried, "you have your promotion and I my
barony."

"We are going to fetch our brevets," said D'Artagnan, "and
when we come back, Master Mazarin will sign them."

"And where are we going?" asked Porthos.

"To Paris first; I have affairs to settle."

And they both set out for Paris.

On arriving at its gates they were astounded to see the
threatening aspect of the capital. Around a broken-down
carriage the people were uttering imprecations, whilst the
persons who had attempted to escape were made prisoners --
that is to say, an old man and two women. On the other hand,
as the two friends approached to enter, they showed them
every kind of civility, thinking them deserters from the
royal party and wishing to bind them to their own.

"What is the king doing?" they asked.

"He is asleep."

"And the Spanish woman?"

"Dreaming."

"And the cursed Italian?"

"He is awake, so keep on the watch, as they are gone away;
it's for some purpose, rely on it. But as you are the
strongest, after all," continued D'Artagnan, "don't be
furious with old men and women, and keep your wrath for more
appropriate occasions."

The people listened to these words and let go the ladies,
who thanked D'Artagnan with an eloquent look.

"Now! onward!" cried the Gascon.

And they continued their way, crossing the barricades,
getting the chains about their legs, pushed about,
questioning and questioned.

In the place of the Palais Royal D'Artagnan saw a sergeant,
who was drilling six or seven hundred citizens. It was
Planchet, who brought into play profitably the recollections
of the regiment of Piedmont.

In passing before D'Artagnan he recognized his former
master.

"Good-day, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Planchet proudly.

"Good-day, Monsieur Dulaurier," replied D'Artagnan.

Planchet stopped short, staring at D'Artagnan. The first
row, seeing their sergeant stop, stopped in their turn, and
so on to the very last.

"These citizens are dreadfully ridiculous," observed
D'Artagnan to Porthos and went on his way.

Five minutes afterward he entered the hotel of La Chevrette,
where pretty Madeleine, the hostess, came to him.

"My dear Mistress Turquaine," said the Gascon, "if you
happen to have any money, lock it up quickly; if you happen
to have any jewels, hide them directly; if you happen to
have any debtors, make them pay you, or any creditors, don't
pay them."

"Why, prithee?" asked Madeleine.

"Because Paris is going to be reduced to dust and ashes like
Babylon, of which you have no doubt heard tell."

"And are you going to leave me at such a time?"

"This very instant."

"And where are you going?"

"Ah, if you could tell me that, you would be doing me a
service."

"Ah, me! ah, me!

"Have you any letters for me?" inquired D'Artagnan, wishing
to signify to the hostess that her lamentations were
superfluous and that therefore she had better spare him
demonstrations of her grief.

"There's one just arrived," and she handed the letter to
D'Artagnan.

"From Athos!" cried D'Artagnan, recognizing the handwriting.

"Ah!" said Porthos, "let us hear what he says."

D'Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:



"Dear D'Artagnan, dear Du Vallon, my good friends, perhaps
this may be the last time that you will ever hear from me.
Aramis and I are very unhappy; but God, our courage, and the
remembrance of our friendship sustain us. Think often of
Raoul. I intrust to you certain papers which are at Blois;
and in two months and a half, if you do not hear of us, take
possession of them.

"Embrace, with all your heart, the vicomte, for your
devoted, friend,

"ATHOS."



"I believe, by Heaven," said D'Artagnan, "that I shall
embrace him, since he's upon our road; and if he is so
unfortunate as to lose our dear Athos, from that very day he
becomes my son."

"And I," said Porthos, "shall make him my sole heir."

"Let us see, what more does Athos say?"



"Should you meet on your journey a certain Monsieur
Mordaunt, distrust him, in a letter I cannot say more."



"Monsieur Mordaunt!" exclaimed the Gascon, surprised.

"Monsieur Mordaunt! 'tis well," said Porthos, "we shall
remember that; but see, there is a postscript from Aramis."

"So there is," said D'Artagnan, and he read:



"We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing
your brotherly affection and that you would come and die
with us were we to reveal it."



"Confound it," interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of
passion which sent Musqueton to the other end of the room;
"are they in danger of dying?"

D'Artagnan continued:



"Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my
revenge. If by any good luck you lay your hand on a certain
man named Mordaunt, tell Porthos to take him into a corner
and to wring his neck. I dare not say more in a letter.

"ARAMIS.



"If that is all, it is easily done," said Porthos.

"On the contrary," observed D'Artagnan, with a vexed look;
"it would be impossible."

"How so?"

"It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to
join at Boulogne and with whom we cross to England."

"Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we
were to go and join our friends?" said Porthos, with a
gesture fierce enough to have frightened an army.

"I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor
postmark."

"True," said Porthos. And he began to wander about the room
like a man beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing
his sword out of the scabbard.

As to D'Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in
consternation, with the deepest affliction depicted on his
face.

"Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die
alone; it is bad, bad, bad."

Musqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a
corner of the room.

"Come," said D'Artagnan, "all this leads to nothing. Let us
go on. We will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news
of Athos."

"Stop -- an idea!" cried Porthos; "indeed, my dear
D'Artagnan, I don't know how you manage, but you are always
full of ideas; let us go and embrace Raoul."

"Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master
at this moment," said Musqueton to himself; "I wouldn't give
a farthing for his life."

They set out. On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the
friends found a vast concourse of people. It was the Duc de
Beaufort, who was coming from the Vendomois and whom the
coadjutor was showing to the Parisians, intoxicated with
joy. With the duke's aid they already considered themselves
invincible.

The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid
meeting the prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate.

"Is it true," said the guard to the two cavaliers, "that the
Duc de Beaufort has arrived in Paris?"

"Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is," said
D'Artagnan, "that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de
Vendome, his father, who is coming in his turn."

"Long live De Beaufort!" cried the guards, and they drew
back respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across
the barriers these two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their
horses flew, and they never ceased speaking of Athos and
Aramis.

The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little
detour and went to the camp, and gave the army an exact
account of the flight of the king and queen. They found
Raoul near his tent, reclining on a truss of hay, of which
his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man's eyes were
red and he seemed dejected. The Marechal de Grammont and the
Comte de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite
lonely. And as soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran to
them with open arms.

"Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me?
Will you take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of
my guardian?"

"Have you not received any?" said D'Artagnan to the youth.

"Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so
that I am really so unhappy that I weep."

In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.

Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest
round face what was passing in his mind.

"Deuce take it!" cried D'Artagnan, more moved than he had
been for a long time, "don't despair, my friend, if you have
not received any letters from the count, we have received
one."

"Oh, really!" cried Raoul.

"And a comforting one, too," added D'Artagnan, seeing the
delight that his intelligence gave the young man.

"Have you it?" asked Raoul

"Yes -- that is, I had it," repined the Gascon, making
believe to find it. "Wait, it ought to be there in my
pocket; it speaks of his return, does it not, Porthos?"

All Gascon as he was, D'Artagnan could not bear alone the
weight of that falsehood.

"Yes," replied Porthos, coughing.

"Eh, give it to me!" said the young man.

"Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah!
confound it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it."

"Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!" said Musqueton, "the letter was
very consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for
joy."

"But at any rate, you know where he is, Monsieur
d'Artagnan?" asked Raoul, somewhat comforted.

"Ah! that's the thing!" replied the Gascon. "Undoubtedly I
know it, but it is a mystery."

"Not to me, I hope?"

"No, not to you, so I am going to tell you where he is."

Porthos devoured D'Artagnan with wondering eyes.

"Where the devil shall I say that he is, so that he cannot
try to rejoin him?" thought D'Artagnan.

"Well, where is he, sir?" asked Raoul, in a soft and coaxing
voice.

"He is at Constantinople."

"Among the Turks!" exclaimed Raoul, alarmed. "Good heavens!
how can you tell me that?"

"Does that alarm you?" cried D'Artagnan. "Pooh! what are the
Turks to such men as the Comte de la Fere and the Abbe
d'Herblay?"

"Ah, his friend is with him?" said Raoul. "That comforts me
a little."

"Has he wit or not -- this demon D'Artagnan?" said Porthos,
astonished at his friend's deception.

"Now, sir," said D'Artagnan, wishing to change the
conversation, "here are fifty pistoles that the count has
sent you by the same courier. I suppose you have no more
money and that they will be welcome."

"I have still twenty pistoles, sir."

"Well, take them; that makes seventy."

"And if you wish for more," said Porthos, putting his hand
to his pocket ----

"Thank you, sir," replied Raoul, blushing; "thank you a
thousand times."

At this moment Olivain appeared. "Apropos," said D'Artagnan,
loud enough for the servant to hear him, "are you satisfied
with Olivain?"

"Yes, in some respects, tolerably well."

Olivain pretended to have heard nothing and entered the
tent.

"What fault do you find with the fellow?"

"He is a glutton."

"Oh, sir!" cried Olivain, reappearing at this accusation.

"And a little bit of a thief."

"Oh, sir! oh!"

"And, more especially, a notorious coward."

"Oh, oh! sir! you really vilify me!" cried Olivain.

"The deuce!" cried D'Artagnan. "Pray learn, Monsieur
Olivain, that people like us are not to be served by
cowards. Rob your master, eat his sweetmeats, and drink his
wine; but, by Jove! don't be a coward, or I shall cut off
your ears. Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the honorable
wounds he has received, observe how his habitual valor has
given dignity to his countenance."

Musqueton was in the third heaven and would have embraced
D'Artagnan had he dared; meanwhile he resolved to sacrifice
his life for him on the next occasion that presented itself.

"Send away that fellow, Raoul," said the Gascon; "for if
he's a coward he will disgrace thee some day."

"Monsieur says I am coward," cried Olivain, "because he
wanted the other day to fight a cornet in Grammont's
regiment and I refused to accompany him."

"Monsieur Olivain, a lackey ought never to disobey," said
D'Artagnan, sternly; then taking him aside, he whispered to
him: "Thou hast done right; thy master was in the wrong;
here's a crown for thee, but should he ever be insulted and
thou cost not let thyself be cut in quarters for him, I will
cut out thy tongue. Remember that."

Olivain bowed and slipped the crown into his pocket.

"And now, Raoul," said the Gascon, "Monsieur du Vallon and I
are going away as ambassadors, where, I know not; but should
you want anything, write to Madame Turquaine, at La
Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne and draw upon her purse as on a
banker -- with economy; for it is not so well filled as that
of Monsieur d'Emery."

And having, meantime, embraced his ward, he passed him into
the robust arms of Porthos, who lifted him up from the
ground and held him a moment suspended near the noble heart
of the formidable giant.

"Come," said D'Artagnan, "let us go."

And they set out for Boulogne, where toward evening they
arrived, their horses flecked with foam and dark with
perspiration.

At ten steps from the place where they halted was a young
man in black, who seemed waiting for some one, and who, from
the moment he saw them enter the town, never took his eyes
off them.

D'Artagnan approached him, and seeing him stare so fixedly,
said:

"Well, friend! I don't like people to quiz me!"

"Sir," said the young man, "do you not come from Paris, if
you please?"

D'Artagnan thought it was some gossip who wanted news from
the capital.

"Yes, sir," he said, in a softened tone.

"Are you not going to put up at the `Arms of England'?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you not charged with a mission from his eminence,
Cardinal Mazarin?"

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, I am the man you have to do with. I am M.
Mordaunt."

"Ah!" thought D'Artagnan, "the man I am warned against by
Athos."

"Ah!" thought Porthos, "the man Aramis wants me to
strangle."

They both looked searchingly at the young man, who
misunderstood the meaning of that inquisition.

"Do you doubt my word?" he said. "In that case I can give
you proofs."

"No, sir," said D'Artagnan; "and we place ourselves at your
orders."

"Well, gentlemen," resumed Mordaunt, "we must set out
without delay, to-day is the last day granted me by the
cardinal. My ship is ready, and had you not come I must have
set off without you, for General Cromwell expects my return
impatiently."

"So!" thought the lieutenant, "'tis to General Cromwell that
our dispatches are addressed."

"Have you no letter for him?" asked the young man.

"I have one, the seal of which I am not to break till I
reach London; but since you tell me to whom it is addressed,
'tis useless to wait till then."

D'Artagnan tore open the envelope of the letter. It was
directed to "Monsieur Oliver Cromwell, General of the Army
of the English Nation."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan; "a singular commission."

"Who is this Monsieur Oliver Cromwell?" inquired Porthos.

"Formerly a brewer," replied the Gascon.

"Perhaps Mazarin wishes to make a speculation in beer, as we
did in straw," said Porthos.

"Come, come, gentlemen," said Mordaunt, impatiently, "let us
depart."

"What!" exclaimed Porthos "without supper? Cannot Monsieur
Cromwell wait a little?"

"Yes, but I?" said Mordaunt.

"Well, you," said Porthos, "what then?"

"I cannot wait."

"Oh! as to you, that is not my concern, and I shall sup
either with or without your permission."

The young man's eyes kindled in secret, but he restrained
himself.

"Monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "you must excuse famished
travelers. Besides, our supper can't delay you much. We will
hasten on to the inn; you will meanwhile proceed on foot to
the harbor. We will take a bite and shall be there as soon
as you are."

"Just as you please, gentlemen, provided we set sail," he
said.

"The name of your ship?" inquired D'Artagnan.

"The Standard."

"Very well; in half an hour we shall be on board."

And the friends, spurring on their horses, rode to the
hotel, the "Arms of England."

"What do you say of that young man?" asked D'Artagnan, as
they hurried along.

"I say that he doesn't suit me at all," said Porthos, "and
that I feel a strong itching to follow Aramis's advice."

"By no means, my dear Porthos; that man is a messenger of
General Cromwell; it would insure for us a poor reception, I
imagine, should it be announced to him that we had twisted
the neck of his confidant."

"Nevertheless," said Porthos, "I have always noticed that
Aramis gives good advice."

"Listen," returned D'Artagnan, "when our embassy is finished
---- "

"Well?"

"If it brings us back to France ---- "

"Well?"

"Well, we shall see."

At that moment the two friends reached the hotel, "Arms of
England," where they supped with hearty appetite and then at
once proceeded to the port.

There they found a brig ready to set sail, upon the deck of
which they recognized Mordaunt walking up and down
impatiently.

"It is singular," said D'Artagnan, whilst the boat was
taking them to the Standard, "it is astonishing how that
young man resembles some one I must have known, but who it
was I cannot yet remember."

A few minutes later they were on board, but the embarkation
of the horses was a longer matter than that of the men, and
it was eight o'clock before they raised anchor.

The young man stamped impatiently and ordered all sail to be
spread.

Porthos, completely used up by three nights without sleep
and a journey of seventy leagues on horseback, retired to
his cabin and went to sleep.

D'Artagnan, overcoming his repugnance to Mordaunt, walked
with him upon the deck and invented a hundred stories to
make him talk.

Musqueton was seasick.



55

The Scotchman.



And now our readers must leave the Standard to sail
peaceably, not toward London, where D'Artagnan and Porthos
believed they were going, but to Durham, whither Mordaunt
had been ordered to repair by the letter he had received
during his sojourn at Boulogne, and accompany us to the
royalist camp, on this side of the Tyne, near Newcastle.

There, placed between two rivers on the borders of Scotland,
but still on English soil, the tents of a little army
extended. It was midnight. Some Highlanders were listlessly
keeping watch. The moon, which was partially obscured by
heavy clouds, now and then lit up the muskets of the
sentinels, or silvered the walls, the roofs, and the spires
of the town that Charles I. had just surrendered to the
parliamentary troops, whilst Oxford and Newark still held
out for him in the hopes of coming to some arrangement.

At one of the extremities of the camp, near an immense tent,
in which the Scottish officers were holding a kind of
council, presided over by Lord Leven, their commander, a man
attired as a cavalier lay sleeping on the turf, his right
hand extended over his sword.

About fifty paces off, another man, also appareled as a
cavalier, was talking to a Scotch sentinel, and, though a
foreigner, he seemed to understand without much difficulty
the answers given in the broad Perthshire dialect.

As the town clock of Newcastle struck one the sleeper awoke,
and with all the gestures of a man rousing himself out of
deep sleep he looked attentively about him; perceiving that
he was alone he rose and making a little circuit passed
close to the cavalier who was speaking to the sentinel. The
former had no doubt finished his questions, for a moment
later he said good-night and carelessly followed the same
path taken by the first cavalier.

In the shadow of a tent the former was awaiting him.

"Well, my dear friend?" said he, in as pure French as has
ever been uttered between Rouen and Tours.

"Well, my friend, there is not a moment to lose; we must let
the king know immediately."

"Why, what is the matter?"

"It would take too long to tell you, besides, you will hear
it all directly and the least word dropped here might ruin
all. We must go and find Lord Winter."

They both set off to the other end of the camp, but as it
did not cover more than a surface of five hundred feet they
quickly arrived at the tent they were looking for.

"Tony, is your master sleeping?" said one of the two
cavaliers to a servant who was lying in the outer
compartment, which served as a kind of ante-room.

"No, monsieur le comte," answered the servant, "I think not;
or at least he has not long been so, for he was pacing up
and down for more than two hours after he left the king, and
the sound of his footsteps has only ceased during the last
ten minutes. However, you may look and see," added the
lackey, raising the curtained entrance of the tent.

Lord Winter was seated near an aperture, arranged as a
window to let in the night air, his eyes mechanically
following the course of the moon, intermittently veiled, as
we before observed, by heavy clouds. The two friends
approached Winter, who, with his head on his hands, was
gazing at the heavens; he did not hear them enter and
remained in the same attitude till he felt a hand upon his
shoulder.

He turned around, recognized Athos and Aramis and held out
his hand to them.

"Have you observed," said he to them, "what a blood-red
color the moon has to-night?"

"No," replied Athos; "I thought it looked much the same as
usual."

"Look, again, chevalier," returned Lord Winter.

"I must own," said Aramis, "I am like the Comte de la Fere
-- I can see nothing remarkable about it."

"My lord," said Athos, "in a position so precarious as ours
we must examine the earth and not the heavens. Have you
studied our Scotch troops and have you confidence in them?"

"The Scotch?" inquired Winter. "What Scotch?"

"Ours, egad!" exclaimed Athos. "Those in whom the king has
confided -- Lord Leven's Highlanders."

"No," said Winter, then he paused; "but tell me, can you not
perceive the russet tint which marks the heavens?"

"Not the least in the world," said Aramis and Athos at once.

"Tell me," continued Winter, always possessed by the same
idea, "is there not a tradition in France that Henry IV.,
the evening before the day he was assassinated, when he was
playing at chess with M. de Bassompiere, saw clots of blood
upon the chessboard?"

"Yes," said Athos, "and the marechal has often told me so
himself."

"Then it was so," murmured Winter, "and the next day Henry
IV. was killed."

"But what has this vision of Henry IV. to do with you, my
lord?" inquired Aramis.

"Nothing; and indeed I am mad to trouble you with such
things, when your coming to my tent at such an hour
announces that you are the bearers of important news."

"Yes, my lord," said Athos, "I wish to speak to the king."

"To the king! but the king is asleep."

"I have something important to reveal to him."

"Can it not be put off till to-morrow?"

"He must know it this moment, and perhaps it is already too
late."

"Come, then," said Lord Winter.

Lord Winter's tent was pitched by the side of the royal
marquee, a kind of corridor communicating between the two.
This corridor was guarded, not by a sentinel, but by a
confidential servant, through whom, in case of urgency,
Charles could communicate instantly with his faithful
subject.

"These gentlemen are with me," said Winter.

The lackey bowed and let them pass. As he had said, on a
camp bed, dressed in his black doublet, booted, unbelted,
with his felt hat beside him, lay the king, overcome by
sleep and fatigue. They advanced, and Athos, who was the
first to enter, gazed a moment in silence on that pale and
noble face, framed in its long and now untidy, matted hair,
the blue veins showing through the transparent temples, his
eyes seemingly swollen by tears.

Athos sighed deeply; the sigh woke the king, so lightly did
he sleep.

He opened his eyes.

"Ah!" said he, raising himself on his elbow, "is it you,
Comte de la Fere?"

"Yes, sire," replied Athos.

"You watch while I sleep and you have come to bring me some
news?"

"Alas, sire," answered Athos, "your majesty has guessed
aright."

"It is bad news?"

"Yes, sire."

"Never mind; the messenger is welcome. You never come to me
without conferring pleasure. You whose devotion recognizes
neither country nor misfortune, you who are sent to me by
Henrietta; whatever news you bring, speak out."

"Sire, Cromwell has arrived this night at Newcastle."

"Ah!" exclaimed the king, "to fight?"

"No, sire, but to buy your majesty."

"What did you say?"

"I said, sire, that four hundred thousand pounds are owing
to the Scottish army."

"For unpaid wages; yes, I know it. For the last year my
faithful Highlanders have fought for honor alone."

Athos smiled.

"Well, sir, though honor is a fine thing, they are tired of
fighting for it, and to-night they have sold you for two
hundred thousand pounds -- that is to say, for half what is
owing them."

"Impossible!" cried the king, "the Scotch sell their king
for two hundred thousand pounds! And who is the Judas who
has concluded this infamous bargain?"

"Lord Leven."

"Are you certain of it, sir?"

"I heard it with my own ears."

The king sighed deeply, as if his heart would break, and
then buried his face in his hands.

"Oh! the Scotch," he exclaimed, "the Scotch I called `my
faithful,' to whom I trusted myself when I could have fled
to Oxford! the Scotch, my brothers! But are you well
assured, sir?"

"Lying behind the tent of Lord Leven, I raised it and saw
all, heard all!"

"And when is this to be consummated?"

"To-day -- this morning; so your majesty must perceive there
is no time to lose!"

"To do what? since you say I am sold."

"To cross the Tyne, reach Scotland and rejoin Lord Montrose,
who will not sell you."

"And what shall I do in Scotland? A war of partisans,
unworthy of a king."

"The example of Robert Bruce will absolve you, sire."

"No, no! I have fought too long; they have sold me, they
shall give me up, and the eternal shame of treble treason
shall fall on their heads."

"Sire," said Athos, "perhaps a king should act thus, but not
a husband and a father. I have come in the name of your wife
and daughter and of the children you have still in London,
and I say to you, `Live, sire,' -- it is the will of
Heaven."

The king raised himself, buckled on his belt, and passing
his handkerchief over his moist forehead, said:

"Well, what is to be done?"

"Sire, have you in the army one regiment on which you can
implicitly rely?"

"Winter," said the king, "do you believe in the fidelity of
yours?"

"Sire, they are but men, and men are become both weak and
wicked. I will not answer for them. I would confide my life
to them, but I should hesitate ere I trusted them with your
majesty's."

"Well!" said Athos, "since you have not a regiment, we are
three devoted men. It is enough. Let your majesty mount on
horseback and place yourself in the midst of us; we will
cross the Tyne, reach Scotland, and you will be saved."

"Is this your counsel also, Winter?" inquired the king.

"Yes, sire."

"And yours, Monsieur d'Herblay?"

"Yes, sire."

"As you wish, then. Winter, give the necessary orders."

Winter then left the tent; in the meantime the king finished
his toilet. The first rays of daybreak penetrated the
aperture of the tent as Winter re-entered it.

"All is ready, sire," said he.

"For us, also?" inquired Athos.

"Grimaud and Blaisois are holding your horses, ready
saddled."

"In that case," exclaimed Athos, "let us not lose an
instant, but set off."

"Come," added the king.

"Sire," said Aramis, "will not your majesty acquaint some of
your friends of this?"

"Friends!" answered Charles, sadly, "I have but three -- one
of twenty years, who has never forgotten me, and two of a
week's standing, whom I shall never forget. Come, gentlemen,
come!"

The king quitted his tent and found his horse ready waiting
for him. It was a chestnut that the king had ridden for
three years and of which he was very fond.

The horse neighed with pleasure at seeing him.

"Ah!" said the king, "I was unjust; here is a creature that
loves me. You at least will be faithful to me, Arthur."

The horse, as if it understood these words, bent its red
nostrils toward the king's face, and parting his lips
displayed all its teeth, as if with pleasure.

"Yes, yes," said the king, caressing it with his hand, "yes,
my Arthur, thou art a fond and faithful creature."

After this little scene Charles threw himself into the
saddle, and turning to Athos, Aramis and Winter, said:

"Now, gentlemen, I am at your service."

But Athos was standing with his eyes fixed on a black line
which bordered the banks of the Tyne and seemed to extend
double the length of the camp.

"What is that line?" cried Athos, whose vision was still
rather obscured by the uncertain shades and demi-tints of
daybreak. "What is that line? I did not observe it
yesterday."

"It must be the fog rising from the river," said the king.

"Sire, it is something more opaque than the fog."

"Indeed!" said Winter, "it appears to me like a bar of red
color."

"It is the enemy, who have made a sortie from Newcastle and
are surrounding us!" exclaimed Athos.

"The enemy!" cried the king.

"Yes, the enemy. It is too late. Stop a moment; does not
that sunbeam yonder, just by the side of the town, glitter
on the Ironsides?"

This was the name given the cuirassiers, whom Cromwell had
made his body-guard.

"Ah!" said the king, "we shall soon see whether my
Highlanders have betrayed me or not."

"What are you going to do?" exclaimed Athos.

"To give them the order to charge, and run down these
miserable rebels."

And the king, putting spurs to his horse, set off to the
tent of Lord Leven.

"Follow him," said Athos.

"Come!" exclaimed Aramis.

"Is the king wounded?" cried Lord Winter. "I see spots of
blood on the ground." And he set off to follow the two
friends.

He was stopped by Athos.

"Go and call out your regiment," said he; "I can foresee
that we shall have need of it directly."

Winter turned his horse and the two friends rode on. It had
taken but two minutes for the king to reach the tent of the
Scottish commander; he dismounted and entered.

The general was there, surrounded by the more prominent
chiefs.

"The king!" they exclaimed, as all rose in bewilderment.

Charles was indeed in the midst of them, his hat on his
head, his brows bent, striking his boot with his riding
whip.

"Yes, gentlemen, the king in person, the king who has come
to ask for some account of what has happened."

"What is the matter, sire?" exclaimed Lord Leven.

"It is this, sir," said the king, angrily, "that General
Cromwell has reached Newcastle; that you knew it and I was
not informed of it; that the enemy have left the town and
are now closing the passages of the Tyne against us; that
our sentinels have seen this movement and I have been left
unacquainted with it; that, by an infamous treaty you have
sold me for two hundred thousand pounds to Parliament. Of
this treaty, at least, I have been warned. This is the
matter, gentlemen; answer and exculpate yourselves, for I
stand here to accuse you."

"Sire," said Lord Leven, with hesitation, "sire, your
majesty has been deceived by false reports."

"My own eyes have seen the enemy extend itself between
myself and Scotland; and I can almost say that with my own
ears I have heard the clauses of the treaty debated."

The Scotch chieftains looked at each other in their turn
with frowning brows.

"Sire," murmured Lord Leven, crushed by shame, "sire, we are
ready to give you every proof of our fidelity."

"I ask but one," said the king; "put the army in battle
array and face the enemy."

"That cannot be, sire," said the earl.

"How, cannot be? What hinders it?" exclaimed the king.

"Your majesty is well aware that there is a truce between us
and the English army."

"And if there is a truce the English army has broken it by
quitting the town, contrary to the agreement which kept it
there. Now, I tell you, you must pass with me through this
army across to Scotland, and if you refuse you may choose
betwixt two names, which the contempt of all honest men will
brand you with -- you are either cowards or traitors!"

The eyes of the Scotch flashed fire; and, as often happens
on such occasions, from shame they passed to effrontery and
two heads of clans advanced upon the king.

"Yes," said they, "we have promised to deliver Scotland and
England from him who for the last five-and-twenty years has
sucked the blood and gold of Scotland and England. We have
promised and we will keep our promise. Charles Stuart, you
are our prisoner."

And both extended their hands as if to seize the king, but
before they could touch him with the tips of their fingers,
both had fallen, one dead, the other stunned.

Aramis had passed his sword through the body of the first
and Athos had knocked down the other with the butt end of
his pistol.

Then, as Lord Leven and the other chieftains recoiled before
this unexpected rescue, which seemed to come from Heaven for
the prince they already thought was their prisoner, Athos
and Aramis dragged the king from the perjured assembly into
which he had so imprudently ventured, and throwing
themselves on horseback all three returned at full gallop to
the royal tent.

On their road they perceived Lord Winter marching at the
head of his regiment. The king motioned him to accompany
them.



56

The Avenger.



They all four entered the tent; they had no plan ready --
they must think of one.

The king threw himself into an arm-chair. "I am lost," said
he.

"No, sire," replied Athos. "You are only betrayed."

The king sighed deeply.

"Betrayed! yes betrayed by the Scotch, amongst whom I was
born, whom I have always loved better than the English. Oh,
traitors that ye are!"

"Sire," said Athos, "this is not a moment for recrimination,
but a time to show yourself a king and a gentleman. Up,
sire! up! for you have here at least three men who will not
betray you. Ah! if we had been five!" murmured Athos,
thinking of D'Artagnan and Porthos.

"What do you say?" inquired Charles, rising.

"I say, sire, that there is now but one way open. Lord
Winter answers for his regiment, or at least very nearly so
-- we will not split straws about words -- let him place
himself at the head of his men, we will place ourselves at
the side of your majesty, and we will mow a swath through
Cromwell's army and reach Scotland."

"There is another method," said Aramis. "Let one of us put
on the dress and mount the king's horse. Whilst they pursue
him the king might escape."

"It is good advice," said Athos, "and if the king will do
one of us the honor we shall be truly grateful to him."

"What do you think of this counsel, Winter?" asked the king,
looking with admiration at these two men, whose chief idea
seemed to be how they could take on their shoulders all the
dangers that assailed him.

"I think the only chance of saving your majesty has just
been proposed by Monsieur d'Herblay. I humbly entreat your
majesty to choose quickly, for we have not an instant to
lose."

"But if I accept, it is death, or at least imprisonment, for
him who takes my place."

"He will have had the glory of having saved his king," cried
Winter.

The king looked at his old friend with tears in his eyes;
undid the Order of the Saint Esprit which he wore, to honor
the two Frenchmen who were with him, and passed it around
Winter's neck, who received on his knees this striking proof
of his sovereign's confidence and friendship.

"It is right," said Athos; "he has served your majesty
longer than we have."

The king overheard these words and turned around with tears
in his eyes.

"Wait a moment, sir," said he; "I have an order for each of
you also."

He turned to a closet where his own orders were locked up,
and took out two ribbons of the Order of the Garter.

"These cannot be for us," said Athos.

"Why not, sir?" asked Charles.

"Such are for royalty, and we are simple commoners."

"Speak not of crowns. I shall not find amongst them such
great hearts as yours. No, no, you do yourselves injustice;
but I am here to do you justice. On your knees, count."

Athos knelt down and the king passed the ribbon down from
left to right as usual, raised his sword, and instead of
pronouncing the customary formula, "I make you a knight. Be
brave, faithful and loyal," he said, "You are brave,
faithful and loyal. I knight you, monsieur le comte."

Then turning to Aramis, he said:

"It is now your turn, monsieur le chevalier."

The same ceremony recommenced, with the same words, whilst
Winter unlaced his leather cuirass, that he might disguise
himself like the king. Charles, having proceeded with Aramis
as with Athos, embraced them both.

"Sire," said Winter, who in this trying emergency felt all
his strength and energy fire up, "we are ready."

The king looked at the three gentlemen. "Then we must fly!"
said he.

"Flying through an army, sire," said Athos, "in all
countries in the world is called charging."

"Then I shall die, sword in hand," said Charles. "Monsieur
le comte, monsieur le chevalier, if ever I am king ---- "

"Sire, you have already done us more honor than simple
gentlemen could ever aspire to, therefore gratitude is on
our side. But we must not lose time. We have already wasted
too much."

The king again shook hands with all three, exchanged hats
with Winter and went out.

Winter's regiment was ranged on some high ground above the
camp. The king, followed by the three friends, turned his
steps that way. The Scotch camp seemed as if at last
awakened; the soldiers had come out of their tents and taken
up their station in battle array.

"Do you see that?" said the king. "Perhaps they are penitent
and preparing to march."

"If they are penitent," said Athos, "let them follow us."

"Well!" said the king, "what shall we do?"

"Let us examine the enemy's army."

At the same instant the eyes of the little group were fixed
on the same line which at daybreak they had mistaken for fog
and which the morning sun now plainly showed was an army in
order of battle. The air was soft and clear, as it generally
is at that early hour of the morning. The regiments, the
standards, and even the colors of the horses and uniforms
were now clearly distinct.

On the summit of a rising ground, a little in advance of the
enemy, appeared a short and heavy looking man; this man was
surrounded by officers. He turned a spyglass toward the
little group amongst which the king stood.

"Does this man know your majesty personally?" inquired
Aramis.

Charles smiled.

"That man is Cromwell," said he.

"Then draw down your hat, sire, that he may not discover the
substitution."

"Ah!" said Athos, "how much time we have lost."

"Now," said the king, "give the word and let us start."

"Will you not give it, sire?" asked Athos.

"No; I make you my lieutenant-general," said the king.

"Listen, then, Lord Winter. Proceed, sire, I beg. What we
are going to say does not concern your majesty."

The king, smiling, turned a few steps back.

"This is what I propose to do," said Athos. "We will divide
our regiments into two squadrons. You will put yourself at
the head of the first. We and his majesty will lead the
second. If no obstacle occurs we will both charge together,
force the enemy's line and throw ourselves into the Tyne,
which we must cross, either by fording or swimming; if, on
the contrary, any repulse should take place, you and your
men must fight to the last man, whilst we and the king
proceed on our road. Once arrived at the brink of the river,
should we even find them three ranks deep, as long as you
and your regiment do your duty, we will look to the rest."

"To horse!" said Lord Winter.

"To horse!" re-echoed Athos; "everything is arranged and
decided."

"Now, gentlemen," cried the king, "forward! and rally to the
old cry of France, `Montjoy and St. Denis!' The war cry of
England is too often in the mouths of traitors."

They mounted -- the king on Winter's horse and Winter on
that of the king; then Winter took his place at the head of
the first squadron, and the king, with Athos on his right
and Aramis on his left, at the head of the second.

The Scotch army stood motionless and silent, seized with
shame at sight of these preparations.

Some of the chieftains left the ranks and broke their swords
in two.

"There," said the king, "that consoles me; they are not all
traitors."

At this moment Winter's voice was raised with the cry of
"Forward!"

The first squadron moved off; the second followed, and
descended from the plateau. A regiment of cuirassiers,
nearly equal as to numbers, issued from behind the hill and
came full gallop toward it.

The king pointed this out.

"Sire," said Athos, "we foresaw this; and if Lord Winter's
men but do their duty, we are saved, instead of lost."

At this moment they heard above all the galloping and
neighing of the horses Winter's voice crying out:

"Sword in hand!"

At these words every sword was drawn, and glittered in the
air like lightning.

"Now, gentlemen," said the king in his turn, excited by this
sight, "come, gentlemen, sword in hand!"

But Aramis and Athos were the only ones to obey this command
and the king's example.

"We are betrayed," said the king in a low voice.

"Wait a moment," said Athos, "perhaps they do not recognize
your majesty's voice, and await the order of their captain."

"Have they not heard that of their colonel? But look! look!"
cried the king, drawing up his horse with a sudden jerk,
which threw it on its haunches, and seizing the bridle of
Athos's horse.

"Ah, cowards! traitors!" screamed Lord Winter, whose voice
they heard, whilst his men, quitting their ranks, dispersed
all over the plain.

About fifteen men were ranged around him and awaited the
charge of Cromwell's cuirassiers.

"Let us go and die with them!" said the king.

"Let us go," said Athos and Aramis.

"All faithful hearts with me!" cried out Winter.

This voice was heard by the two friends, who set off, full
gallop.

"No quarter!" cried a voice in French, answering to that of
Winter, which made them tremble.

As for Winter, at the sound of that voice he turned pale,
and was, as it were, petrified.

It was the voice of a cavalier mounted on a magnificent
black horse, who was charging at the head of the English
regiment, of which, in his ardor, he was ten steps in
advance.

"'Tis he!" murmured Winter, his eyes glazed and he allowed
his sword to fall to his side.

"The king! the king!" cried out several voices, deceived by
the blue ribbon and chestnut horse of Winter; "take him
alive."

"No! it is not the king!" exclaimed the cavalier. "Lord
Winter, you are not the king; you are my uncle."

At the same moment Mordaunt, for it was he, leveled his
pistol at Winter; it went off and the ball entered the heart
of the old cavalier, who with one bound on his saddle fell
back into the arms of Athos, murmuring: "He is avenged!"

"Think of my mother!" shouted Mordaunt, as his horse plunged
and darted off at full gallop.

"Wretch!" exclaimed Aramis, raising his pistol as he passed
by him; but the powder flashed in the pan and it did not go
off.

At this moment the whole regiment came up and they fell upon
the few men who had held out, surrounding the two Frenchmen.
Athos, after making sure that Lord Winter was really dead,
let fall the corpse and said:

"Come, Aramis, now for the honor of France!" and the two
Englishmen who were nearest to them fell, mortally wounded.

At the same moment a fearful "hurrah!" rent the air and
thirty blades glittered about their heads.

Suddenly a man sprang out of the English ranks, fell upon
Athos, twined arms of steel around him, and tearing his
sword from him, said in his ear:

"Silence! yield -- you yield to me, do you not?"

A giant had seized also Aramis's two wrists, who struggled
in vain to release himself from this formidable grasp.

"D'Art ---- " exclaimed Athos, whilst the Gascon covered his
mouth with his hand.

"I am your prisoner," said Aramis, giving up his sword to
Porthos.

"Fire, fire!" cried Mordaunt, returning to the group
surrounding the two friends.

"And wherefore fire?" said the colonel; "every one has
yielded."

"It is the son of Milady," said Athos to D'Artagnan.

"I recognize him."

"It is the monk," whispered Porthos to Aramis.

"I know it."

And now the ranks began to open. D'Artagnan held the bridle
of Athos's horse and Porthos that of Aramis. Both of them
attempted to lead his prisoner off the battle-field.

This movement revealed the spot where Winter's body had
fallen. Mordaunt had found it out and was gazing on his dead
relative with an expression of malignant hatred.

Athos, though now cool and collected, put his hand to his
belt, where his loaded pistols yet remained.

"What are you about?" said D'Artagnan.

"Let me kill him."

"We are all four lost, if by the least gesture you discover
that you recognize him."

Then turning to the young man he exclaimed:

"A fine prize! a fine prize, friend Mordaunt; we have both
myself and Monsieur du Vallon, taken two Knights of the
Garter, nothing less."

"But," said Mordaunt, looking at Athos and Aramis with
bloodshot eyes, "these are Frenchmen, I imagine."

"I'faith, I don't know. Are you French, sir?" said he to
Athos.

"I am," replied the latter, gravely.

"Very well, my dear sir, you are the prisoner of a fellow
countryman."

"But the king -- where is the king?" exclaimed Athos,
anxiously.

D'Artagnan vigorously seized his prisoner's hand, saying:

"Eh! the king? We have secured him."

"Yes," said Aramis, "through an infamous act of treason."

Porthos pressed his friend's hand and said to him:

"Yes, sir, all is fair in war, stratagem as well as force;
look yonder!"

At this instant the squadron, that ought to have protected
Charles's retreat, was advancing to meet the English
regiments. The king, who was entirely surrounded, walked
alone in a great empty space. He appeared calm, but it was
evidently not without a mighty effort. Drops of perspiration
trickled down his face, and from time to time he put a
handkerchief to his mouth to wipe away the blood that rilled
from it.

"Behold Nebuchadnezzar!" exclaimed an old Puritan soldier,
whose eyes flashed at the sight of the man they called the
tyrant.

"Do you call him Nebuchadnezzar?" said Mordaunt, with a
terrible smile; "no, it is Charles the First, the king, the
good King Charles, who despoils his subjects to enrich
himself."

Charles glanced a moment at the insolent creature who
uttered this, but did not recognize him. Nevertheless, the
calm religious dignity of his countenance abashed Mordaunt.

"Bon jour, messieurs!" said the king to the two gentlemen
who were held by D'Artagnan and Porthos. "The day has been
unfortunate, but it is not your fault, thank God! But where
is my old friend Winter?"

The two gentlemen turned away their heads in silence.

"In Strafford's company," said Mordaunt, tauntingly.

Charles shuddered. The demon had known how to wound him. The
remembrance of Strafford was a source of lasting remorse to
him, the shadow that haunted him by day and night. The king
looked around him. He saw a corpse at his feet. It was
Winter's. He uttered not a word, nor shed a tear, but a
deadly pallor spread over his face; he knelt down on the
ground, raised Winter's head, and unfastening the Order of
the Saint Esprit, placed it on his own breast.

"Lord Winter is killed, then?" inquired D'Artagnan, fixing
his eyes on the corpse.

"Yes," said Athos, "by his own nephew."

"Come, he was the first of us to go; peace be to him! he was
an honest man," said D'Artagnan.

"Charles Stuart," said the colonel of the English regiment,
approaching the king, who had just put on the insignia of
royalty, "do you yield yourself a prisoner?"

"Colonel Tomlison," said Charles, "kings cannot yield; the
man alone submits to force."

"Your sword."

The king drew his sword and broke it on his knee.

At this moment a horse without a rider, covered with foam,
his nostrils extended and eyes all fire, galloped up, and
recognizing his master, stopped and neighed with pleasure;
it was Arthur.

The king smiled, patted it with his hand and jumped lightly
into the saddle.

"Now, gentlemen," said he, "conduct me where you will."

Turning back again, he said, "I thought I saw Winter move;
if he still lives, by all you hold most sacred, do not
abandon him."

"Never fear, King Charles," said Mordaunt, "the bullet
pierced his heart."

"Do not breathe a word nor make the least sign to me or
Porthos," said D'Artagnan to Athos and Aramis, "that you
recognize this man, for Milady is not dead; her soul lives
in the body of this demon."

The detachment now moved toward the town with the royal
captive; but on the road an aide-de-camp, from Cromwell,
sent orders that Colonel Tomlison should conduct him to
Holdenby Castle.

At the same time couriers started in every direction over
England and Europe to announce that Charles Stuart was the
prisoner of Oliver Cromwell.



57

Oliver Cromwell.



"Have you been to the general?" said Mordaunt to D'Artagnan
and Porthos; "you know he sent for you after the action."

"We want first to put our prisoners in a place of safety,"
replied D'Artagnan. "Do you know, sir, these gentlemen are
each of them worth fifteen hundred pounds?"

"Oh, be assured," said Mordaunt, looking at them with an
expression he vainly endeavoured to soften, "my soldiers
will guard them, and guard them well, I promise you."

"I shall take better care of them myself," answered
D'Artagnan; "besides, all they require is a good room, with
sentinels, or their simple parole that they will not attempt
escape. I will go and see about that, and then we shall have
the honor of presenting ourselves to the general and
receiving his commands for his eminence."

"You think of starting at once, then?" inquired Mordaunt.

"Our mission is ended, and there is nothing more to detain
us now but the good pleasure of the great man to whom we
were sent."

The young man bit his lips and whispered to his sergeant:

"You will follow these men and not lose sight of them; when
you have discovered where they lodge, come and await me at
the town gate."

The sergeant made a sign of comprehension.

Instead of following the knot of prisoners that were being
taken into the town, Mordaunt turned his steps toward the
rising ground from whence Cromwell had witnessed the battle
and on which he had just had his tent pitched.

Cromwell had given orders that no one was to be allowed
admission; but the sentinel, who knew that Mordaunt was one
of the most confidential friends of the general, thought the
order did not extend to the young man. Mordaunt, therefore,
raised the canvas, and saw Cromwell seated before a table,
his head buried in his hands, his back being turned.

Whether he heard Mordaunt or not as he entered, Cromwell did
not move. Mordaunt remained standing near the door. At last,
after a few moments, Cromwell raised his head, and, as if he
divined that some one was there, turned slowly around.

"I said I wished to be alone," he exclaimed, on seeing the
young man.

"They thought this order did not concern me, sir;
nevertheless, if you wish it, I am ready to go."

"Ah! is it you, Mordaunt?" said Cromwell, the cloud passing
away from his face; "since you are here, it is well; you may
remain."

"I come to congratulate you."

"To congratulate me -- what for?"

"On the capture of Charles Stuart. You are now master of
England."

"I was much more really so two hours ago."

"How so, general?"

"Because England had need of me to take the tyrant, and now
the tyrant is taken. Have you seen him?"

"Yes, sir." said Mordaunt.

"What is his bearing?"

Mordaunt hesitated; but it seemed as though he was
constrained to tell the truth.

"Calm and dignified," said he.

"What did he say?"

"Some parting words to his friends."

"His friends!" murmured Cromwell. "Has he any friends?" Then
he added aloud, "Did he make any resistance?"

"No, sir, with the exception of two or three friends every
one deserted him; he had no means of resistance."

"To whom did he give up his sword?"

"He did not give it up; he broke it."

"He did well; but instead of breaking it, he might have used
it to still more advantage."

There was a momentary pause.

"I heard that the colonel of the regiment that escorted
Charles was killed," said Cromwell, staring very fixedly at
Mordaunt.

"Yes, sir."

"By whom?" inquired Cromwell.

"By me."

"What was his name?"

"Lord Winter."

"Your uncle?" exclaimed Cromwell.

"My uncle," answered Mordaunt; "but traitors to England are
no longer members of my family."

Cromwell observed the young man a moment in silence, then,
with that profound melancholy Shakespeare describes so well:

"Mordaunt," he said, "you are a terrible servant."

"When the Lord commands," said Mordaunt, "His commands are
not to be disputed. Abraham raised the knife against Isaac,
and Isaac was his son."

"Yes," said Cromwell, "but the Lord did not suffer that
sacrifice to be accomplished."

"I have looked around me," said Mordaunt, "and I have seen
neither goat nor kid caught among the bushes of the plain."

Cromwell bowed. "You are strong among the strong, Mordaunt,"
he said; "and the Frenchmen, how did they behave?"

"Most fearlessly."

"Yes, yes," murmured Cromwell; "the French fight well; and
if my glass was good and I mistake not, they were foremost
in the fight."

"They were," replied Mordaunt.

"After you, however," said Cromwell.

"It was the fault of their horses, not theirs."

Another pause

"And the Scotch?"

"They kept their word and never stirred," said Mordaunt.

"Wretched men!"

"Their officers wish to see you, sir."

"I have no time to see them. Are they paid?"

"Yes, to-night."

"Let them be off and return to their own country, there to
hide their shame, if its hills are high enough; I have
nothing more to do with them nor they with me. And now go,
Mordaunt."

"Before I go," said Mordaunt, "I have some questions and a
favor to ask you, sir."

"A favor from me?"

Mordaunt bowed.

"I come to you, my leader, my head, my father, and I ask
you, master, are you contented with me?"

Cromwell looked at him with astonishment. The young man
remained immovable.

"Yes," said Cromwell; "you have done, since I knew you, not
only your duty, but more than your duty; you have been a
faithful friend, a cautious negotiator, a brave soldier."

"Do you remember, sir it was my idea, the Scotch treaty, for
giving up the king?"

"Yes, the idea was yours. I had no such contempt for men
before."

"Was I not a good ambassador in France?"

"Yes, for Mazarin has granted what I desire."

"Have I not always fought for your glory and interests?"

"Too ardently, perhaps; it is what I have just reproached
you for. But what is the meaning of all these questions?"

"To tell you, my lord, that the moment has now arrived when,
with a single word, you may recompense all these services."

"Oh!" said Oliver, with a slight curl of his lip, "I forgot
that every service merits some reward and that up to this
moment you have not been paid."

"Sir, I can take my pay at this moment, to the full extent
of my wishes."

"How is that?"

"I have the payment under my hand; I almost possess it."

"What is it? Have they offered you money? Do you wish a
step, or some place in the government?"

"Sir, will you grant me my request?"

"Let us hear what it is, first."

"Sir, when you have told me to obey an order did I ever
answer, `Let me see that order '?"

"If, however, your wish should be one impossible to
fulfill?"

"When you have cherished a wish and have charged me with its
fulfillment, have I ever replied, `It is impossible'?"

"But a request preferred with so much preparation ---- "

"Ah, do not fear, sir," said Mordaunt, with apparent
simplicity: "it will not ruin you."

"Well, then," said Cromwell, "I promise, as far as lies in
my power, to grant your request; proceed."

"Sir, two prisoners were taken this morning, will you let me
have them?"

"For their ransom? have they then offered a large one?"
inquired Cromwell.

"On the contrary, I think they are poor, sir."

"They are friends of yours, then?"

"Yes, sir," exclaimed Mordaunt, "they are friends, dear
friends of mine, and I would lay down my life for them."

"Very well, Mordaunt," exclaimed Cromwell, pleased at having
his opinion of the young man raised once more; "I will give
them to you; I will not even ask who they are; do as you
like with them."

"Thank you, sir!" exclaimed Mordaunt, "thank you; my life is
always at your service, and should I lose it I should still
owe you something; thank you; you have indeed repaid me
munificently for my services."

He threw himself at the feet of Cromwell, and in spite of
the efforts of the Puritan general, who did not like this
almost kingly homage, he took his hand and kissed it.

"What!" said Cromwell, arresting him for a moment as he
arose; "is there nothing more you wish? neither gold nor
rank?"

"You have given me all you can give me, and from to-day your
debt is paid."

And Mordaunt darted out of the general's tent, his heart
beating and his eyes sparkling with joy.

Cromwell gazed a moment after him.

"He has slain his uncle!" he murmured. "Alas! what are my
servants? Possibly this one, who asks nothing or seems to
ask nothing, has asked more in the eyes of Heaven than those
who tax the country and steal the bread of the poor. Nobody
serves me for nothing. Charles, who is my prisoner, may
still have friends, but I have none!"

And with a deep sigh he again sank into the reverie that had
been interrupted by Mordaunt.



58

Jesus Seigneur.



Whilst Mordaunt was making his way to Cromwell's tent,
D'Artagnan and Porthos had brought their prisoners to the
house which had been assigned to them as their dwelling at
Newcastle.

The order given by Mordaunt to the sergeant had been heard
by D'Artagnan, who accordingly, by an expressive glance,
warned Athos and Aramis to exercise extreme caution. The
prisoners, therefore, had remained silent as they marched
along in company with their conquerors -- which they could
do with the less difficulty since each of them had
occupation enough in answering his own thoughts.

It would be impossible to describe Musqueton's astonishment
when from the threshold of the door he saw the four friends
approaching, followed by a sergeant with a dozen men. He
rubbed his eyes, doubting if he really saw before him Athos
and Aramis; and forced at last to yield to evidence, he was
on the point of breaking forth in exclamations when he
encountered a glance from the eyes of Porthos, the
repressive force of which he was not inclined to dispute.

Musqueton remained glued to the door, awaiting the
explanation of this strange occurrence. What upset him
completely was that the four friends seemed to have no
acquaintance with one another.

The house to which D'Artagnan and Porthos conducted Athos
and Aramis was the one assigned to them by General Cromwell
and of which they had taken possession on the previous
evening. It was at the corner of two streets and had in the
rear, bordering on the side street, stables and a sort of
garden. The windows on the ground floor, according to a
custom in provincial villages, were barred, so that they
strongly resembled the windows of a prison.

The two friends made the prisoners enter the house first,
whilst they stood at the door, desiring Musqueton to take
the four horses to the stable.

"Why don't we go in with them?" asked Porthos.

"We must first see what the sergeant wishes us to do,"
replied D'Artagnan.

The sergeant and his men took possession of the little
garden.

D'Artagnan asked them what they wished and why they had
taken that position.

"We have had orders," answered the man, "to help you in
taking care of your prisoners."

There could be no fault to find with this arrangement; on
the contrary, it seemed to be a delicate attention, to be
gratefully received; D'Artagnan, therefore, thanked the man
and gave him a crown piece to drink to General Cromwell's
health.

The sergeant answered that Puritans never drank, and put the
crown piece in his pocket.

"Ah!" said Porthos, "what a fearful day, my dear
D'Artagnan!"

"What! a fearful day, when to-day we find our friends?"

"Yes; but under what circumstances?"

"'Tis true that our position is an awkward one; but let us
go in and see more clearly what is to be done."

"Things look black enough," replied Porthos; "I understand
now why Aramis advised me to strangle that horrible
Mordaunt."

"Silence!" cried the Gascon; "do not utter that name."

"But," argued Porthos, "I speak French and they are all
English."

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos with that air of wonder which a
cunning man cannot help feeling at displays of crass
stupidity.

But as Porthos on his side could not comprehend his
astonishment, he merely pushed him indoors, saying, "Let us
go in."

They found Athos in profound despondency; Aramis looked
first at Porthos and then at D'Artagnan, without speaking,
but the latter understood his meaning look.

"You want to know how we came here? 'Tis easily guessed.
Mazarin sent us with a letter to General Cromwell."

"But how came you to fall into company with Mordaunt, whom I
bade you distrust?" asked Athos.

"And whom I advised you to strangle, Porthos," said Aramis.

"Mazarin again. Cromwell had sent him to Mazarin. Mazarin
sent us to Cromwell. There is a certain fatality in it."

"Yes, you are right, D'Artagnan, a fatality that will
separate and ruin us! So, my dear Aramis, say no more about
it and let us prepare to submit to destiny."

"Zounds! on the contrary, let us speak about it; for it was
agreed among us, once for all, that we should always hold
together, though engaged on opposing sides."

"Yes," added Athos, "I now ask you, D'Artagnan, what side
you are on? Ah! behold for what end the wretched Mazarin has
made use of you. Do you know in what crime you are to-day
engaged? In the capture of a king, his degradation and his
murder."

"Oh! oh!" cried Porthos, "do you think so?"

"You are exaggerating, Athos; we are not so far gone as
that," replied the lieutenant.

"Good heavens! we are on the very eve of it. I say, why is
the king taken prisoner? Those who wish to respect him as a
master would not buy him as a slave. Do you think it is to
replace him on the throne that Cromwell has paid for him two
hundred thousand pounds sterling? They will kill him, you
may be sure of it."

"I don't maintain the contrary," said D'Artagnan. "But
what's that to us? I am here because I am a soldier and have
to obey orders -- I have taken an oath to obey, and I do
obey; but you who have taken no such oath, why are you here
and what cause do you represent?"

"That most sacred in the world," said Athos; "the cause of
misfortune, of religion, royalty. A friend, a wife, a
daughter, have done us the honor to call us to their aid. We
have served them to the best of our poor means, and God will
recompense the will, forgive the want of power. You may see
matters differently, D'Artagnan, and think otherwise. I will
not attempt to argue with you, but I blame you."

"Heyday!" cried D'Artagnan, "what matters it to me, after
all, if Cromwell, who's an Englishman, revolts against his
king, who is a Scotchman? I am myself a Frenchman. I have
nothing to do with these things -- why hold me responsible?"

"Yes," said Porthos.

"Because all gentlemen are brothers, because you are a
gentleman, because the kings of all countries are the first
among gentlemen, because the blind populace, ungrateful and
brutal, always takes pleasure in pulling down what is above
them. And you, you, D'Artagnan, a man sprung from the
ancient nobility of France, bearing an honorable name,
carrying a good sword, have helped to give up a king to
beersellers, shopkeepers, and wagoners. Ah! D'Artagnan!
perhaps you have done your duty as a soldier, but as a
gentleman, I say that you are very culpable."

D'Artagnan was chewing the stalk of a flower, unable to
reply and thoroughly uncomfortable; for when turned from the
eyes of Athos he encountered those of Aramis.

"And you, Porthos," continued the count, as if in
consideration for D'Artagnan's embarrassment, "you, the best
heart, the best friend, the best soldier that I know -- you,
with a soul that makes you worthy of a birth on the steps of
a throne, and who, sooner or later, must receive your reward
from an intelligent king -- you, my dear Porthos, you, a
gentleman in manners, in tastes and in courage, you are as
culpable as D'Artagnan."

Porthos blushed, but with pleasure rather than with
confusion; and yet, bowing his head, as if humiliated, he
said:

"Yes, yes, my dear count, I feel that you are right."

Athos arose.

"Come," he said, stretching out his hand to D'Artagnan,
"come, don't be sullen, my dear son, for I have said all
this to you, if not in the tone, at least with the feelings
of a father. It would have been easier to me merely to have
thanked you for preserving my life and not to have uttered a
word of all this."

"Doubtless, doubtless, Athos. But here it is: you have
sentiments, the devil knows what, such as every one can't
entertain. Who could suppose that a sensible man could leave
his house, France, his ward -- a charming youth, for we saw
him in the camp -- to fly to the aid of a rotten, worm-eaten
royalty, which is going to crumble one of these days like an
old hovel. The sentiments you air are certainly fine, so
fine that they are superhuman."

"However that may be, D'Artagnan," replied Athos, without
falling into the snare which his Gascon friend had prepared
for him by an appeal to his parental love, "however that may
be, you know in the bottom of your heart that it is true;
but I am wrong to dispute with my master. D'Artagnan, I am
your prisoner -- treat me as such."

"Ah! pardieu!" said D'Artagnan, "you know you will not be my
prisoner very long."

"No," said Aramis, "they will doubtless treat us like the
prisoners of the Philipghauts."

"And how were they treated?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Why," said Aramis, "one-half were hanged and the other half
were shot."

"Well, I," said D'Artagnan "I answer that while there
remains a drop of blood in my veins you will be neither
hanged nor shot. Sang Diou! let them come on! Besides -- do
you see that door, Athos?"

"Yes; what then?"

"Well, you can go out by that door whenever you please; for
from this moment you are free as the air."

"I recognize you there, my brave D'Artagnan," replied Athos;
"but you are no longer our masters. That door is guarded,
D'Artagnan; you know that."

"Very well, you will force it," said Porthos. "There are
only a dozen men at the most."

"That would be nothing for us four; it is too much for us
two. No, divided as we now are, we must perish. See the
fatal example: on the Vendomois road, D'Artagnan, you so
brave, and you, Porthos, so valiant and so strong -- you
were beaten; to-day Aramis and I are beaten in our turn. Now
that never happened to us when we were four together. Let us
die, then, as De Winter has died; as for me, I will fly only
on condition that we all fly together."

"Impossible," said D'Artagnan; "we are under Mazarin's
orders."

"I know it and I have nothing more to say; my arguments lead
to nothing; doubtless they are bad, since they have not
determined minds so just as yours."

"Besides," said Aramis, "had they taken effect it would be
still better not to compromise two excellent friends like
D'Artagnan and Porthos. Be assured, gentlemen, we shall do
you honor in our dying. As for myself, I shall be proud to
face the bullets, or even the rope, in company with you,
Athos; for you have never seemed to me so grand as you are
to-day."

D'Artagnan said nothing, but, after having gnawed the flower
stalk, he began to bite his nails. At last:

"Do you imagine," he resumed, "that they mean to kill you?
And wherefore should they do so? What interest have they in
your death? Moreover, you are our prisoners."

"Fool!" cried Aramis; "knowest thou not, then, Mordaunt? I
have but exchanged with him one look, yet that look
convinced me that we were doomed."

"The truth is, I'm very sorry that I did not strangle him as
you advised me," said Porthos.

"Eh! I make no account of the harm Mordaunt can do!" cried
D'Artagnan. "Cap de Diou! if he troubles me too much I will
crush him, the insect! Do not fly, then. It is useless; for
I swear to you that you are as safe here as you were twenty
years, ago -- you, Athos, in the Rue Ferou, and you, Aramis,
in the Rue de Vaugirard."

"Stop," cried Athos, extending his hand to one of the grated
windows by which the room was lighted; "you will soon know
what to expect, for here he is."

"Who?"

"Mordaunt."

In fact, looking at the place to which Athos pointed,
D'Artagnan saw a cavalier coming toward the house at full
gallop.

It was Mordaunt.

D'Artagnan rushed out of the room.

Porthos wanted to follow him.

"Stay," said D'Artagnan, "and do not come till you hear me
drum my fingers on the door."

When Mordaunt arrived opposite the house he saw D'Artagnan
on the threshold and the soldiers lying on the grass here
and there, with their arms.

"Halloo!" he cried, "are the prisoners still there?"

"Yes, sir," answered the sergeant, uncovering.

"'Tis well; order four men to conduct them to my lodging."

Four men prepared to do so.

"What is it?" said D'Artagnan, with that jeering manner
which our readers have so often observed in him since they
made his acquaintance. "What is the matter, if you please?"

"Sir," replied Mordaunt, "I have ordered the two prisoners
we made this morning to be conducted to my lodging."

"Wherefore, sir? Excuse curiosity, but I wish to be
enlightened on the subject."

"Because these prisoners, sir, are at my disposal and I
choose to dispose of them as I like."

"Allow me -- allow me, sir," said D'Artagnan, "to observe
you are in error. The prisoners belong to those who take
them and not to those who only saw them taken. You might
have taken Lord Winter -- who, 'tis said, was your uncle --
prisoner, but you preferred killing him; 'tis well; we, that
is, Monsieur du Vallon and I, could have killed our
prisoners -- we preferred taking them."

Mordaunt's very lips grew white with rage.

D'Artagnan now saw that affairs were growing worse and he
beat the guard's march upon the door. At the first beat
Porthos rushed out and stood on the other side of the door.

This movement was observed by Mordaunt.

"Sir!" he thus addressed D'Artagnan, "your resistance is
useless; these prisoners have just been given me by my
illustrious patron, Oliver Cromwell."

These words struck D'Artagnan like a thunderbolt. The blood
mounted to his temples, his eyes became dim; he saw from
what fountainhead the ferocious hopes of the young man
arose, and he put his hand to the hilt of his sword.

As for Porthos, he looked inquiringly at D'Artagnan.

This look of Porthos's made the Gascon regret that he had
summoned the brute force of his friend to aid him in an
affair which seemed to require chiefly cunning.

"Violence," he said to himself, "would spoil all;
D'Artagnan, my friend, prove to this young serpent that thou
art not only stronger, but more subtle than he is."

"Ah!" he said, making a low bow, "why did you not begin by
saying that, Monsieur Mordaunt? What! are you sent by
General Oliver Cromwell, the most illustrious captain of the
age?"

"I have this instant left him," replied Mordaunt, alighting,
in order to give his horse to a soldier to hold.

"Why did you not say so at once, my dear sir! all England is
with Cromwell; and since you ask for my prisoners, I bend,
sir, to your wishes. They are yours; take them."

Mordaunt, delighted, advanced, Porthos looking at D'Artagnan
with open-mouthed astonishment. Then D'Artagnan trod on his
foot and Porthos began to understand that this was merely
acting.

Mordaunt put his foot on the first step of the door and,
with his hat in hand, prepared to pass by the two friends,
motioning to the four men to follow him.

"But, pardon," said D'Artagnan, with the most charming smile
and putting his hand on the young man's shoulder, "if the
illustrious General Oliver Cromwell has disposed of our
prisoners in your favour, he has, of course, made that act
of donation in writing."

Mordaunt stopped short.

"He has given you some little writing for me -- the least
bit of paper which may show that you come in his name. Be
pleased to give me that scrap of paper so that I may
justify, by a pretext at least, my abandoning my countrymen.
Otherwise, you see, although I am sure that General Oliver
Cromwell can intend them no harm, it would have a bad
appearance."

Mordaunt recoiled; he felt the blow and discharged a
terrible look at D'Artagnan, who responded by the most
amiable expression that ever graced a human countenance.

"When I tell you a thing, sir," said Mordaunt, "you insult
me by doubting it."

"I!" cried D'Artagnan, "I doubt what you say!" God keep me
from it, my dear Monsieur Mordaunt! On the contrary, I take
you to be a worthy and accomplished gentleman. And then,
sir, do you wish me to speak freely to you?" continued
D'Artagnan, with his frank expression.

"Speak out, sir," said Mordaunt.

"Monsieur du Vallon, yonder, is rich and has forty thousand
francs yearly, so he does not care about money. I do not
speak for him, but for myself."

"Well, sir? What more?"

"Well -- I -- I'm not rich. In Gascony 'tis no dishonor,
sir, nobody is rich; and Henry IV., of glorious memory, who
was the king of the Gascons, as His Majesty Philip IV. is
the king of the Spaniards, never had a penny in his pocket."

"Go on, sir, I see what you wish to get at; and if it is
simply what I think that stops you, I can obviate the
difficulty."

"Ah, I knew well," said the Gascon, "that you were a man of
talent. Well, here's the case, here's where the saddle hurts
me, as we French say. I am an officer of fortune, nothing
else; I have nothing but what my sword brings me in -- that
is to say, more blows than banknotes. Now, on taking
prisoners, this morning, two Frenchmen, who seemed to me of
high birth -- in short, two knights of the Garter -- I said
to myself, my fortune is made. I say two, because in such
circumstances, Monsieur du Vallon, who is rich, always gives
me his prisoners."

Mordaunt, completely deceived by the wordy civility of
D'Artagnan, smiled like a man who understands perfectly the
reasons given him, and said:

"I shall have the order signed directly, sir, and with it
two thousand pistoles; meanwhile, let me take these men
away."

"No," replied D'Artagnan; "what signifies a delay of half an
hour? I am a man of order, sir; let us do things in order."

"Nevertheless," replied Mordaunt, "I could compel you; I
command here."

"Ah, sir!" said D'Artagnan, "I see that although we have had
the honor of traveling in your company you do not know us.
We are gentlemen; we are, both of us, able to kill you and
your eight men -- we two only. For Heaven's sake don't be
obstinate, for when others are obstinate I am obstinate
likewise, and then I become ferocious and headstrong, and
there's my friend, who is even more headstrong and ferocious
than myself. Besides, we are sent here by Cardinal Mazarin,
and at this moment represent both the king and the cardinal,
and are, therefore, as ambassadors, able to act with
impunity, a thing that General Oliver Cromwell, who is
assuredly as great a politician as he is a general, is quite
the man to understand. Ask him then, for the written order.
What will that cost you my dear Monsieur Mordaunt?"

"Yes, the written order," said Porthos, who now began to
comprehend what D'Artagnan was aiming at, "we ask only for
that."

However inclined Mordaunt was to have recourse to violence,
he understood the reasons D'Artagnan had given him; besides,
completely ignorant of the friendship which existed between
the four Frenchmen, all his uneasiness disappeared when he
heard of the plausible motive of the ransom. He decided,
therefore, not only to fetch the order, but the two thousand
pistoles, at which he estimated the prisoners. He therefore
mounted his horse and disappeared.

"Good!" thought D'Artagnan; "a quarter of an hour to go to
the tent, a quarter of an hour to return; it is more than we
need." Then turning, without the least change of
countenance, to Porthos, he said, looking him full in the
face: "Friend Porthos, listen to this; first, not a syllable
to either of our friends of what you have heard; it is
unnecessary for them to know the service we are going to
render them."

"Very well; I understand."

"Go to the stable; you will find Musqueton there; saddle
your horses, put your pistols in your saddle-bags, take out
the horses and lead them to the street below this, so that
there will be nothing to do but mount them; all the rest is
my business."

Porthos made no remark, but obeyed, with the sublime
confidence he had in his friend.

"I go," he said, "only, shall I enter the chamber where
those gentlemen are?"

"No, it is not worth while."

"Well, do me the kindness to take my purse. which I left on
the mantelpiece."

"All right."

He then proceeded, with his usual calm gait, to the stable
and went into the very midst of the soldiery, who, foreigner
as he was, could not help admiring his height and the
enormous strength of his great limbs.

At the corner of the street he met Musqueton and took him
with him.

D'Artagnan, meantime, went into the house, whistling a tune
which he had begun before Porthos went away.

"My dear Athos, I have reflected on your arguments and I am
convinced. I am sorry to have had anything to do with this
matter. As you say, Mazarin is a knave. I have resolved to
fly with you, not a word -- be ready. Your swords are in the
corner; do not forget them, they are in many circumstances
very useful; there is Porthos's purse, too."

He put it into his pocket. The two friends were perfectly
stupefied.

"Well, pray, is there anything to be so surprised at?" he
said. "I was blind; Athos has made me see, that's all; come
here."

The two friends went near him.

"Do you see that street? There are the horses. Go out by the
door, turn to the right, jump into your saddles, all will be
right; don't be uneasy at anything except mistaking the
signal. That will be the signal when I call out -- Jesus
Seigneur!"

"But give us your word that you will come too, D'Artagnan,"
said Athos.

"I swear I will, by Heaven."

"'Tis settled," said Aramis; "at the cry `Jesus Seigneur' we
go out, upset all that stands in our way, run to our horses,
jump into our saddles, spur them; is that all?"

"Exactly."

"See, Aramis, as I have told you, D'Artagnan is first
amongst us all," said Athos.

"Very true," replied the Gascon, "but I always run away from
compliments. Don't forget the signal: `Jesus Seigneur!'" and
he went out as he came in, whistling the self-same air.

The soldiers were playing or sleeping; two of them were
singing in a corner, out of tune, the psalm: "On the rivers
of Babylon."

D'Artagnan called the sergeant. "My dear friend, General
Cromwell has sent Monsieur Mordaunt to fetch me. Guard the
prisoners well, I beg of you."

The sergeant made a sign, as much as to say he did not
understand French, and D'Artagnan tried to make him
comprehend by signs and gestures. Then he went into the
stable; he found the five horses saddled, his own amongst
the rest.

"Each of you take a horse by the bridle," he said to Porthos
and Musqueton; "turn to the left, so that Athos and Aramis
may see you clearly from the window."

"They are coming, then?" said Porthos.

"In a moment."

"You didn't forget my purse?"

"No; be easy."

"Good."

Porthos and Musqueton each took a horse by the bridle and
proceeded to their post.

Then D'Artagnan, being alone, struck a light and lighted a
small bit of tinder, mounted his horse and stopped at the
door in the midst of the soldiers. There, caressing as he
pretended, the animal with his hand, he put this bit of
burning tinder in his ear. It was necessary to be as good a
horseman as he was to risk such a scheme, for no sooner had
the animal felt the burning tinder than he uttered a cry of
pain and reared and jumped as if he had been mad.

The soldiers, whom he was nearly trampling, ran away.

"Help! help!" cried D'Artagnan; "stop -- my horse has the
staggers."

In an instant the horse's eyes grew bloodshot and he was
white with foam.

"Help!" cried D'Artagnan. "What! will you let me be killed?
Jesus Seigneur!"

No sooner had he uttered this cry than the door opened and
Athos and Aramis rushed out. The coast, owing to the
Gascon's stratagem, was clear.

"The prisoners are escaping! the prisoners are escaping!"
cried the sergeant.

"Stop! stop!" cried D'Artagnan, giving rein to his famous
steed, who, darting forth, overturned several men.

"Stop! stop!" cried the soldiers, and ran for their arms.

But the prisoners were in their saddles and lost no time
hastening to the nearest gate.

In the middle of the street they saw Grimaud and Blaisois,
who were coming to find their masters. With one wave of his
hand Athos made Grimaud, who followed the little troop,
understand everything, and they passed on like a whirlwind,
D'Artagnan still directing them from behind with his voice.

They passed through the gate like apparitions, without the
guards thinking of detaining them, and reached the open
country.

All this time the soldiers were calling out, "Stop! stop!"
and the sergeant, who began to see that he was the victim of
an artifice, was almost in a frenzy of despair. Whilst all
this was going on, a cavalier in full gallop was seen
approaching. It was Mordaunt with the order in his hand.

"The prisoners!" he exclaimed, jumping off his horse.

The sergeant had not the courage to reply; he showed him the
open door, the empty room. Mordaunt darted to the steps,
understood all, uttered a cry, as if his very heart was
pierced, and fell fainting on the stone steps.





59

In which it is shown that under the most trying
Circumstances noble Natures never lose their Courage, nor
good Stomachs their Appetites.



The little troop, without looking behind them or exchanging
a word, fled at a rapid gallop, fording a little stream, of
which none of them knew the name, and leaving on their left
a town which Athos declared to be Durham. At last they came
in sight of a small wood, and spurring their horses afresh,
rode in its direction.

As soon as they had disappeared behind a green curtain
sufficiently thick to conceal them from the sight of any one
who might be in pursuit they drew up to hold a council
together. The two grooms held the horses, that they might
take a little rest without being unsaddled, and Grimaud was
posted as sentinel.

"Come, first of all," said Athos to D'Artagnan, "my friend,
that I may shake hands with you -- you, our rescuer -- you,
the true hero of us all."

"Athos is right -- you have my adoration," said Aramis, in
his turn pressing his hand. "To what are you not equal, with
your superior intelligence, infallible eye, your arm of iron
and your enterprising mind!"

"Now," said the Gascon, "that is all well, I accept for
Porthos and myself everything -- thanks and compliments; we
have plenty of time to spare."

The two friends, recalled by D'Artagnan to what was also due
to Porthos, pressed his hand in their turn.

"And now," said Athos, "it is not our plan to run anywhere
and like madmen, but we must map up our campaign. What shall
we do?"

"What are we going to do, i'faith? It is not very difficult
to say."

"Tell us, then, D'Artagnan."

"We are going to reach the nearest seaport, unite our little
resources, hire a vessel and return to France. As for me I
will give my last sou for it. Life is the greatest treasure,
and speaking candidly, ours hangs by a thread."

"What do you say to this, Du Vallon?"

"I," said Porthos, "I am entirely of D'Artagnan's opinion;
this is a `beastly' country, this England."

"You are quite decided, then, to leave it?" asked Athos of
D'Artagnan.

"Egad! I don't see what is to keep me here."

A glance was exchanged between Athos and Aramis.

"Go, then, my friends," said the former, sighing.

"How, go then?" exclaimed D'Artagnan. "Let us go, you mean?"

"No, my friend," said Athos, "you must leave us."

"Leave you!" cried D'Artagnan, quite bewildered at this
unexpected announcement.

"Bah!" said Porthos, "why separate, since we are all
together?"

"Because you can and ought to return to France; your mission
is accomplished, but ours is not."

"Your mission is not accomplished?" exclaimed D'Artagnan,
looking in astonishment at Athos.

"No, my friend," replied Athos, in his gentle but decided
voice, "we came here to defend King Charles; we have but ill
defended him -- it remains for us to save him!"

"To save the king?" said D'Artagnan, looking at Aramis as he
had looked at Athos.

Aramis contented himself by making a sign with his head.

D'Artagnan's countenance took an expression of the deepest
compassion; he began to think he had to do with madmen.

"You cannot be speaking seriously, Athos!" said he; "the
king is surrounded by an army, which is conducting him to
London. This army is commanded by a butcher, or the son of a
butcher -- it matters little -- Colonel Harrison. His
majesty, I can assure you, will be tried on his arrival in
London; I have heard enough from the lips of Oliver Cromwell
to know what to expect."

A second look was exchanged between Athos and Aramis.

"And when the trial is ended there will be no delay in
putting the sentence into execution," continued D'Artagnan.

"And to what penalty do you think the king will be
condemned?" asked Athos.

"The penalty of death, I greatly fear; they have gone too
far for him to pardon them, and there is nothing left to
them but one thing, and that is to kill him. Have you never
heard what Oliver Cromwell said when he came to Paris and
was shown the dungeon at Vincennes where Monsieur de Vendome
was imprisoned?"

"What did he say?" asked Porthos.

"`Princes must be knocked on the head.'"

"I remember it," said Athos.

"And you fancy he will not put his maxim into execution, now
that he has got hold of the king?"

"On the contrary, I am certain he will do so. But then that
is all the more reason why we should not abandon the august
head so threatened."

"Athos, you are becoming mad."

"No, my friend," Athos gently replied, "but De Winter sought
us out in France and introduced us, Monsieur d'Herblay and
myself, to Madame Henrietta. Her majesty did us the honor to
ask our aid for her husband. We engaged our word; our word
included everything. It was our strength, our intelligence,
our life, in short, that we promised. It remains now for us
to keep our word. Is that your opinion, D'Herblay?"

"Yes," said Aramis, "we have promised."

"Then," continued Athos, "we have another reason; it is this
-- listen: In France at this moment everything is poor and
paltry. We have a king ten years old, who doesn't yet know
what he wants; we have a queen blinded by a belated passion;
we have a minister who governs France as he would govern a
great farm -- that is to say, intent only on turning out all
the gold he can by the exercise of Italian cunning and
invention; we have princes who set up a personal and
egotistic opposition, who will draw from Mazarin's hands
only a few ingots of gold or some shreds of power granted as
bribes. I have served them without enthusiasm -- God knows
that I estimated them at their real value, and that they are
not high in my esteem -- but on principle. To-day I am
engaged in a different affair. I have encountered misfortune
in a high place, a royal misfortune, a European misfortune;
I attach myself to it. If we can succeed in saving the king
it will be good; if we die for him it will be grand."

"So you know beforehand you must perish!" said D'Artagnan.

"We fear so, and our only regret is to die so far from both
of you."

"What will you do in a foreign land, an enemy's country?"

"I traveled in England when I was young, I speak English
like an Englishman, and Aramis, too, knows something of the
language. Ah! if we had you, my friends! With you,
D'Artagnan, with you, Porthos -- all four reunited for the
first time for twenty years -- we would dare not only
England, but the three kingdoms put together!"

"And did you promise the queen," resumed D'Artagnan,
petulantly, "to storm the Tower of London, to kill a hundred
thousand soldiers, to fight victoriously against the wishes
of the nation and the ambition of a man, and when that man
is Cromwell? Do not exaggerate your duty. In Heaven's name,
my dear Athos, do not make a useless sacrifice. When I see
you merely, you look like a reasonable being; when you
speak, I seem to have to do with a madman. Come, Porthos,
join me; say frankly, what do you think of this business?"

"Nothing good," replied Porthos.

"Come," continued D'Artagnan, who, irritated that instead of
listening to him Athos seemed to be attending to his own
thoughts, "you have never found yourself the worse for my
advice. Well, then, believe me, Athos, your mission is
ended, and ended nobly; return to France with us."

"Friend," said Athos, "our resolution is irrevocable."

"Then you have some other motive unknown to us?"

Athos smiled and D'Artagnan struck his hand together in
anger and muttered the most convincing reasons that he could
discover; but to all these reasons Athos contented himself
by replying with a calm, sweet smile and Aramis by nodding
his head.

"Very well," cried D'Artagnan, at last, furious, "very well,
since you wish it, let us leave our bones in this beggarly
land, where it is always cold, where fine weather is a fog,
fog is rain, and rain a deluge; where the sun represents the
moon and the moon a cream cheese; in truth, whether we die
here or elsewhere matters little, since we must die."

"Only reflect, my good fellow," said Athos, "it is but dying
rather sooner."

"Pooh! a little sooner or a little later, it isn't worth
quarreling over."

"If I am astonished at anything," remarked Porthos,
sententiously, "it is that it has not already happened."

"Oh, it will happen, you may be sure," said D'Artagnan. "So
it is agreed, and if Porthos makes no objection ---- "

"I," said Porthos, "I will do whatever you please; and
besides, I think what the Comte de la Fere said just now is
very good."

"But your future career, D'Artagnan -- your ambition,
Porthos?"

"Our future, our ambition!" replied D'Artagnan, with
feverish volubility. "Need we think of that since we are to
save the king? The king saved -- we shall assemble our
friends together -- we will head the Puritans -- reconquer
England; we shall re-enter London -- place him securely on
his throne ---- "

"And he will make us dukes and peers," said Porthos, whose
eyes sparkled with joy at this imaginary prospect.

"Or he will forget us," added D'Artagnan.

"Oh!" said Porthos.

"Well, that has happened, friend Porthos. It seems to me
that we once rendered Anne of Austria a service not much
less than that which to-day we are trying to perform for
Charles I.; but, none the less, Anne of Austria has
forgotten us for twenty years."

"Well, in spite of that, D'Artagnan," said Athos, "you are
not sorry that you were useful to her?"

"No, indeed," said D'Artagnan; "I admit even that in my
darkest moments I find consolation in that remembrance."

"You see, then, D'Artagnan, though princes often are
ungrateful, God never is."

"Athos," said D'Artagnan, "I believe that were you to fall
in with the devil, you would conduct yourself so well that
you would take him with you to Heaven."

"So, then?" said Athos, offering his hand to D'Artagnan.

"'Tis settled," replied D'Artagnan. "I find England a
charming country, and I stay -- but on one condition only."

"What is it?"

"That I am not forced to learn English."

"Well, now," said Athos, triumphantly, "I swear to you, my
friend, by the God who hears us -- I believe that there is a
power watching over us, and that we shall all four see
France again."

"So be it!" said D'Artagnan, "but I -- I confess I have a
contrary conviction."

"Our good D'Artagnan," said Aramis, "represents among us the
opposition in parliament, which always says no, and always
does aye."

"But in the meantime saves the country," added Athos.

"Well, now that everything is decided," cried Porthos,
rubbing his hands, "suppose we think of dinner! It seems to
me that in the most critical positions of our lives we have
always dined."

"Oh! yes, speak of dinner in a country where for a feast
they eat boiled mutton, and as a treat drink beer. What the
devil did you come to such a country for, Athos? But I
forgot," added the Gascon, smiling, "pardon, I forgot you
are no longer Athos; but never mind, let us hear your plan
for dinner, Porthos."

"My plan!"

"Yes, have you a plan?"

"No! I am hungry, that is all."

"Pardieu, if that is all, I am hungry, too; but it is not
everything to be hungry, one must find something to eat,
unless we browse on the grass, like our horses ---- "

"Ah!" exclaimed Aramis, who was not quite so indifferent to
the good things of the earth as Athos, "do you remember,
when we were at Parpaillot, the beautiful oysters that we
ate?"

"And the legs of mutton of the salt marshes," said Porthos,
smacking his lips.

"But," suggested D'Artagnan, "have we not our friend
Musqueton, who managed for us so well at Chantilly,
Porthos?"

"Yes," said Porthos, "we have Musqueton, but since he has
been steward, he has become very heavy; never mind, let us
call him, and to make sure that he will reply agreeably ----

"Here! Mouston," cried Porthos.

Mouston appeared, with a most piteous face.

"What is the matter, my dear M. Mouston?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Are you ill?"

"Sir, I am very hungry," replied Mouston.

"Well, it is just for that reason that we have called you,
my good M. Mouston. Could you not procure us a few of those
nice little rabbits, and some of those delicious partridges,
of which you used to make fricassees at the hotel ---- ?
'Faith, I do not remember the name of the hotel."

"At the hotel of ---- ," said Porthos; "by my faith -- nor
do I remember it either."

"It does not matter; and a few of those bottles of old
Burgundy wine, which cured your master so quickly of his
sprain!"

"Alas! sir," said Musqueton, "I much fear that what you ask
for are very rare things in this detestable and barren
country, and I think we should do better to go and seek
hospitality from the owner of a little house we see on the
fringe of the forest."

"How! is there a house in the neighborhood?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"Yes, sir," replied Musqueton.

"Well, let us, as you say, go and ask a dinner from the
master of that house. What is your opinion, gentlemen, and
does not M. Mouston's suggestion appear to you full of
sense?"

"Oh!" said Aramis, "suppose the master is a Puritan?"

"So much the better, mordioux!" replied D'Artagnan; "if he
is a Puritan we will inform him of the capture of the king,
and in honor of the news he will kill for us his fatted
hens."

"But if he should be a cavalier?" said Porthos.

"In that case we will put on an air of mourning and he will
pluck for us his black fowls."

"You are very happy," exclaimed Athos, laughing, in spite of
himself, at the sally of the irresistible Gascon; "for you
see the bright side of everything."

"What would you have?" said D'Artagnan. "I come from a land
where there is not a cloud in the sky."

"It is not like this, then," said Porthos stretching out his
hand to assure himself whether a chill sensation he felt on
his cheek was not really caused by a drop of rain.

"Come, come," said D'Artagnan, "more reason why we should
start on our journey. Halloo, Grimaud!"

Grimaud appeared.

"Well, Grimaud, my friend, have you seen anything?" asked
the Gascon.

"Nothing!" replied Grimaud.

"Those idiots!" cried Porthos, "they have not even pursued
us. Oh! if we had been in their place!"

"Yes, they are wrong," said D'Artagnan. "I would willingly
have said two words to Mordaunt in this little desert. It is
an excellent spot for bringing down a man in proper style."

"I think, decidedly," observed Aramis, "gentlemen, that the
son hasn't his mother's energy."

"What, my good fellow!" replied Athos, "wait awhile; we have
scarcely left him two hours ago -- he does not know yet in
what direction we came nor where we are. We may say that he
is not equal to his mother when we put foot in France, if we
are not poisoned or killed before then."

"Meanwhile, let us dine," suggested Porthos.

"I'faith, yes," said Athos, "for I am hungry."

"Look out for the black fowls!" cried Aramis.

And the four friends, guided by Musqueton, took up the way
toward the house, already almost restored to their former
gayety; for they were now, as Athos had said, all four once
more united and of single mind.



60

Respect to Fallen Majesty.



As our fugitives approached the house, they found the ground
cut up, as if a considerable body of horsemen had preceded
them. Before the door the traces were yet more apparent;
these horsemen, whoever they might be, had halted there.

"Egad!" cried D'Artagnan, "it's quite clear that the king
and his escort have been by here."

"The devil!" said Porthos; "in that case they have eaten
everything."

"Bah!" said D'Artagnan, "they will have left a chicken, at
least." He dismounted and knocked on the door. There was no
response.

He pushed open the door and found the first room empty and
deserted.

"Well?" cried Porthos.

"I can see nobody," said D'Artagnan. "Aha!"

"What?"

"Blood!"

At this word the three friends leaped from their horses and
entered. D'Artagnan had already opened the door of the
second room, and from the expression of his face it was
clear that he there beheld some extraordinary object.

The three friends drew near and discovered a young man
stretched on the ground, bathed in a pool of blood. It was
evident that he had attempted to regain his bed, but had not
had sufficient strength to do so.

Athos, who imagined that he saw him move, was the first to
go up to him.

"Well?" inquired D'Artagnan.

"Well, if he is dead," said Athos, "he has not been so long,
for he is still warm. But no, his heart is beating. Ho,
there, my friend!"

The wounded man heaved a sigh. D'Artagnan took some water in
the hollow of his hand and threw it upon his face. The man
opened his eyes, made an effort to raise his head, and fell
back again. The wound was in the top of his skull and blood
was flawing copiously.

Aramis dipped a cloth into some water and applied it to the
gash. Again the wounded man opened his eyes and looked in
astonishment at these strangers, who appeared to pity him.

"You are among friends," said Athos, in English; "so cheer
up, and tell us, if you have the strength to do so, what has
happened?"

"The king," muttered the wounded man, "the king is a
prisoner."

"You have seen him?" asked Aramis, in the same language.

The man made no reply.

"Make your mind easy," resumed Athos, "we are all faithful
servants of his majesty."

"Is what you tell me true?" asked the wounded man.

"On our honor as gentlemen."

"Then I may tell you all. I am brother to Parry, his
majesty's lackey."

Athos and Aramis remembered that this was the name by which
De Winter had called the man they had found in the passage
of the king's tent.

"We know him," said Athos, "he never left the king."

"Yes, that is he. Well, he thought of me, when he saw the
king was taken, and as they were passing before the house he
begged in the king's name that they would stop, as the king
was hungry. They brought him into this room and placed
sentinels at the doors and windows. Parry knew this room, as
he had often been to see me when the king was at Newcastle.
He knew that there was a trap-door communicating with a
cellar, from which one could get into the orchard. He made a
sign, which I understood, but the king's guards must have
noticed it and held themselves on guard. I went out as if to
fetch wood, passed through the subterranean passage into the
cellar, and whilst Parry was gently bolting the door, pushed
up the board and beckoned to the king to follow me. Alas! he
would not. But Parry clasped his hands and implored him, and
at last he agreed. I went on first, fortunately. The king
was a few steps behind me, when suddenly I saw something
rise up in front of me like a huge shadow. I wanted to cry
out to warn the king, but that very moment I felt a blow as
if the house was falling on my head, and fell insensible.
When I came to myself again, I was stretched in the same
place. I dragged myself as far as the yard. The king and his
escort were no longer there. I spent perhaps an hour in
coming from the yard to this place; then my strength gave
out and I fainted again."

"And now how are you feeling?"

"Very ill," replied the wounded man.

"Can we do anything for you?" asked Athos.

"Help to put me on the bed; I think I shall feel better
there."

"Have you any one to depend on for assistance?"

"My wife is at Durham and may return at any moment. But you
-- is there nothing that you want?"

"We came here with the intention of asking for something to
eat."

"Alas, they have taken everything; there isn't a morsel of
bread in the house."

"You hear, D'Artagnan?" said Athos; "we shall have to look
elsewhere for our dinner."

"It is all one to me now," said D'Artagnan; "I am no longer
hungry."

"Faith! neither am I," said Porthos.

They carried the man to his bed and called Grimaud to dress
the wound. In the service of the four friends Grimaud had
had so frequent occasion to make lint and bandages that he
had become something of a surgeon.

In the meantime the fugitives had returned to the first
room, where they took counsel together.

"Now," said Aramis, "we know how the matter stands. The king
and his escort have gone this way; we had better take the
opposite direction, eh?"

Athos did not reply; he reflected.

"Yes," said Porthos, "let us take the opposite direction; if
we follow the escort we shall find everything devoured and
die of hunger. What a confounded country this England is!
This is the first time I have gone without my dinner for ten
years, and it is generally my best meal."

"What do you think, D'Artagnan?" asked Athos. "Do you agree
with Aramis?"

"Not at all," said D'Artagnan; "I am precisely of the
contrary opinion."

"What! you would follow the escort?" exclaimed Porthos, in
dismay.

"No, I would join the escort."

Athos's eyes shone with joy.

"Join the escort!" cried Aramis.

"Let D'Artagnan speak," said Athos; "you know he always has
wise advice to give."

"Clearly," said D'Artagnan, "we must go where they will not
look for us. Now, they will be far from looking for us among
the Puritans; therefore, with the Puritans we must go."

"Good, my friend, good!" said Athos. "It is excellent
advice. I was about to give it when you anticipated me."

"That, then, is your opinion?" asked Aramis.

"Yes. They will think we are trying to leave England and
will search for us at the ports; meanwhile we shall reach
London with the king. Once in London we shall be hard to
find -- without considering," continued Athos, throwing a
glance at Aramis, "the chances that may come to us on the
way."

"Yes," said Aramis, "I understand."

"I, however, do not understand," said Porthos. "But no
matter; since it is at the same time the opinion of
D'Artagnan and of Athos, it must be the best."

"But," said Aramis, "shall we not be suspected by Colonel
Harrison?"

"Egad!" cried D'Artagnan, "he's just the man I count upon.
Colonel Harrison is one of our friends. We have met him
twice at General Cromwell's. He knows that we were sent from
France by Monsieur Mazarin; he will consider us as brothers.
Besides, is he not a butcher's son? Well, then, Porthos
shall show him how to knock down an ox with a blow of the
fist, and I how to trip up a bull by taking him by the
horns. That will insure his confidence."

Athos smiled. "You are the best companion that I know,
D'Artagnan," he said, offering his hand to the Gascon; "and
I am very happy in having found you again, my dear son."

This was, as we have seen, the term which Athos applied to
D'Artagnan in his more expansive moods.

At this moment Grimaud came in. He had stanched the wound
and the man was better.

The four friends took leave of him and asked if they could
deliver any message for him to his brother.

"Tell him," answered the brave man, "to let the king know
that they have not killed me outright. However insignificant
I am, I am sure that his majesty is concerned for me and
blames himself for my death."

"Be easy," said D'Artagnan, "he will know all before night."

The little troop recommenced their march, and at the end of
two hours perceived a considerable body of horsemen about
half a league ahead.

"My dear friends," said D'Artagnan, "give your swords to
Monsieur Mouston, who will return them to you at the proper
time and place, and do not forget you are our prisoners."

It was not long before they joined the escort. The king was
riding in front, surrounded by troopers, and when he saw
Athos and Aramis a glow of pleasure lighted his pale cheeks.

D'Artagnan passed to the head of the column, and leaving his
friends under the guard of Porthos, went straight to
Harrison, who recognized him as having met him at Cromwell's
and received him as politely as a man of his breeding and
disposition could. It turned out as D'Artagnan had foreseen.
The colonel neither had nor could have any suspicion.

They halted for the king to dine. This time, however, due
precautions were taken to prevent any attempt at escape. In
the large room of the hotel a small table was placed for him
and a large one for the officers.

"Will you dine with me?" asked Harrison of D'Artagnan.

"Gad, I should be very happy, but I have my companion,
Monsieur du Vallon, and the two prisoners, whom I cannot
leave. Let us manage it better. Have a table set for us in a
corner and send us whatever you like from yours."

"Good," answered Harrison.

The matter was arranged as D'Artagnan had suggested, and
when he returned he found the king already seated at his
little table, where Parry waited on him, Harrison and his
officers sitting together at another table, and, in a
corner, places reserved for himself and his companions.

The table at which the Puritan officers were seated was
round, and whether by chance or coarse intention, Harrison
sat with his back to the king.

The king saw the four gentlemen come in, but appeared to
take no notice of them.

They sat down in such a manner as to turn their backs on
nobody. The officers, table and that of the king were
opposite to them.

"I'faith, colonel," said D'Artagnan, "we are very grateful
for your gracious invitation; for without you we ran the
risk of going without dinner, as we have without breakfast.
My friend here, Monsieur du Vallon, shares my gratitude, for
he was particularly hungry."

"And I am so still," said Porthos bowing to Harrison.

"And how," said Harrison, laughing, "did this serious
calamity of going without breakfast happen to you?"

"In a very simple manner, colonel," said D'Artagnan. "I was
in a hurry to join you and took the road you had already
gone by. You can understand our disappointment when,
arriving at a pretty little house on the skirts of a wood,
which at a distance had quite a gay appearance, with its red
roof and green shutters, we found nothing but a poor wretch
bathed -- Ah! colonel, pay my respects to the officer of
yours who struck that blow."

"Yes," said Harrison, laughing, and looking over at one of
the officers seated at his table. "When Groslow undertakes
this kind of thing there's no need to go over the ground a
second time."

"Ah! it was this gentleman?" said D'Artagnan, bowing to the
officer. "I am sorry he does not speak French, that I might
tender him my compliments."

"I am ready to receive and return them, sir," said the
officer, in pretty good French, "for I resided three years
in Paris."

"Then, sir, allow me to assure you that your blow was so
well directed that you have nearly killed your man."

"Nearly? I thought I had quite," said Groslow.

"No. It was a very near thing, but he is not dead."

As he said this, D'Artagnan gave a glance at Parry, who was
standing in front of the king, to show him that the news was
meant for him.

The king, too, who had listened in the greatest agony, now
breathed again.

"Hang it," said Groslow, "I thought I had succeeded better.
If it were not so far from here to the house I would return
and finish him."

"And you would do well, if you are afraid of his recovering;
for you know, if a wound in the head does not kill at once,
it is cured in a week."

And D'Artagnan threw a second glance toward Parry, on whose
face such an expression of joy was manifested that Charles
stretched out his hand to him, smiling.

Parry bent over his master's hand and kissed it
respectfully.

"I've a great desire to drink the king's health," said
Athos.

"Let me propose it, then," said D'Artagnan.

"Do," said Aramis.

Porthos looked at D'Artagnan, quite amazed at the resources
with which his companion's Gascon sharpness continually
supplied him. D'Artagnan took up his camp tin cup, filled it
with wine and arose.

"Gentlemen," said he, "let us drink to him who presides at
the repast. Here's to our colonel, and let him know that we
are always at his commands as far as London and farther."

And as D'Artagnan, as he spoke, looked at Harrison, the
colonel imagined the toast was for himself. He arose and
bowed to the four friends, whose eyes were fixed on Charles,
while Harrison emptied his glass without the slightest
misgiving.

The king, in return, looked at the four gentlemen and drank
with a smile full of nobility and gratitude.

"Come, gentlemen," cried Harrison, regardless of his
illustrious captive, "let us be off."

"Where do we sleep, colonel?"

"At Thirsk," replied Harrison.

"Parry," said the king, rising too, "my horse; I desire to
go to Thirsk."

"Egad!" said D'Artagnan to Athos, "your king has thoroughly
taken me, and I am quite at his service."

"If what you say is sincere," replied Athos, "he will never
reach London."

"How so?"

"Because before then we shall have carried him off."

"Well, this time, Athos," said D'Artagnan, "upon my word,
you are mad."

"Have you some plan in your head then?" asked Aramis.

"Ay!" said Porthos, "the thing would not be impossible with
a good plan."

"I have none," said Athos; "but D'Artagnan will discover
one."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and they proceeded.



61

D'Artagnan hits on a Plan.



As night closed in they arrived at Thirsk. The four friends
appeared to be entire strangers to one another and
indifferent to the precautions taken for guarding the king.
They withdrew to a private house, and as they had reason
every moment to fear for their safety, they occupied but one
room and provided an exit, which might be useful in case of
an attack. The lackeys were sent to their several posts,
except that Grimaud lay on a truss of straw across the
doorway.

D'Artagnan was thoughtful and seemed for the moment to have
lost his usual loquacity. Porthos, who could never see
anything that was not self-evident, talked to him as usual.
He replied in monosyllables and Athos and Aramis looked
significantly at one another.

Next morning D'Artagnan was the first to rise. He had been
down to the stables, already taken a look at the horses and
given the necessary orders for the day, whilst Athos and
Aramis were still in bed and Porthos snoring.

At eight o'clock the march was resumed in the same order as
the night before, except that D'Artagnan left his friends
and began to renew the acquaintance which he had already
struck up with Monsieur Groslow.

Groslow, whom D'Artagnan's praises had greatly pleased,
welcomed him with a gracious smile.

"Really, sir," D'Artagnan said to him, "I am pleased to find
one with whom to talk in my own poor tongue. My friend,
Monsieur du Vallon, is of a very melancholy disposition, so
much so, that one can scarcely get three words out of him
all day. As for our two prisoners, you can imagine that they
are but little in the vein for conversation."

"They are hot royalists," said Groslow.

"The more reason they should be sulky with us for having
captured the Stuart, for whom, I hope, you're preparing a
pretty trial."

"Why," said Groslow, "that is just what we are taking him to
London for."

"And you never by any chance lose sight of him, I presume?"

"I should think not, indeed. You see he has a truly royal
escort."

"Ay, there's no fear in the daytime; but at night?"

"We redouble our precautions."

"And what method of surveillance do you employ?"

"Eight men remain constantly in his room."

"The deuce, he is well guarded, then. But besides these
eight men, you doubtless place some guard outside?"

"Oh, no! Just think. What would you have two men without
arms do against eight armed men?"

"Two men -- how do you mean?"

"Yes, the king and his lackey."

"Oh! then they allow the lackey to remain with him?"

"Yes; Stuart begged this favor and Harrison consented. Under
pretense that he's a king it appears he cannot dress or
undress without assistance."

"Really, captain," said D'Artagnan, determined to continue
on the laudatory tack on which he had commenced, "the more I
listen to you the more surprised I am at the easy and
elegant manner in which you speak French. You have lived
three years in Paris? May I ask what you were doing there?"

"My father, who is a merchant, placed me with his
correspondent, who in turn sent his son to join our house in
London."

"Were you pleased with Paris, sir?"

"Yes, but you are much in want of a revolution like our own
-- not against your king, who is a mere child, but against
that lazar of an Italian, the queen's favorite."

"Ah! I am quite of your opinion, sir, and we should soon
make an end of Mazarin if we had only a dozen officers like
yourself, without prejudices, vigilant and incorruptible."

"But," said the officer, "I thought you were in his service
and that it was he who sent you to General Cromwell."

"That is to say I am in the king's service, and that knowing
he wanted to send some one to England, I solicited the
appointment, so great was my desire to know the man of
genius who now governs the three kingdoms. So that when he
proposed to us to draw our swords in honor of old England
you see how we snapped up the proposition."

"Yes, I know that you charged by the side of Mordaunt."

"On his right and left, sir. Ah! there's another brave and
excellent young man."

"Do you know him?" asked the officer.

"Yes, very well. Monsieur du Vallon and myself came from
France with him."

"It appears, too, you kept him waiting a long time at
Boulogne."

"What would you have? I was like you, and had a king in
keeping."

"Aha!" said Groslow; "what king?"

"Our own, to be sure, the little one -- Louis XIV."

"And how long had you to take care of him?"

"Three nights; and, by my troth, I shall always remember
those three nights with a certain pleasure."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that my friends, officers in the guards and
mousquetaires, came to keep me company and we passed the
night in feasting, drinking, dicing."

"Ah true," said the Englishman, with a sigh; "you Frenchmen
are born boon companions."

"And don't you play, too, when you are on guard?"

"Never," said the Englishman.

"In that case you must be horribly bored, and have my
sympathy."

"The fact is, I look to my turn for keeping guard with
horror. It's tiresome work to keep awake a whole night."

"Yes, but with a jovial partner and dice, and guineas
clinking on the cloth, the night passes like a dream. You
don't like playing, then?"

"On the contrary, I do."

"Lansquenet, for instance?"

"Devoted to it. I used to play almost every night in
France."

"And since your return to England?"

"I have not handled a card or dice-box."

"I sincerely pity you," said D'Artagnan, with an air of
profound compassion.

"Look here," said the Englishman.

"Well?"

"To-morrow I am on guard."

"In Stuart's room?"

"Yes; come and pass the night with me."

"Impossible!"

"Impossible! why so?"

"I play with Monsieur du Vallon every night. Sometimes we
don't go to bed at all!"

"Well, what of that?"

"Why, he would be annoyed if I did not play with him."

"Does he play well?"

"I have seen him lose as much as two thousand pistoles,
laughing all the while till the tears rolled down."

"Bring him with you, then."

"But how about our prisoners?"

"Let your servants guard them."

"Yes, and give them a chance of escaping," said D'Artagnan.
"Why, one of them is a rich lord from Touraine and the other
a knight of Malta, of noble family. We have arranged the
ransom of each of them -- 2,000 on arriving in France. We
are reluctant to leave for a single moment men whom our
lackeys know to be millionaires. It is true we plundered
them a little when we took them, and I will even confess
that it is their purse that Monsieur du Vallon and I draw on
in our nightly play. Still, they may have concealed some
precious stone, some valuable diamond; so that we are like
those misers who are unable to absent themselves from their
treasures. We have made ourselves the constant guardians of
our men, and while I sleep Monsieur du Vallon watches."

"Ah! ah!" said Groslow.

"You see, then, why I must decline your polite invitation,
which is especially attractive to me, because nothing is so
wearisome as to play night after night with the same person;
the chances always balance and at the month's end nothing is
gained or lost."

"Ah!" said Groslow, sighing; "there is something still more
wearisome, and that is not to play at all."

"I can understand that," said D'Artagnan.

"But, come," resumed the Englishman, "are these men of yours
dangerous?"

"In what respect?"

"Are they capable of attempting violence?"

D'Artagnan burst out laughing at the idea.

"Jesus Dieu!" he cried; "one of them is trembling with
fever, having failed to adapt himself to this charming
country of yours, and the other is a knight of Malta, as
timid as a young girl; and for greater security we have
taken from them even their penknives and pocket scissors."

"Well, then," said Groslow, "bring them with you."

"But really ---- " said D'Artagnan.

"I have eight men on guard, you know. Four of them can guard
the king and the other four your prisoners. I'll manage it
somehow, you will see."

"But," said D'Artagnan, "now I think of it -- what is to
prevent our beginning to-night?"

"Nothing at all," said Groslow.

"Just so. Come to us this evening and to-morrow we'll return
your visit."

"Capital! This evening with you, to-morrow at Stuart's, the
next day with me."

"You see, that with a little forethought one can lead a
merry life anywhere and everywhere," said D'Artagnan.

"Yes, with Frenchmen, and Frenchmen like you."

"And Monsieur du Vallon," added the other. "You will see
what a fellow he is; a man who nearly killed Mazarin between
two doors. They employ him because they are afraid of him.
Ah, there he is calling me now. You'll excuse me, I know."

They exchanged bows and D'Artagnan returned to his
companions.

"What on earth can you have been saying to that bulldog?"
exclaimed Porthos.

"My dear fellow, don't speak like that of Monsieur Groslow.
He's one of my most intimate friends."

"One of your friends!" cried Porthos, "this butcher of
unarmed farmers!"

"Hush! my dear Porthos. Monsieur Groslow is perhaps rather
hasty, it's true, but at bottom I have discovered two good
qualities in him -- he is conceited and stupid."

Porthos opened his eyes in amazement; Athos and Aramis
looked at one another and smiled; they knew D'Artagnan, and
knew that he did nothing without a purpose.

"But," continued D'Artagnan, "you shall judge of him for
yourself. He is coming to play with us this evening."

"Oho!" said Porthos, his eyes glistening at the news. "Is he
rich?"

"He's the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in London."

"And knows lansquenet?"

"Adores it."

"Basset?"

"His mania.'

"Biribi?"

"Revels in it."

"Good," said Porthos; "we shall pass an agreeable evening."

"The more so, as it will be the prelude to a better."

"How so?"

"We invite him to play to-night; he has invited us in return
to-morrow. But wait. To-night we stop at Derby; and if there
is a bottle of wine in the town let Musqueton buy it. It
will be well to prepare a light supper, of which you, Athos
and Aramis, are not to partake -- Athos, because I told him
you had a fever; Aramis, because you are a knight of Malta
and won't mix with fellows like us. Do you understand?"

"That's no doubt very fine," said Porthos; "but deuce take
me if I understand at all."

"Porthos, my friend, you know I am descended on the father's
side from the Prophets and on the mother's from the Sybils,
and that I only speak in parables and riddles. Let those who
have ears hear and those who have eyes see; I can tell you
nothing more at present."

"Go ahead, my friend," said Athos; "I am sure that whatever
you do is well done."

"And you, Aramis, are you of that opinion?"

"Entirely so, my dear D'Artagnan."

"Very good," said D'Artagnan; "here indeed are true
believers; it is a pleasure to work miracles before them;
they are not like that unbelieving Porthos, who must see and
touch before he will believe."

"The fact is," said Porthos, with an air of finesse, "I am
rather incredulous."

D'Artagnan gave him playful buffet on the shoulder, and as
they had reached the station where they were to breakfast,
the conversation ended there.

At five in the evening they sent Musqueton on before as
agreed upon. Blaisois went with him.

In crossing the principal street in Derby the four friends
perceived Blaisois standing in the doorway of a handsome
house. It was there a lodging was prepared for them.

At the hour agreed upon Groslow came. D'Artagnan received
him as he would have done a friend of twenty years'
standing. Porthos scanned him from head to foot and smiled
when he discovered that in spite of the blow he had
administered to Parry's brother, he was not nearly so strong
as himself. Athos and Aramis suppressed as well as they
could the disgust they felt in the presence of such
coarseness and brutality.

In short, Groslow seemed to be pleased with his reception.

Athos and Aramis kept themselves to their role. At midnight
they withdrew to their chamber, the door of which was left
open on the pretext of kindly consideration. Furthermore,
D'Artagnan went with them, leaving Porthos at play with
Groslow.

Porthos gained fifty pistoles from Groslow, and found him a
more agreeable companion than he had at first believed him
to be.

As to Groslow, he promised himself that on the following
evening he would recover from D'Artagnan what he had lost to
Porthos, and on leaving reminded the Gascon of his
appointment.

The next day was spent as usual. D'Artagnan went from
Captain Groslow to Colonel Harrison and from Colonel
Harrison to his friends. To any one not acquainted with him
he seemed to be in his normal condition; but to his friends
-- to Athos and Aramis -- was apparent a certain
feverishness in his gayety.

"What is he contriving?" asked Aramis.

"Wait," said Athos.

Porthos said nothing, but he handled in his pocket the fifty
pistoles he had gained from Groslow with a degree of
satisfaction which betrayed itself in his whole bearing.

Arrived at Ryston, D'Artagnan assembled his friends. His
face had lost the expression of careless gayety it had worn
like a mask the whole day. Athos pinched Aramis's hand.

"The moment is at hand," he said.

"Yes," returned D'Artagnan, who had overheard him,
"to-night, gentlemen, we rescue the king."

"D'Artagnan," said Athos, "this is no joke, I trust? It
would quite cut me up."

"You are a very odd man, Athos," he replied, "to doubt me
thus. Where and when have you seen me trifle with a friend's
heart and a king's life? I have told you, and I repeat it,
that to-night we rescue Charles I. You left it to me to
discover the means and I have done so."

Porthos looked at D'Artagnan with an expression of profound
admiration. Aramis smiled as one who hopes. Athos was pale,
and trembled in every limb.

"Speak," said Athos.

"We are invited," replied D'Artagnan, "to pass the night
with M. Groslow. But do you know where?"

"No."

"In the king's room."

"The king's room?" cried Athos.

"Yes, gentlemen, in the king's room. Groslow is on guard
there this evening, and to pass the time away he has invited
us to keep him company."

"All four of us?" asked Athos.

"Pardieu! certainly, all four; we couldn't leave our
prisoners, could we?"

"Ah! ah!" said Aramis.

"Tell us about it," said Athos, palpitating.

"We are going, then, we two with our swords, you with
daggers. We four have got to master these eight fools and
their stupid captain. Monsieur Porthos, what do you say to
that?"

"I say it is easy enough," answered Porthos.

"We dress the king in Groslow's clothes. Musqueton, Grimaud
and Blaisois have our horses saddled at the end of the first
street. We mount them and before daylight are twenty leagues
distant."

Athos placed his two hands on D'Artagnan's shoulders, and
gazed at him with his calm, sad smile.

"I declare, my friend," said he, "that there is not a
creature under the sky who equals you in prowess and in
courage. Whilst we thought you indifferent to our sorrows,
which you couldn't share without crime, you alone among us
have discovered what we were searching for in vain. I repeat
it, D'Artagnan, you are the best one among us; I bless and
love you, my dear son."

"And to think that I couldn't find that out," said Porthos,
scratching his head; "it is so simple."

"But," said Aramis, "if I understand rightly we are to kill
them all, eh?"

Athos shuddered and turned pale.

"Mordioux!" answered D'Artagnan, "I believe we must. I
confess I can discover no other safe and satisfactory way."

"Let us see," said Aramis, "how are we to act?"

"I have arranged two plans. Firstly, at a given signal,
which shall be the words `At last,' you each plunge a dagger
into the heart of the soldier nearest to you. We, on our
side, do the same. That will be four killed. We shall then
be matched, four against the remaining five. If these five
men give themselves up we gag them; if they resist, we kill
them. If by chance our Amphitryon changes his mind and
receives only Porthos and myself, why, then, we must resort
to heroic measures and each give two strokes instead of one.
It will take a little longer time and may make a greater
disturbance, but you will be outside with swords and will
rush in at the proper time."

"But if you yourselves should be struck?" said Athos.

"Impossible!" said D'Artagnan; "those beer drinkers are too
clumsy and awkward. Besides, you will strike at the throat,
Porthos; it kills as quickly and prevents all outcry."

"Very good," said Porthos; "it will be a nice little throat
cutting."

"Horrible, horrible," exclaimed Athos.

"Nonsense," said D'Artagnan; "you would do as much, Mr.
Humanity, in a battle. But if you think the king's life is
not worth what it must cost there's an end of the matter and
I send to Groslow to say I am ill."

"No, you are right," said Athos.

At this moment a soldier entered to inform them that Groslow
was waiting for them.

"Where?" asked D'Artagnan.

"In the room of the English Nebuchadnezzar," replied the
staunch Puritan.

"Good," replied Athos, whose blood mounted to his face at
the insult offered to royalty; "tell the captain we are
coming."

The Puritan then went out. The lackeys had been ordered to
saddle eight horses and to wait, keeping together and
without dismounting, at the corner of a street about twenty
steps from the house where the king was lodged.

It was nine o'clock in the evening; the sentinels had been
relieved at eight and Captain Groslow had been on guard for
an hour. D'Artagnan and Porthos, armed with their swords,
and Athos and Aramis, each carrying a concealed poniard,
approached the house which for the time being was Charles
Stuart's prison. The two latter followed their captors in
the humble guise of captives, without arms.

"Od's bodikins," said Groslow, as the four friends entered,
"I had almost given you up."

D'Artagnan went up to him and whispered in his ear:

"The fact is, we, that is, Monsieur du Vallon and I,
hesitated a little."

"And why?"

D'Artagnan looked significantly toward Athos and Aramis.

"Aha," said Groslow; "on account of political opinions? No
matter. On the contrary," he added, laughing, "if they want
to see their Stuart they shall see him.

"Are we to pass the night in the king's room?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"No, but in the one next to it, and as the door will remain
open it comes to the same thing. Have you provided yourself
with money? I assure you I intend to play the devil's game
to-night."

D'Artagnan rattled the gold in his pockets.

"Very good," said Groslow, and opened the door of the room.
"I will show you the way," and he went in first.

D'Artagnan turned to look at his friends. Porthos was
perfectly indifferent; Athos, pale, but resolute; Aramis was
wiping a slight moisture from his brow.

The eight guards were at their posts. Four in the king's
room, two at the door between the rooms and two at that by
which the friends had entered. Athos smiled when he saw
their bare swords; he felt it was no longer to be a
butchery, but a fight, and he resumed his usual good humor.

Charles was perceived through the door, lying dressed upon
his bed, at the head of which Parry was seated, reading in a
low voice a chapter from the Bible.

A candle of coarse tallow on a black table lighted up the
handsome and resigned face of the king and that of his
faithful retainer, far less calm.

From time to time Parry stopped, thinking the king, whose
eyes were closed, was really asleep, but Charles would open
his eyes and say with a smile:

"Go on, my good Parry, I am listening."

Groslow advanced to the door of the king's room, replaced on
his head the hat he had taken off to receive his guests,
looked for a moment contemptuously at this simple, yet
touching scene, then turning to D'Artagnan, assumed an air
of triumph at what he had achieved.

"Capital!" cried the Gascon, "you would make a distinguished
general."

"And do you think," asked Groslow, "that Stuart will ever
escape while I am on guard?"

"No, to be sure," replied D'Artagnan; "unless, forsooth, the
sky rains friends upon him."

Groslow's face brightened.

It is impossible to say whether Charles, who kept his eyes
constantly closed, had noticed the insolence of the Puritan
captain, but the moment he heard the clear tone of
D'Artagnan's voice his eyelids rose, in spite of himself.

Parry, too, started and stopped reading.

"What are you thinking about?" said the king; "go on, my
good Parry, unless you are tired."

Parry resumed his reading.

On a table in the next room were lighted candles, cards, two
dice-boxes, and dice.

"Gentlemen," said Groslow, "I beg you will take your places.
I will sit facing Stuart, whom I like so much to see,
especially where he now is, and you, Monsieur d'Artagnan,
opposite to me."

Athos turned red with rage. D'Artagnan frowned at him.

"That's it," said D'Artagnan; "you, Monsieur le Comte de la
Fere, to the right of Monsieur Groslow. You, Chevalier
d'Herblay, to his left. Du Vallon next me. You'll bet for me
and those gentlemen for Monsieur Groslow."

By this arrangement D'Artagnan could nudge Porthos with his
knee and make signs with his eyes to Athos and Aramis.

At the names Comte de la Fere and Chevalier d'Herblay,
Charles opened his eyes, and raising his noble head, in
spite of himself, threw a glance at all the actors in the
scene.

At that moment Parry turned over several leaves of his Bible
and read with a loud voice this verse in Jeremiah:

"God said, `Hear ye the words of the prophets my servants,
whom I have sent unto you."

The four friends exchanged glances. The words that Parry had
read assured them that their presence was understood by the
king and was assigned to its real motive. D'Artagnan's eyes
sparkled with joy.

"You asked me just now if I was in funds," said D'Artagnan,
placing some twenty pistoles upon the table. "Well, in my
turn I advise you to keep a sharp lookout on your treasure,
my dear Monsieur Groslow, for I can tell you we shall not
leave this without robbing you of it."

"Not without my defending it," said Groslow.

"So much the better," said D'Artagnan. "Fight, my dear
captain, fight. You know or you don't know, that that is
what we ask of you."

"Oh! yes," said Groslow, bursting with his usual coarse
laugh, "I know you Frenchmen want nothing but cuts and
bruises."

Charles had heard and understood it all. A slight color
mounted to his cheeks. The soldiers then saw him stretch his
limbs, little by little, and under the pretense of much heat
throw off the Scotch plaid which covered him.

Athos and Aramis started with delight to find that the king
was lying with his clothes on.

The game began. The luck had turned, and Groslow, having won
some hundred pistoles, was in the merriest possible humor.

Porthos, who had lost the fifty pistoles he had won the
night before and thirty more besides, was very cross and
questioned D'Artagnan with a nudge of the knee as to whether
it would not soon be time to change the game. Athos and
Aramis looked at him inquiringly. But D'Artagnan remained
impassible.

It struck ten. They heard the guard going its rounds.

"How many rounds do they make a night?" asked D'Artagnan,
drawing more pistoles from his pocket.

"Five," answered Groslow, "one every two hours."

D'Artagnan glanced at Athos and Aramis and for the first
time replied to Porthos's nudge of the knee by a nudge
responsive. Meanwhile, the soldiers whose duty it was to
remain in the king's room, attracted by that love of play so
powerful in all men, had stolen little by little toward the
table, and standing on tiptoe, lounged, watching the game,
over the shoulders of D'Artagnan and Porthos. Those on the
other side had followed their example, thus favoring the
views of the four friends, who preferred having them close
at hand to chasing them about the chamber. The two sentinels
at the door still had their swords unsheathed, but they were
leaning on them while they watched the game.

Athos seemed to grow calm as the critical moment approached.
With his white, aristocratic hands he played with the louis,
bending and straightening them again, as if they were made
of pewter. Aramis, less self-controlled, fumbled continually
with his hidden poniard. Porthos, impatient at his continued
losses, kept up a vigorous play with his knee.

D'Artagnan turned, mechanically looking behind him, and
between the figures of two soldiers he could see Parry
standing up and Charles leaning on his elbow with his hands
clasped and apparently offering a fervent prayer to God.

D'Artagnan saw that the moment was come. He darted a
preparatory glance at Athos and Aramis, who slyly pushed
their chairs a little back so as to leave themselves more
space for action. He gave Porthos a second nudge of the knee
and Porthos got up as if to stretch his legs and took care
at the same time to ascertain that his sword could be drawn
smoothly from the scabbard.

"Hang it!" cried D'Artagnan, "another twenty pistoles lost.
Really, Captain Groslow, you are too much in fortune's way.
This can't last," and he drew another twenty from his
pocket. "One more turn, captain; twenty pistoles on one
throw -- only one, the last."

"Done for twenty," replied Groslow.

And he turned up two cards as usual, a king for D'Artagnan
and an ace for himself.

"A king," said D'Artagnan; "it's a good omen, Master Groslow
-- look out for the king."

And in spite of his extraordinary self-control there was a
strange vibration in the Gascon's voice which made his
partner start.

Groslow began turning the cards one after another. If he
turned up an ace first he won; if a king he lost.

He turned up a king.

"At last!" cried D'Artagnan.

At this word Athos and Aramis jumped up. Porthos drew back a
step. Daggers and swords were just about to shine, when
suddenly the door was thrown open and Harrison appeared in
the doorway, accompanied by a man enveloped in a large
cloak. Behind this man could be seen the glistening muskets
of half a dozen soldiers.

Groslow jumped up, ashamed at being surprised in the midst
of wine, cards, and dice. But Harrison paid not the least
attention to him, and entering the king's room, followed by
his companion:

"Charles Stuart," said he, "an order has come to conduct you
to London without stopping day or night. Prepare yourself,
then, to start at once."

"And by whom is this order given?" asked the king.

"By General Oliver Cromwell. And here is Mr. Mordaunt, who
has brought it and is charged with its execution."

"Mordaunt!" muttered the four friends, exchanging glances.

D'Artagnan swept up the money that he and Porthos had lost
and buried it in his huge pocket. Athos and Aramis placed
themselves behind him. At this movement Mordaunt turned
around, recognized them, and uttered an exclamation of
savage delight.

"I'm afraid we are prisoners," whispered D'Artagnan to his
friend.

"Not yet," replied Porthos.

"Colonel, colonel," cried Mordaunt, "you are betrayed. These
four Frenchmen have escaped from Newcastle, and no doubt
want to carry off the king. Arrest them."

"Ah! my young man," said D'Artagnan, drawing his sword,
"that is an order sooner given than executed. Fly, friends,
fly!" he added, whirling his sword around him.

The next moment he darted to the door and knocked down two
of the soldiers who guarded it, before they had time to cock
their muskets. Athos and Aramis followed him. Porthos
brought up the rear, and before soldiers, officers, or
colonel had time to recover their surprise all four were in
the street.

"Fire!" cried Mordaunt; "fire upon them!"

Three or four shots were fired, but with no other result
than to show the four fugitives turning the corner of the
street safe and sound.

The horses were at the place fixed upon, and they leaped
lightly into their saddles.

"Forward!" cried D'Artagnan, "and spur for your dear lives!"

They galloped away and took the road they had come by in the
morning, namely, in the direction toward Scotland. A few
hundred yards beyond the town D'Artagnan drew rein.

"Halt!" he cried, "this time we shall be pursued. We must
let them leave the village and ride after us on the northern
road, and when they have passed we will take the opposite
direction."

There was a stream close by and a bridge across it.

D'Artagnan led his horse under the arch of the bridge. The
others followed. Ten minutes later they heard the rapid
gallop of a troop of horsemen. A few minutes more and the
troop passed over their heads.



62

London.



As soon as the noise of the hoofs was lost in the distance
D'Artagnan remounted the bank of the stream and scoured the
plain, followed by his three friends, directing their
course, as well as they could guess, toward London.

"This time," said D'Artagnan, when they were sufficiently
distant to proceed at a trot, "I think all is lost and we
have nothing better to do than to reach France. What do you
say, Athos, to that proposition? Isn't it reasonable?"

"Yes, dear friend," Athos replied, "but you said a word the
other day that was more than reasonable -- it was noble and
generous. You said, `Let us die here!' I recall to you that
word."

"Oh," said Porthos, "death is nothing: it isn't death that
can disquiet us, since we don't know what it is. What
troubles me is the idea of defeat. As things are turning
out, I foresee that we must give battle to London, to the
provinces, to all England, and certainly in the end we can't
fail to be beaten."

"We ought to witness this great tragedy even to its last
scene," said Athos. "Whatever happens, let us not leave
England before the crisis. Don't you agree with me, Aramis?"

"Entirely, my dear count. Then, too, I confess I should not
be sorry to come across Mordaunt again. It appears to me
that we have an account to settle with him, and that it is
not our custom to leave a place without paying our debts, of
this kind, at least."

"Ah! that's another thing," said D'Artagnan, "and I should
not mind waiting in London a whole year for a chance of
meeting this Mordaunt in question. Only let us lodge with
some one on whom we can count; for I imagine, just now, that
Noll Cromwell would not be inclined to trifle with us.
Athos, do you know any inn in the whole town where one can
find white sheets, roast beef reasonably cooked, and wine
which is not made of hops and gin?"

"I think I know what you want," replied Athos. "De Winter
took us to the house of a Spaniard, who, he said, had become
naturalized as an Englishman by the guineas of his new
compatriots. What do you say to it, Aramis?"

"Why, the idea of taking quarters with Senor Perez seems to
me very reasonable, and for my part I agree to it. We will
invoke the remembrance of that poor De Winter, for whom he
seemed to have a great regard; we will tell him that we have
come as amateurs to see what is going on; we will spend with
him a guinea each per day; and I think that by taking all
these precautions we can be quite undisturbed."

"You forget, Aramis, one precaution of considerable
importance."

"What is that?"

"The precaution of changing our clothes."

"Changing our clothes!" exclaimed Porthos. "I don't see why;
we are very comfortable in those we wear."

"To prevent recognition," said D'Artagnan. "Our clothes have
a cut which would proclaim the Frenchman at first sight.
Now, I don't set sufficient store on the cut of my jerkin to
risk being hung at Tyburn or sent for change of scene to the
Indies. I shall buy a chestnut-colored suit. I've remarked
that your Puritans revel in that color."

"But can you find your man?" said Aramis to Athos.

"Oh! to be sure, yes. He lives at the Bedford Tavern,
Greenhall Street. Besides, I can find my way about the city
with my eyes shut."

"I wish we were already there," said D'Artagnan; "and my
advice is that we reach London before daybreak, even if we
kill our horses."

"Come on, then," said Athos, "for unless I am mistaken in my
calculations we have only eight or ten leagues to go."

The friends urged on their horses and arrived, in fact, at
about five o'clock in the morning. They were stopped and
questioned at the gate by which they sought to enter the
city, but Athos replied, in excellent English, that they had
been sent forward by Colonel Harrison to announce to his
colleague, Monsieur Bridge, the approach of the king. That
reply led to several questions about the king's capture, and
Athos gave details so precise and positive that if the
gatekeepers had any suspicions they vanished completely. The
way was therefore opened to the four friends with all sorts
of Puritan congratulations.

Athos was right. He went direct to the Bedford Tavern, and
the host, who recognized him, was delighted to see him again
with such a numerous and promising company.

Though it was scarcely daylight our four travelers found the
town in a great bustle, owing to the reported approach of
Harrison and the king.

The plan of changing their clothes was unanimously adopted.
The landlord sent out for every description of garment, as
if he wanted to fit up his wardrobe. Athos chose a black
coat, which gave him the appearance of a respectable
citizen. Aramis, not wishing to part with his sword,
selected a dark-blue cloak of a military cut. Porthos was
seduced by a wine-colored doublet and sea-green breeches.
D'Artagnan, who had fixed on his color beforehand, had only
to select the shade, and looked in his chestnut suit exactly
like a retired sugar dealer.

"Now," said D'Artagnan, "for the actual man. We must cut off
our hair, that the populace may not insult us. As we no
longer wear the sword of the gentleman we may as well have
the head of the Puritan. This, as you know, is the important
point of distinction between the Covenanter and the
Cavalier."

After some discussion this was agreed to and Musqueton
played the role of barber.

"We look hideous," said Athos.

"And smack of the Puritan to a frightful extent," said
Aramis.

"My head feels actually cold," said Porthos.

"As for me, I feel anxious to preach a sermon," said
D'Artagnan.

"Now," said Athos, "that we cannot even recognize one
another and have therefore no fear of others recognizing us,
let us go and see the king's entrance."

They had not been long in the crowd before loud cries
announced the king's arrival. A carriage had been sent to
meet him, and the gigantic Porthos, who stood a head above
the entire rabble, soon announced that he saw the royal
equipage approaching. D'Artagnan raised himself on tiptoe,
and as the carriage passed, saw Harrison at one window and
Mordaunt at the other.

The next day, Athos, leaning out of his window, which looked
upon the most populous part of the city, heard the Act of
Parliament, which summoned the ex-king, Charles I., to the
bar, publicly cried.

"Parliament indeed!" cried Athos. "Parliament can never have
passed such an act as that."

At this moment the landlord came in.

"Did parliament pass this act?" Athos asked of him in
English.

"Yes, my lord, the pure parliament."

"What do you mean by `the pure parliament'? Are there, then,
two parliaments?"

"My friend," D'Artagnan interrupted, "as I don't understand
English and we all understand Spanish, have the kindness to
speak to us in that language, which, since it is your own,
you must find pleasure in using when you have the chance."

"Ah! excellent!" said Aramis.

As to Porthos, all his attention was concentrated on the
allurements of the breakfast table.

"You were asking, then?" said the host in Spanish.

"I asked," said Athos, in the same language, "if there are
two parliaments, a pure and an impure?"

"Why, how extraordinary!" said Porthos, slowly raising his
head and looking at his friends with an air of astonishment,
"I understand English, then! I understand what you say!"

"That is because we are talking Spanish, my dear friend,"
said Athos.

"Oh, the devil!" said Porthos, "I am sorry for that; it
would have been one language more."

"When I speak of the pure parliament," resumed the host, "I
mean the one which Colonel Bridge has weeded."

"Ah! really," said D'Artagnan, "these people are very
ingenious. When I go back to France I must suggest some such
convenient course to Cardinal Mazarin and the coadjutor. One
of them will weed the parliament in the name of the court,
and the other in the name of the people; and then there
won't be any parliament at all."

"And who is this Colonel Bridge?" asked Aramis, "and how
does he go to work to weed the parliament?"

"Colonel Bridge," replied the Spaniard, "is a retired
wagoner, a man of much sense, who made one valuable
observation whilst driving his team, namely, that where
there happened to be a stone on the road, it was much easier
to remove the stone than try and make the wheel pass over
it. Now, of two hundred and fifty-one members who composed
the parliament, there were one hundred and ninety-one who
were in the way and might have upset his political wagon. He
took them up, just as he formerly used to take up the stones
from the road, and threw them out of the house."

"Neat," remarked D'Artagnan. "Very!"

"And all these one hundred and ninety-one were Royalists?"
asked Athos.

"Without doubt, senor; and you understand that they would
have saved the king."

"To be sure," said Porthos, with majestic common sense;
"they were in the majority."

"And you think," said Aramis, "he will consent to appear
before such a tribunal?"

"He will be forced to do so," smiled the Spaniard.

"Now, Athos!" said D'Artagnan, "do you begin to believe that
it's a ruined cause, and that what with your Harrisons,
Joyces, Bridges and Cromwells, we shall never get the upper
hand?"

"The king will be delivered at the tribunal," said Athos;
"the very silence of his supporters indicates that they are
at work."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.

"But," said Aramis, "if they dare to condemn their king, it
can only be to exile or imprisonment."

D'Artagnan whistled a little air of incredulity.

"We shall see," said Athos, "for we shall go to the
sittings, I presume."

"You will not have long to wait," said the landlord; "they
begin to-morrow."

"So, then, they drew up the indictments before the king was
taken?"

"Of course," said D'Artagnan; "they began the day he was
sold."

"And you know," said Aramis, "that it was our friend
Mordaunt who made, if not the bargain, at least the
overtures."

"And you know," added D'Artagnan, "that whenever I catch him
I will kill him, this Mordaunt."

"And I, too," exclaimed Porthos.

"And I, too," added Aramis.

"Touching unanimity!" cried D'Artagnan, "which well becomes
good citizens like us. Let us take a turn around the town
and imbibe a little fog."

"Yes," said Porthos, "'twill be at least a little change
from beer."



63

The Trial.



The next morning King Charles I. was haled by a strong guard
before the high court which was to judge him. All London was
crowding to the doors of the house. The throng was terrific,
and it was not till after much pushing and some fighting
that our friends reached their destination. When they did so
they found the three lower rows of benches already occupied;
but being anxious not to be too conspicuous, all, with the
exception of Porthos, who had a fancy to display his red
doublet, were quite satisfied with their places, the more so
as chance had brought them to the centre of their row, so
that they were exactly opposite the arm-chair prepared for
the royal prisoner.

Toward eleven o'clock the king entered the hall, surrounded
by guards, but wearing his head covered, and with a calm
expression turned to every side with a look of complete
assurance, as if he were there to preside at an assembly of
submissive subjects, rather than to meet the accusations of
a rebel court.

The judges, proud of having a monarch to humiliate,
evidently prepared to enjoy the right they had arrogated to
themselves, and sent an officer to inform the king that it
was customary for the accused to uncover his head.

Charles, without replying a single word, turned his head in
another direction and pulled his felt hat over it. Then when
the officer was gone he sat down in the arm-chair opposite
the president and struck his boots with a little cane which
he carried in his hand. Parry, who accompanied him, stood
behind him.

D'Artagnan was looking at Athos, whose face betrayed all
those emotions which the king, possessing more self-control,
had banished from his own. This agitation in one so cold and
calm as Athos, frightened him.

"I hope," he whispered to him, "that you will follow his
majesty's example and not get killed for your folly in this
den."

"Set your mind at rest," replied Athos.

"Aha!" continued D'Artagnan, "it is clear that they are
afraid of something or other; for look, the sentinels are
being reinforced. They had only halberds before, now they
have muskets. The halberds were for the audience in the
rear; the muskets are for us."

"Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty-five men," said Porthos,
counting the reinforcements.

"Ah!" said Aramis, "but you forget the officer."

D'Artagnan grew pale with rage. He recognized Mordaunt, who
with bare sword was marshalling the musketeers behind the
king and opposite the benches.

"Do you think they have recognized us?" said D'Artagnan. "In
that case I should beat a retreat. I don't care to be shot
in a box."

"No," said Aramis, "he has not seen us. He sees no one but
the king. Mon Dieu! how he stares at him, the insolent dog!
Does he hate his majesty as much as he does us?"

"Pardi," answered Athos "we only carried off his mother; the
king has spoiled him of his name and property."

"True," said Aramis; "but silence! the president is speaking
to the king."

"Stuart," Bradshaw was saying, "listen to the roll call of
your judges and address to the court any observations you
may have to make."

The king turned his head away, as if these words had not
been intended for him. Bradshaw waited, and as there was no
reply there was a moment of silence.

Out of the hundred and sixty-three members designated there
were only seventy-three present, for the rest, fearful of
taking part in such an act, had remained away.

When the name of Colonel Fairfax was called, one of those
brief but solemn silences ensued, which announced the
absence of the members who had no wish to take a personal
part in the trial.

"Colonel Fairfax," repeated Bradshaw.

"Fairfax," answered a laughing voice, the silvery tone of
which betrayed it as that of a woman, "is not such a fool as
to be here."

A loud laugh followed these words, pronounced with that
boldness which women draw from their own weakness -- a
weakness which removes them beyond the power of vengeance.

"It is a woman's voice," cried Aramis; "faith, I would give
a good deal if she is young and pretty." And he mounted on
the bench to try and get a sight of her.

"By my soul," said Aramis, "she is charming. Look
D'Artagnan; everybody is looking at her; and in spite of
Bradshaw's gaze she has not turned pale."

"It is Lady Fairfax herself," said D'Artagnan. "Don't you
remember, Porthos, we saw her at General Cromwell's?"

The roll call continued.

"These rascals will adjourn when they find that they are not
in sufficient force," said the Comte de la Fere.

"You don't know them. Athos, look at Mordaunt's smile. Is
that the look of a man whose victim is likely to escape him?
Ah, cursed basilisk, it will be a happy day for me when I
can cross something more than a look with you."

"The king is really very handsome," said Porthos; "and look,
too, though he is a prisoner, how carefully he is dressed.
The feather in his hat is worth at least five-and-twenty
pistoles. Look at it, Aramis."

The roll call finished, the president ordered them to read
the act of accusation. Athos turned pale. A second time he
was disappointed in his expectation. Notwithstanding the
judges were so few the trial was to continue; the king then,
was condemned in advance.

"I told you so, Athos," said D'Artagnan, shrugging his
shoulders. "Now take your courage in both hands and hear
what this gentleman in black is going to say about his
sovereign, with full license and privilege."

Never till then had a more brutal accusation or meaner
insults tarnished kingly majesty.

Charles listened with marked attention, passing over the
insults, noting the grievances, and, when hatred overflowed
all bounds and the accuser turned executioner beforehand,
replying with a smile of lofty scorn.

"The fact is," said D'Artagnan, "if men are punished for
imprudence and triviality, this poor king deserves
punishment. But it seems to me that that which he is just
now undergoing is hard enough."

"In any case," Aramis replied, "the punishment should fall
not on the king, but on his ministers; for the first article
of the constitution is, `The king can do no wrong.'"

"As for me," thought Porthos, giving Mordaunt his whole
attention, "were it not for breaking in on the majesty of
the situation I would leap down from the bench, reach
Mordaunt in three bounds and strangle him; I would then take
him by the feet and knock the life out of these wretched
musketeers who parody the musketeers of France. Meantime,
D'Artagnan, who is full of invention, would find some way to
save the king. I must speak to him about it."

As to Athos, his face aflame, his fists clinched, his lips
bitten till they bled, he sat there foaming with rage at
that endless parliamentary insult and that long enduring
royal patience; the inflexible arm and steadfast heart had
given place to a trembling hand and a body shaken by
excitement.

At this moment the accuser concluded with these words: "The
present accusation is preferred by us in the name of the
English people."

At these words there was a murmur along the benches, and a
second voice, not that of a woman, but a man's, stout and
furious, thundered behind D'Artagnan.

"You lie!" it cried. "Nine-tenths of the English people are
horrified at what you say."

This voice was that of Athos, who, standing up with
outstretched hand and quite out of his mind, thus assailed
the public accuser.

King, judges, spectators, all turned their eyes to the bench
where the four friends were seated. Mordaunt did the same
and recognized the gentleman, around whom the three other
Frenchmen were standing, pale and menacing. His eyes
glittered with delight. He had discovered those to whose
death he had devoted his life. A movement of fury called to
his side some twenty of his musketeers, and pointing to the
bench where his enemies were: "Fire on that bench!" he
cried.

But with the rapidity of thought D'Artagnan seized Athos by
the waist, and followed by Porthos with Aramis, leaped down
from the benches, rushed into the passages, and flying down
the staircase were lost in the crowd without, while the
muskets within were pointed on some three thousand
spectators, whose piteous cries and noisy alarm stopped the
impulse already given to bloodshed.

Charles also had recognized the four Frenchmen. He put one
hand on his heart to still its beating and the other over
his eyes, that he might not witness the slaying of his
faithful friends.

Mordaunt, pale and trembling with anger, rushed from the
hall sword in hand, followed by six pikemen, pushing,
inquiring and panting in the crowd; and then, having found
nothing, returned.

The tumult was indescribable. More than half an hour passed
before any one could make himself heard. The judges were
looking for a new outbreak from the benches. The spectators
saw the muskets leveled at them, and divided between fear
and curiosity, remained noisy and excited.

Quiet was at length restored.

"What have you to say in your defense?" asked Bradshaw of
the king.

Then rising, with his head still covered, in the tone of a
judge rather than a prisoner, Charles began.

"Before questioning me," he said, "reply to my question. I
was free at Newcastle and had there concluded a treaty with
both houses. Instead of performing your part of this
contract, as I performed mine, you bought me from the
Scotch, cheaply, I know, and that does honor to the economic
talent of your government. But because you have paid the
price of a slave, do you imagine that I have ceased to be
your king? No. To answer you would be to forget it. I shall
only reply to you when you have satisfied me of your right
to question me. To answer you would be to acknowledge you as
my judges, and I only acknowledge you as my executioners."
And in the middle of a deathlike silence, Charles, calm,
lofty, and with his head still covered, sat down again in
his arm-chair.

"Why are not my Frenchmen here?" he murmured proudly and
turning his eyes to the benches where they had appeared for
a moment; "they would have seen that their friend was worthy
of their defense while alive, and of their tears when dead."

"Well," said the president, seeing that Charles was
determined to remain silent, "so be it. We will judge you in
spite of your silence. You are accused of treason, of abuse
of power, and murder. The evidence will support it. Go, and
another sitting will accomplish what you have postponed in
this."

Charles rose and turned toward Parry, whom he saw pale and
with his temples dewed with moisture.

"Well, my dear Parry," said he, "what is the matter, and
what can affect you in this manner?"

"Oh, my king," said Parry, with tears in his eyes and in a
tone of supplication, "do not look to the left as we leave
the hall."

"And why, Parry?"

"Do not look, I implore you, my king."

"But what is the matter? Speak," said Charles, attempting to
look across the hedge of guards which surrounded him.

"It is -- but you will not look, will you? -- it is because
they have had the axe, with which criminals are executed,
brought and placed there on the table. The sight is
hideous."

"Fools," said Charles, "do they take me for a coward, like
themselves? You have done well to warn me. Thank you,
Parry."

When the moment arrived the king followed his guards out of
the hall. As he passed the table on which the axe was laid,
he stopped, and turning with a smile, said:

"Ah! the axe, an ingenious device, and well worthy of those
who know not what a gentleman is; you frighten me not,
executioner's axe," added he, touching it with the cane
which he held in his hand, "and I strike you now, waiting
patiently and Christianly for you to return the blow."

And shrugging his shoulders with unaffected contempt he
passed on. When he reached the door a stream of people, who
had been disappointed in not being able to get into the
house and to make amends had collected to see him come out,
stood on each side, as he passed, many among them glaring on
him with threatening looks.

"How many people," thought he, "and not one true friend."

And as he uttered these words of doubt and depression within
his mind, a voice beside him said:

"Respect to fallen majesty."

The king turned quickly around, with tears in his eyes and
heart. It was an old soldier of the guards who could not see
his king pass captive before him without rendering him this
final homage. But the next moment the unfortunate man was
nearly killed with heavy blows of sword-hilts, and among
those who set upon him the king recognized Captain Groslow.

"Alas!" said Charles, "that is a severe chastisement for a
very trifling fault."

He continued his walk, but he had scarcely gone a hundred
paces, when a furious fellow, leaning between two soldiers,
spat in the king's face, as once an infamous and accursed
Jew spit in the face of Jesus of Nazareth. Loud roars of
laughter and sullen murmurs arose together. The crowd opened
and closed again, undulating like a stormy sea, and the king
imagined that he saw shining in the midst of this living
wave the bright eyes of Athos.

Charles wiped his face and said with a sad smile: "Poor
wretch, for half a crown he would do as much to his own
father."

The king was not mistaken. Athos and his friends, again
mingling with the throng, were taking a last look at the
martyr king.

When the soldier saluted Charles, Athos's heart bounded for
joy; and that unfortunate, on coming to himself, found ten
guineas that the French gentleman had slipped into his
pocket. But when the cowardly insulter spat in the face of
the captive monarch Athos grasped his dagger. But D'Artagnan
stopped his hand and in a hoarse voice cried, "Wait!"

Athos stopped. D'Artagnan, leaning on Athos, made a sign to
Porthos and Aramis to keep near them and then placed himself
behind the man with the bare arms, who was still laughing at
his own vile pleasantry and receiving the congratulations of
several others.

The man took his way toward the city. The four friends
followed him. The man, who had the appearance of being a
butcher, descended a little steep and isolated street,
looking on to the river, with two of his friends. Arrived at
the bank of the river the three men perceived that they were
followed, turned around, and looking insolently at the
Frenchmen, passed some jests from one to another.

"I don't know English, Athos," said D'Artagnan; "but you
know it and will interpret for me."

Then quickening their steps they passed the three men, but
turned back immediately, and D'Artagnan walked straight up
to the butcher and touching him on the chest with the tip of
his finger, said to Athos:

"Say this to him in English: `You are a coward. You have
insulted a defenseless man. You have defouled the face of
your king. You must die.'"

Athos, pale as a ghost, repeated these words to the man,
who, seeing the bodeful preparations that were making, put
himself in an attitude of defense. Aramis, at this movement,
drew his sword.

"No," cried D'Artagnan, "no steel. Steel is for gentlemen."

And seizing the butcher by the throat:

"Porthos," said he, "kill this fellow for me with a single
blow."

Porthos raised his terrible fist, which whistled through the
air like a sling, and the portentous mass fell with a
smothered crash on the insulter's skull and crushed it. The
man fell like an ox beneath the poleaxe. His companions,
horror-struck, could neither move nor cry out.

"Tell them this, Athos," resumed D'Artagnan; "thus shall all
die who forget that a captive man is sacred and that a
captive king doubly represents the Lord."

Athos repeated D'Artagnan's words.

The fellows looked at the body of their companion, swimming
in blood, and then recovering voice and legs together, ran
screaming off.

"Justice is done," said Porthos, wiping his forehead.

"And now," said D'Artagnan to Athos, "entertain no further
doubts about me; I undertake all that concerns the king."



64

Whitehall.



The parliament condemned Charles to death, as might have
been foreseen. Political judgments are generally vain
formalities, for the same passions which give rise to the
accusation ordain to the condemnation. Such is the atrocious
logic of revolutions.

Although our friends were expecting that condemnation, it
filled them with grief. D'Artagnan, whose mind was never
more fertile in resources than in critical emergencies,
swore again that he would try all conceivable means to
prevent the denouement of the bloody tragedy. But by what
means? As yet he could form no definite plan; all must
depend on circumstances. Meanwhile, it was necessary at all
hazards, in order to gain time, to put some obstacle in the
way of the execution on the following day -- the day
appointed by the judges. The only way of doing that was to
cause the disappearance of the London executioner. The
headsman out of the way, the sentence could not be executed.
True, they could send for the headsman of the nearest town,
but at least a day would be gained, and a day might be
sufficient for the rescue. D'Artagnan took upon himself that
more than difficult task.

Another thing, not less essential, was to warn Charles
Stuart of the attempt to be made, so that he might assist
his rescuers as much as possible, or at least do nothing to
thwart their efforts. Aramis assumed that perilous charge.
Charles Stuart had asked that Bishop Juxon might be
permitted to visit him. Mordaunt had called on the bishop
that very evening to apprise him of the religious desire
expressed by the king and also of Cromwell's permission.
Aramis determined to obtain from the bishop, through fear or
by persuasion, consent that he should enter in the bishop's
place, and clad in his sacerdotal robes, the prison at
Whitehall.

Finally, Athos undertook to provide, in any event, the means
of leaving England -- in case either of failure or of
success.

The night having come they made an appointment to meet at
eleven o'clock at the hotel, and each started out to fulfill
his dangerous mission.

The palace of Whitehall was guarded by three regiments of
cavalry and by the fierce anxiety of Cromwell, who came and
went or sent his generals or his agents continually. Alone
in his usual room, lighted by two candles, the condemned
monarch gazed sadly on the luxury of his past greatness,
just as at the last hour one sees the images of life more
mildly brilliant than of yore.

Parry had not quitted his master, and since his condemnation
had not ceased to weep. Charles, leaning on a table, was
gazing at a medallion of his wife and daughter; he was
waiting first for Juxon, then for martyrdom.

At times he thought of those brave French gentlemen who had
appeared to him from a distance of a hundred leagues
fabulous and unreal, like the forms that appear in dreams.
In fact, he sometimes asked himself if all that was
happening to him was not a dream, or at least the delirium
of a fever. He rose and took a few steps as if to rouse
himself from his torpor and went as far as the window; he
saw glittering below him the muskets of the guards. He was
thereupon constrained to admit that he was indeed awake and
that his bloody dream was real.

Charles returned in silence to his chair, rested his elbow
on the table, bowed his head upon his hand and reflected.

"Alas!" he said to himself, "if I only had for a confessor
one of those lights of the church, whose soul has sounded
all the mysteries of life, all the littlenesses of
greatness, perhaps his utterance would overawe the voice
that wails within my soul. But I shall have a priest of
vulgar mind, whose career and fortune I have ruined by my
misfortune. He will speak to me of God and death, as he has
spoken to many another dying man, not understanding that
this one leaves his throne to an usurper, his children to
the cold contempt of public charity."

And he raised the medallion to his lips.

It was a dull, foggy night. A neighboring church clock
slowly struck the hour. The flickering light of the two
candles showed fitful phantom shadows in the lofty room.
These were the ancestors of Charles, standing back dimly in
their tarnished frames.

An awful sadness enveloped the heart of Charles. He buried
his brow in his hands and thought of the world, so beautiful
when one is about to leave it; of the caresses of children,
so pleasing and so sweet, especially when one is parting
from his children never to see them again; then of his wife,
the noble and courageous woman who had sustained him to the
last moment. He drew from his breast the diamond cross and
the star of the Garter which she had sent him by those
generous Frenchmen; he kissed it, and then, as he reflected,
that she would never again see those things till he lay cold
and mutilated in the tomb, there passed over him one of
those icy shivers which may be called forerunners of death.

Then, in that chamber which recalled to him so many royal
souvenirs, whither had come so many courtiers, the scene of
so much flattering homage, alone with a despairing servant,
whose feeble soul could afford no support to his own, the
king at last yielded to sorrow, and his courage sank to a
level with that feebleness, those shadows, and that wintry
cold. That king, who was so grand, so sublime in the hour of
death, meeting his fate with a smile of resignation on his
lips, now in that gloomy hour wiped away a tear which had
fallen on the table and quivered on the gold embroidered
cloth.

Suddenly the door opened, an ecclesiastic in episcopal robes
entered, followed by two guards, to whom the king waved an
imperious gesture. The guards retired; the room resumed its
obscurity.

"Juxon!" cried Charles, "Juxon, thank you, my last friend;
you come at a fitting moment."

The bishop looked anxiously at the man sobbing in the
ingle-nook.

"Come, Parry," said the king, "cease your tears."

"If it's Parry," said the bishop, "I have nothing to fear;
so allow me to salute your majesty and to tell you who I am
and for what I am come."

At this sight and this voice Charles was about to cry out,
when Aramis placed his finger on his lips and bowed low to
the king of England.

"The chevalier!" murmured Charles.

"Yes, sire," interrupted Aramis, raising his voice, "Bishop
Juxon, the faithful knight of Christ, obedient to your
majesty's wishes."

Charles clasped his hands, amazed and stupefied to find that
these foreigners, without other motive than that which their
conscience imposed on them, thus combated the will of a
people and the destiny of a king.

"You!" he said, "you! how did you penetrate hither? If they
recognize you, you are lost."

"Care not for me, sire; think only of yourself. You see,
your friends are wakeful. I know not what we shall do yet,
but four determined men can do much. Meanwhile, do not be
surprised at anything that happens; prepare yourself for
every emergency."

Charles shook his head.

"Do you know that I die to-morrow at ten o'clock?"

"Something, your majesty, will happen between now and then
to make the execution impossible."

The king looked at Aramis with astonishment.

At this moment a strange noise, like the unloading of a
cart, and followed by a cry of pain, was heard beneath the
window.

"Do you hear?" said the king.

"I hear," said Aramis, "but I understand neither the noise
nor the cry of pain."

"I know not who can have uttered the cry," said the king,
"but the noise is easily understood. Do you know that I am
to be beheaded outside this window? Well, these boards you
hear unloaded are the posts and planks to build my scaffold.
Some workmen must have fallen underneath them and been
hurt."

Aramis shuddered in spite of himself.

"You see," said the king, "that it is useless for you to
resist. I am condemned; leave me to my death."

"My king," said Aramis, "they well may raise a scaffold, but
they cannot make an executioner."

"What do you mean?" asked the king.

"I mean that at this hour the headsman has been got out of
the way by force or persuasion. The scaffold will be ready
by to-morrow, but the headsman will be wanting and they will
put it off till the day after to-morrow."

"What then?" said the king.

"To-morrow night we shall rescue you."

"How can that be?" cried the king, whose face was lighted
up, in spite of himself, by a flash of joy.

"Oh! sir," cried Parry, "may you and yours be blessed!"

"How can it be?" repeated the king. "I must know, so that I
may assist you if there is any chance."

"I know nothing about it," continued Aramis, "but the
cleverest, the bravest, the most devoted of us four said to
me when I left him, `Tell the king that to-morrow at ten
o'clock at night, we shall carry him off.' He has said it
and will do it."

"Tell me the name of that generous friend," said the king,
"that I may cherish for him an eternal gratitude, whether he
succeeds or not."

"D'Artagnan, sire, the same who had so nearly rescued you
when Colonel Harrison made his untimely entrance."

"You are, indeed, wonderful men," said the king; "if such
things had been related to me I should not have believed
them."

"Now, sire," resumed Aramis, "listen to me. Do not forget
for a single instant that we are watching over your safety;
observe the smallest gesture, the least bit of song, the
least sign from any one near you; watch everything, hear
everything, interpret everything."

"Oh, chevalier!" cried the king, "what can I say to you?
There is no word, though it should come from the profoundest
depth of my heart, that can express my gratitude. If you
succeed I do not say that you will save a king; no, in
presence of the scaffold as I am, royalty, I assure you, is
a very small affair; but you will save a husband to his
wife, a father to his children. Chevalier, take my hand; it
is that of a friend who will love you to his last sigh."

Aramis stooped to kiss the king's hand, but Charles clasped
his and pressed it to his heart.

At this moment a man entered, without even knocking at the
door. Aramis tried to withdraw his hand, but the king still
held it. The man was one of those Puritans, half preacher
and half soldier, who swarmed around Cromwell.

"What do you want, sir?" said the king.

"I desire to know if the confession of Charles Stuart is at
an end?" said the stranger.

"And what is it to you?" replied the king; "we are not of
the same religion."

"All men are brothers," said the Puritan. "One of my
brothers is about to die and I come to prepare him."

"Bear with him," whispered Aramis; "it is doubtless some
spy."

"After my reverend lord bishop," said the king to the man,
"I shall hear you with pleasure, sir."

The man retired, but not before examining the supposed Juxon
with an attention which did not escape the king.

"Chevalier," said the king, when the door was closed, "I
believe you are right and that this man only came here with
evil intentions. Take care that no misfortune befalls you
when you leave."

"I thank your majesty," said Aramis, "but under these robes
I have a coat of mail, a pistol and a dagger."

"Go, then, sir, and God keep you!"

The king accompanied him to the door, where Aramis
pronounced his benediction upon him, and passing through the
ante-rooms, filled with soldiers, jumped into his carriage
and drove to the bishop's palace. Juxon was waiting for him
impatiently.

"Well?" said he, on perceiving Aramis.

"Everything has succeeded as I expected; spies, guards,
satellites, all took me for you, and the king blesses you
while waiting for you to bless him."

"May God protect you, my son; for your example has given me
at the same time hope and courage."

Aramis resumed his own attire and left Juxon with the
assurance that he might again have recourse to him.

He had scarcely gone ten yards in the street when he
perceived that he was followed by a man, wrapped in a large
cloak. He placed his hand on his dagger and stopped. The man
came straight toward him. It was Porthos.

"My dear friend," cried Aramis.

"You see, we had each our mission," said Porthos; "mine was
to guard you and I am doing so. Have you seen the king?"

"Yes, and all goes well."

"We are to meet our friends at the hotel at eleven."

It was then striking half-past ten by St. Paul's.

Arrived at the hotel it was not long before Athos entered.

"All's well," he cried, as he entered; "I have hired a cedar
wherry, as light as a canoe, as easy on the wing as any
swallow. It is waiting for us at Greenwich, opposite the
Isle of Dogs, manned by a captain and four men, who for the
sum of fifty pounds sterling will keep themselves at our
disposition three successive nights. Once on board we drop
down the Thames and in two hours are on the open sea. In
case I am killed, the captain's name is Roger and the skiff
is called the Lightning. A handkerchief, tied at the four
corners, is to be the signal."

Next moment D'Artagnan entered.

"Empty your pockets," said he; "I want a hundred pounds, and
as for my own ---- " and he emptied them inside out.

The sum was collected in a minute. D'Artagnan ran out and
returned directly after.

"There," said he, "it's done. Ough! and not without a deal
of trouble, too."

"Has the executioner left London?" asked Athos.

"Ah, you see that plan was not sure enough; he might go out
by one gate and return by another."

"Where is he, then?"

"In the cellar."

"The cellar -- what cellar?"

"Our landlord's, to be sure. Musqueton is propped against
the door and here's the key."

"Bravo!" said Aramis, "how did you manage it?"

"Like everything else, with money; but it cost me dear."

"How much?" asked Athos.

"Five hundred pounds."

"And where did you get so much money?" said Athos. "Had you,
then, that sum?"

"The queen's famous diamond," answered D'Artagnan, with a
sigh.

"Ah, true," said Aramis. "I recognized it on your finger."

"You bought it back, then, from Monsieur des Essarts?" asked
Porthos.

"Yes, but it was fated that I should not keep it."

"So, then, we are all right as regards the executioner,"
said Athos; "but unfortunately every executioner has his
assistant, his man, or whatever you call him."

"And this one had his," said D'Artagnan; "but, as good luck
would have it, just as I thought I should have two affairs
to manage, our friend was brought home with a broken leg. In
the excess of his zeal he had accompanied the cart
containing the scaffolding as far as the king's window, and
one of the crossbeams fell on his leg and broke it."

"Ah!" cried Aramis, "that accounts for the cry I heard."

"Probably," said D'Artagnan, "but as he is a thoughtful
young man he promised to send four expert workmen in his
place to help those already at the scaffold, and wrote the
moment he was brought home to Master Tom Lowe, an assistant
carpenter and friend of his, to go down to Whitehall, with
three of his friends. Here's the letter he sent by a
messenger, for sixpence, who sold it to me for a guinea."

"And what on earth are you going to do with it?" asked
Athos.

"Can't you guess, my dear Athos? You, who speak English like
John Bull himself, are Master Tom Lowe, we, your three
companions. Do you understand it now?"

Athos uttered a cry of joy and admiration, ran to a closet
and drew forth workmen's clothes, which the four friends
immediately put on; they then left the hotel, Athos carrying
a saw, Porthos a vise, Aramis an axe and D'Artagnan a hammer
and some nails.

The letter from the executioner's assistant satisfied the
master carpenter that those were the men he expected.



65

The Workmen.



Toward midnight Charles heard a great noise beneath his
window. It arose from blows of hammer and hatchet, clinking
of pincers and cranching of saws.

Lying dressed upon his bed, the noise awoke him with a start
and found a gloomy echo in his heart. He could not endure
it, and sent Parry to ask the sentinel to beg the workmen to
strike more gently and not disturb the last slumber of one
who had been their king. The sentinel was unwilling to leave
his post, but allowed Parry to pass.

Arriving at the window Parry found an unfinished scaffold,
over which they were nailing a covering of black serge.
Raised to the height of twenty feet, so as to be on a level
with the window, it had two lower stories. Parry, odious as
was this sight to him, sought for those among some eight or
ten workmen who were making the most noise; and fixed on two
men, who were loosening the last hooks of the iron balcony.

"My friends," said Parry, mounting the scaffold and standing
beside them, "would you work a little more quietly? The king
wishes to get a sleep."

One of the two, who was standing up, was of gigantic size
and was driving a pick with all his might into the wall,
whilst the other, kneeling beside him, was collecting the
pieces of stone. The face of the first was lost to Parry in
the darkness; but as the second turned around and placed his
finger on his lips Parry started back in amazement.

"Very well, very well," said the workman aloud, in excellent
English. "Tell the king that if he sleeps badly to-night he
will sleep better to-morrow night."

These blunt words, so terrible if taken literally, were
received by the other workmen with a roar of laughter. But
Parry withdrew, thinking he was dreaming.

Charles was impatiently awaiting his return. At the moment
he re-entered, the sentinel who guarded the door put his
head through the opening, curious as to what the king was
doing. The king was lying on his bed, resting on his elbow.
Parry closed the door and approaching the king, his face
radiant with joy:

"Sire," he said, in a low voice, "do you know who these
workmen are who are making so much noise?"

"I? No; how would you have me know?"

Parry bent his head and whispered to the king: "It is the
Comte de la Fere and his friends."

"Raising my scaffold!" cried the king, astounded.

"Yes, and at the same time making a hole in the wall."

The king clasped his hands and raised his eyes to Heaven;
then leaping down from his bed he went to the window, and
pulling aside the curtain tried to distinguish the figures
outside, but in vain.

Parry was not wrong. It was Athos he had recognized, and
Porthos who was boring a hole through the wall.

This hole communicated with a kind of loft -- the space
between the floor of the king's room and the ceiling of the
one below it. Their plan was to pass through the hole they
were making into this loft and cut out from below a piece of
the flooring of the king's room, so as to form a kind of
trap-door.

Through this the king was to escape the next night, and,
hidden by the black covering of the scaffold, was to change
his dress for that of a workman, slip out with his
deliverers, pass the sentinels, who would suspect nothing,
and so reach the skiff that was waiting for him at
Greenwich.

Day gilded the tops of the houses. The aperture was finished
and Athos passed through it, carrying the clothes destined
for the king wrapped in black cloth, and the tools with
which he was to open a communication with the king's room.
He had only two hours' work to do to open communication with
the king and, according to the calculations of the four
friends, they had the entire day before them, since, the
executioner being absent, another must be sent for to
Bristol.

D'Artagnan returned to change his workman's clothes for his
chestnut-colored suit, and Porthos to put on his red
doublet. As for Aramis, he went off to the bishop's palace
to see if he could possibly pass in with Juxon to the king's
presence. All three agreed to meet at noon in Whitehall
Place to see how things went on.

Before leaving the scaffold Aramis had approached the
opening where Athos was concealed to tell him that he was
about to make an attempt to gain another interview with the
king.

"Adieu, then, and be of good courage," said Athos. "Report
to the king the condition of affairs. Say to him that when
he is alone it will help us if he will knock on the floor,
for then I can continue my work in safety. Try, Aramis, to
keep near the king. Speak loud, very loud, for they will be
listening at the door. If there is a sentinel within the
apartment, kill him without hesitation. If there are two,
let Parry kill one and you the other. If there are three,
let yourself be slain, but save the king."

"Be easy," said Aramis; "I will take two poniards and give
one to Parry. Is that all?"

"Yes, go; but urge the king strongly not to stand on false
generosity. While you are fighting if there is a fight, he
must flee. The trap once replaced over his head, you being
on the trap, dead or alive, they will need at least ten
minutes to find the hole by which he has escaped. In those
ten minutes we shall have gained the road and the king will
be saved."

"Everything shall be done as you say, Athos. Your hand, for
perhaps we shall not see each other again."

Athos put his arm around Aramis's neck and embraced him.

"For you," he said. "Now if I die, say to D'Artagnan that I
love him as a son, and embrace him for me. Embrace also our
good and brave Porthos. Adieu."

"Adieu," said Aramis. "I am as sure now that the king will
be saved as I am sure that I clasp the most loyal hand in
the world."

Aramis parted from Athos, went down from the scaffold in his
turn and took his way to the hotel, whistling the air of a
song in praise of Cromwell. He found the other two friends
sitting at table before a good fire, drinking a bottle of
port and devouring a cold chicken. Porthos was cursing the
infamous parliamentarians; D'Artagnan ate in silence,
revolving in his mind the most audacious plans.

Aramis related what had been agreed upon. D'Artagnan
approved with a movement of the head and Porthos with his
voice.

"Bravo!" he said; "besides, we shall be there at the time of
the flight. What with D'Artagnan, Grimaud and Musqueton, we
can manage to dispatch eight of them. I say nothing about
Blaisois, for he is only fit to hold the horses. Two minutes
a man makes four minutes. Musqueton will lose another,
that's five; and in five minutes we shall have galloped a
quarter of a league."

Aramis swallowed a hasty mouthful, gulped a glass of wine
and changed his clothes.

"Now," said he, "I'm off to the bishop's. Take care of the
executioner, D'Artagnan."

"All right. Grimaud has relieved Musqueton and has his foot
on the cellar door."

"Well, don't be inactive."

"Inactive, my dear fellow! Ask Porthos. I pass my life upon
my legs."

Aramis again presented himself at the bishop's. Juxon
consented the more readily to take him with him, as he would
require an assistant priest in case the king should wish to
communicate. Dressed as Aramis had been the night before,
the bishop got into his carriage, and the former, more
disguised by his pallor and sad countenance than his
deacon's dress, got in by his side. The carriage stopped at
the door of the palace.

It was about nine o'clock in the morning.

Nothing was changed. The ante-rooms were still full of
soldiers, the passages still lined by guards. The king was
already sanguine, but when he perceived Aramis his hope
turned to joy. He embraced Juxon and pressed the hand of
Aramis. The bishop affected to speak in a loud voice, before
every one, of their previous interview. The king replied
that the words spoken in that interview had borne their
fruit, and that he desired another under the same
conditions. Juxon turned to those present and begged them to
leave him and his assistant alone with the king. Every one
withdrew. As soon as the door was closed:

"Sire," said Aramis, speaking rapidly, "you are saved; the
London executioner has vanished. His assistant broke his leg
last night beneath your majesty's window -- the cry we heard
was his -- and there is no executioner nearer at hand than
Bristol."

"But the Comte de la Fere?" asked the king.

"Two feet below you; take the poker from the fireplace and
strike three times on the floor. He will answer you."

The king did so, and the moment after, three muffled knocks,
answering the given signal, sounded beneath the floor.

"So," said Charles, "he who knocks down there ---- "

"Is the Comte de la Fere, sire," said Aramis. "He is
preparing a way for your majesty to escape. Parry, for his
part, will raise this slab of marble and a passage will be
opened."

"Oh, Juxon," said the king, seizing the bishop's two hands
in his own, "promise that you will pray all your life for
this gentleman and for the other that you hear beneath your
feet, and for two others also, who, wherever they may be,
are on the watch for my safety."

"Sire," replied Juxon, "you shall be obeyed."

Meanwhile, the miner underneath was heard working away
incessantly, when suddenly an unexpected noise resounded in
the passage. Aramis seized the poker and gave the signal to
stop; the noise came nearer and nearer. It was that of a
number of men steadily approaching. The four men stood
motionless. All eyes were fixed on the door, which opened
slowly and with a kind of solemnity.

A parliamentary officer, clothed in black and with a gravity
that augured ill, entered, bowed to the king, and unfolding
a parchment, read the sentence, as is usually done to
criminals before their execution.

"What is this?" said Aramis to Juxon.

Juxon replied with a sign which meant that he knew no more
than Aramis about it.

"Then it is for to-day?" asked the king.

"Was not your majesty warned that it was to take place this
morning?"

"Then I must die like a common criminal by the hand of the
London executioner?"

"The London executioner has disappeared, your majesty, but a
man has offered his services instead. The execution will
therefore only be delayed long enough for you to arrange
your spiritual and temporal affairs."

A slight moisture on his brow was the only trace of emotion
that Charles evinced, as he learned these tidings. But
Aramis was livid. His heart ceased beating, he closed his
eyes and leaned upon the table. Charles perceived it and
took his hand.

"Come, my friend," said he, "courage." Then he turned to the
officer. "Sir, I am ready. There is but little reason why I
should delay you. Firstly, I wish to communicate; secondly,
to embrace my children and bid them farewell for the last
time. Will this be permitted me?"

"Certainly," replied the officer, and left the room.

Aramis dug his nails into his flesh and groaned aloud.

"Oh! my lord bishop," he cried, seizing Juxon's hands,
"where is Providence? where is Providence?"

"My son," replied the bishop, with firmness, "you see Him
not, because the passions of the world conceal Him."

"My son," said the king to Aramis, "do not take it so to
heart. You ask what God is doing. God beholds your devotion
and my martyrdom, and believe me, both will have their
reward. Ascribe to men, then, what is happening, and not to
God. It is men who drive me to death; it is men who make you
weep."

"Yes, sire," said Aramis, "yes, you are right. It is men
whom I should hold responsible, and I will hold them
responsible."

"Be seated, Juxon," said the king, falling upon his knees.
"I have now to confess to you. Remain, sir," he added to
Aramis, who had moved to leave the room. "Remain, Parry. I
have nothing to say that cannot be said before all."

Juxon sat down, and the king, kneeling humbly before him,
began his confession.



66

Remember!



The mob had already assembled when the confession
terminated. The king's children next arrived -- the Princess
Charlotte, a beautiful, fair-haired child, with tears in her
eyes, and the Duke of Gloucester, a boy eight or nine years
old, whose tearless eyes and curling lip revealed a growing
pride. He had wept all night long, but would not show his
grief before the people.

Charles's heart melted within him at the sight of those two
children, whom he had not seen for two years and whom he now
met at the moment of death. He turned to brush away a tear,
and then, summoning up all his firmness, drew his daughter
toward him, recommending her to be pious and resigned. Then
he took the boy upon his knee.

"My son," he said to him, "you saw a great number of people
in the streets as you came here. These men are going to
behead your father. Do not forget that. Perhaps some day
they will want to make you king, instead of the Prince of
Wales, or the Duke of York, your elder brothers. But you are
not the king, my son, and can never be so while they are
alive. Swear to me, then, never to let them put a crown upon
your head unless you have a legal right to the crown. For
one day -- listen, my son -- one day, if you do so, they
will doom you to destruction, head and crown, too, and then
you will not be able to die with a calm conscience, as I
die. Swear, my son."

The child stretched out his little hand toward that of his
father and said, "I swear to your majesty."

"Henry," said Charles, "call me your father."

"Father," replied the child, "I swear to you that they shall
kill me sooner than make me king."

"Good, my child. Now kiss me; and you, too, Charlotte. Never
forget me."

"Oh! never, never!" cried both the children, throwing their
arms around their father's neck.

"Farewell," said Charles, "farewell, my children. Take them
away, Juxon; their tears will deprive me of the courage to
die."

Juxon led them away, and this time the doors were left open.

Meanwhile, Athos, in his concealment, waited in vain the
signal to recommence his work. Two long hours he waited in
terrible inaction. A deathlike silence reigned in the room
above. At last he determined to discover the cause of this
stillness. He crept from his hole and stood, hidden by the
black drapery, beneath the scaffold. Peeping out from the
drapery, he could see the rows of halberdiers and musketeers
around the scaffold and the first ranks of the populace
swaying and groaning like the sea.

"What is the matter, then?" he asked himself, trembling more
than the wind-swayed cloth he was holding back. "The people
are hurrying on, the soldiers under arms, and among the
spectators I see D'Artagnan. What is he waiting for? What is
he looking at? Good God! have they allowed the headsman to
escape?"

Suddenly the dull beating of muffled drums filled the
square. The sound of heavy steps was heard above his head.
The next moment the very planks of the scaffold creaked with
the weight of an advancing procession, and the eager faces
of the spectators confirmed what a last hope at the bottom
of his heart had prevented him till then believing. At the
same moment a well-known voice above him pronounced these
words:

"Colonel, I want to speak to the people."

Athos shuddered from head to foot. It was the king speaking
on the scaffold.

In fact, after taking a few drops of wine and a piece of
bread, Charles, weary of waiting for death, had suddenly
decided to go to meet it and had given the signal for
movement. Then the two wings of the window facing the square
had been thrown open, and the people had seen silently
advancing from the interior of the vast chamber, first, a
masked man, who, carrying an axe in his hand, was recognized
as the executioner. He approached the block and laid his axe
upon it. Behind him, pale indeed, but marching with a firm
step, was Charles Stuart, who advanced between two priests,
followed by a few superior officers appointed to preside at
the execution and attended by two files of partisans who
took their places on opposite sides of the scaffold.

The sight of the masked man gave rise to a prolonged
sensation. Every one was full of curiosity as to who that
unknown executioner could be who presented himself so
opportunely to assure to the people the promised spectacle,
when the people believed it had been postponed until the
following day. All gazed at him searchingly.

But they could discern nothing but a man of middle height,
dressed in black, apparently of a certain age, for the end
of a gray beard peeped out from the bottom of the mask that
hid his features.

The king's request had undoubtedly been acceded to by an
affirmative sign, for in firm, sonorous accents, which
vibrated in the depths of Athos's heart, the king began his
speech, explaining his conduct and counseling the welfare of
the kingdom.

"Oh!" said Athos to himself, "is it indeed possible that I
hear what I hear and that I see what I see? Is it possible
that God has abandoned His representative on earth and left
him to die thus miserably? And I have not seen him! I have
not said adieu to him!"

A noise was heard like that the instrument of death would
make if moved upon the block.

"Do not touch the axe," said the king, and resumed his
speech.

At the end of his speech the king looked tenderly around
upon the people. Then unfastening the diamond ornament which
the queen had sent him, he placed it in the hands of the
priest who accompanied Juxon. Then he drew from his breast a
little cross set in diamonds, which, like the order, had
been the gift of Henrietta Maria.

"Sir," said he to the priest, "I shall keep this cross in my
hand till the last moment. Take it from me when I am --
dead."

"Yes, sire," said a voice, which Athos recognized as that of
Aramis.

He then took his hat from his head and threw it on the
ground. One by one he undid the buttons of his doublet, took
it off and deposited it by the side of his hat. Then, as it
was cold, he asked for his gown, which was brought to him.

All the preparations were made with a frightful calmness.
One would have thought the king was going to bed and not to
his coffin.

"Will these be in your way?" he said to the executioner,
raising his long locks; "if so, they can be tied up."

Charles accompanied these words with a look designed to
penetrate the mask of the unknown headsman. His cake, noble
gaze forced the man to turn away his head. But after the
searching look of the king he encountered the burning eyes
of Aramis.

The king, seeing that he did not reply, repeated his
question.

"It will do," replied the man, in a tremulous voice, "if you
separate them across the neck."

The king parted his hair with his hands, and looking at the
block he said:

"This block is very low, is there no other to be had?"

"It is the usual block," answered the man in the mask.

"Do you think you can behead me with a single blow?" asked
the king.

"I hope so," was the reply. There was something so strange
in these three words that everybody, except the king,
shuddered.

"I do not wish to be taken by surprise," added the king. "I
shall kneel down to pray; do not strike then."

"When shall I strike?"

"When I shall lay my head on the block and say `Remember!'
then strike boldly."

"Gentlemen," said the king to those around him, "I leave you
to brave the tempest; I go before you to a kingdom which
knows no storms. Farewell."

He looked at Aramis and made a special sign to him with his
head.

"Now," he continued, "withdraw a little and let me say my
prayer, I beseech you. You, also, stand aside," he said to
the masked man. "It is only for a moment and I know that I
belong to you; but remember that you are not to strike till
I give the signal."

Then he knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and lowering
his face to the planks, as if he would have kissed them,
said in a low tone, in French, "Comte de la Fere, are you
there?"

"Yes, your majesty," he answered, trembling.

"Faithful friend, noble heart!" said the king, "I should not
have been rescued. I have addressed my people and I have
spoken to God; last of all I speak to you. To maintain a
cause which I believed sacred I have lost the throne and my
children their inheritance. A million in gold remains; it is
buried in the cellars of Newcastle Keep. You only know that
this money exists. Make use of it, then, whenever you think
it will be most useful, for my eldest son's welfare. And
now, farewell."

"Farewell, saintly, martyred majesty," lisped Athos, chilled
with terror.

A moment's silence ensued and then, in a full, sonorous
voice, the king exclaimed: "Remember!"

He had scarcely uttered the word when a heavy blow shook the
scaffold and where Athos stood immovable a warm drop fell
upon his brow. He reeled back with a shudder and the same
moment the drops became a crimson cataract.

Athos fell on his knees and remained some minutes as if
bewildered or stunned. At last he rose and taking his
handkerchief steeped it in the blood of the martyred king.
Then as the crowd gradually dispersed he leaped down, crept
from behind the drapery, glided between two horses, mingled
with the crowd and was the first to arrive at the inn.

Having gained his room he raised his hand to his face, and
observing that his fingers were covered with the monarch's
blood, fell down insensible.



67

The Man in the Mask.



The snow was falling thick and icy. Aramis was the next to
come in and to discover Athos almost insensible. But at the
first words he uttered the comte roused himself from the
kind of lethargy in which he had sunk.

"Well," said Aramis, "beaten by fate!"

"Beaten!" said Athos. "Noble and unhappy king!"

"Are you wounded?" cried Aramis.

"No, this is his blood."

"Where were you, then?"

"Where you left me -- under the scaffold."

"Did you see it all?"

"No, but I heard all. God preserve me from another such hour
as I have just passed."

"Then you know that I did not leave him?"

"I heard your voice up to the last moment."

"Here is the order he gave me and the cross I took from his
hand; he desired they should be returned to the queen."

"Then here is a handkerchief to wrap them in," replied
Athos, drawing from his pocket the one he had steeped in the
king's blood.

"And what," he continued, "has been done with the poor
body?"

"By order of Cromwell royal honors will be accorded to it.
The doctors are embalming the corpse, and when it is ready
it will be placed in a lighted chapel."

"Mockery," muttered Athos, savagely; "royal honors to one
whom they have murdered!"

"Well, cheer up!" said a loud voice from the staircase,
which Porthos had just mounted. "We are all mortal, my poor
friends."

"You are late, my dear Porthos."

"Yes, there were some people on the way who delayed me. The
wretches were dancing. I took one of them by the throat and
three-quarters throttled him. Just then a patrol rode up.
Luckily the man I had had most to do with was some minutes
before he could speak, so I took advantage of his silence to
walk off."

"Have you seen D'Artagnan?"

"We got separated in the crowd and I could not find him
again."

"Oh!" said Athos, satirically, "I saw him. He was in the
front row of the crowd, admirably placed for seeing; and as
on the whole the sight was curious, he probably wished to
stay to the end."

"Ah Comte de la Fere," said a calm voice, though hoarse with
running, "is it your habit to calumniate the absent?"

This reproof stung Athos to the heart, but as the impression
produced by seeing D'Artagnan foremost in a coarse,
ferocious crowd had been very strong, he contented himself
with replying:

"I am not calumniating you, my friend. They were anxious
about you here; I simply told them where you were. You
didn't know King Charles; to you he was only a foreigner and
you were not obliged to love him."

So saying, he stretched out his hand, but the other
pretended not to see it and he let it drop again slowly by
his side.

"Ugh! I am tired," cried D'Artagnan, sitting down.

"Drink a glass of port," said Aramis; "it will refresh you."

"Yes, let us drink," said Athos, anxious to make it up by
hobnobbing with D'Artagnan, "let us drink and get away from
this hateful country. The felucca is waiting for us, you
know; let us leave to-night, we have nothing more to do
here."

"You are in a hurry, sir count," said D'Artagnan.

"But what would you have us to do here, now that the king is
dead?"

"Go, sir count," replied D'Artagnan, carelessly; "you see
nothing to keep you a little longer in England? Well, for my
part, I, a bloodthirsty ruffian, who can go and stand close
to a scaffold, in order to have a better view of the king's
execution -- I remain."

Athos turned pale. Every reproach his friend uttered struck
deeply in his heart.

"Ah! you remain in London?" said Porthos.

"Yes. And you?"

"Hang it!" said Porthos, a little perplexed between the two,
"I suppose, as I came with you, I must go away with you. I
can't leave you alone in this abominable country."

"Thanks, my worthy friend. So I have a little adventure to
propose to you when the count is gone. I want to find out
who was the man in the mask, who so obligingly offered to
cut the king's throat."

"A man in a mask?" cried Athos. "You did not let the
executioner escape, then?"

"The executioner is still in the cellar, where, I presume,
he has had an interview with mine host's bottles. But you
remind me. Musqueton!"

"Sir," answered a voice from the depths of the earth.

"Let out your prisoner. All is over."

"But," said Athos, "who is the wretch that has dared to
raise his hand against his king?"

"An amateur headsman," replied Aramis, "who however, does
not handle the axe amiss."

"Did you not see his face?" asked Athos.

"He wore a mask."

"But you, Aramis, who were close to him?"

"I could see nothing but a gray beard under the fringe of
the mask."

"Then it must be a man of a certain age."

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "that matters little. When one puts
on a mask, it is not difficult to wear a beard under it."

"I am sorry I did not follow him," said Porthos.

"Well, my dear Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "that's the very
thing it came into my head to do."

Athos understood all now.

"Pardon me, D'Artagnan," he said. "I have distrusted God; I
could the more easily distrust you. Pardon me, my friend."

"We will see about that presently," said D'Artagnan, with a
slight smile.

"Well, then?" said Aramis.

"Well, while I was watching -- not the king, as monsieur le
comte thinks, for I know what it is to see a man led to
death, and though I ought to be accustomed to the sight it
always makes me ill -- while I was watching the masked
executioner, the idea came to me, as I said, to find out who
he was. Now, as we are wont to complete ourselves each by
all the rest and to depend on one another for assistance, as
one calls his other hand to aid the first, I looked around
instinctively to see if Porthos was there; for I had seen
you, Aramis, with the king, and you, count, I knew would be
under the scaffold, and for that reason I forgive you," he
added, offering Athos his hand, "for you must have suffered
much. I was looking around for Porthos when I saw near me a
head which had been broken, but which, for better or worse,
had been patched with plaster and with black silk. `Humph!'
thought I, `that looks like my handiwork; I fancy I must
have mended that skull somewhere or other.' And, in fact, it
was that unfortunate Scotchman, Parry's brother, you know,
on whom Groslow amused himself by trying his strength. Well,
this man was making signs to another at my left, and turning
around I recognized the honest Grimaud. `Oh!' said I to him.
Grimaud turned round with a jerk, recognized me, and pointed
to the man in the mask. `Eh!' said he, which meant, `Do you
see him?' `Parbleu!' I answered, and we perfectly understood
one another. Well, everything was finished as you know. The
mob dispersed. I made a sign to Grimaud and the Scotchman,
and we all three retired into a corner of the square. I saw
the executioner return into the king's room, change his
clothes, put on a black hat and a large cloak and disappear.
Five minutes later he came down the grand staircase."

'You followed him?" cried Athos.

"I should think so, but not without difficulty. Every few
minutes he turned around, and thus obliged us to conceal
ourselves. I might have gone up to him and killed him. But I
am not selfish, and I thought it might console you all a
little to have a share in the matter. So we followed him
through the lowest streets in the city, and in half an
hour's time he stopped before a little isolated house.
Grimaud drew out a pistol. `Eh?' said he, showing it. I held
back his arm. The man in the mask stopped before a low door
and drew out a key; but before he placed it in the lock he
turned around to see if he was being followed. Grimaud and I
got behind a tree, and the Scotchman having nowhere to hide
himself, threw himself on his face in the road. Next moment
the door opened and the man disappeared."

"The scoundrel!" said Aramis. "While you have been returning
hither he will have escaped and we shall never find him."

"Come, now, Aramis," said D'Artagnan, "you must be taking me
for some one else."

"Nevertheless," said Athos, "in your absence ---- "

"Well, in my absence haven't I put in my place Grimaud and
the Scotchman? Before he had taken ten steps beyond the door
I had examined the house on all sides. At one of the doors,
that by which he had entered, I placed our Scotchman, making
a sign to him to follow the man wherever he might go, if he
came out again. Then going around the house I placed Grimaud
at the other exit, and here I am. Our game is beaten up. Now
for the tally-ho."

Athos threw himself into D'Artagnan's arms.

"Friend," he said, "you have been too good in pardoning me;
I was wrong, a hundred times wrong. I ought to have known
you better by this time; but we are all possessed of a
malignant spirit, which bids us doubt."

"Humph!" said Porthos. "Don't you think the executioner
might be Master Cromwell, who, to make sure of this affair,
undertook it himself?"

"Ah! just so. Cromwell is stout and short, and this man thin
and lanky, rather tall than otherwise."

"Some condemned soldier, perhaps," suggested Athos, "whom
they have pardoned at the price of regicide."

"No, no," continued D'Artagnan, "it was not the measured
step of a foot soldier, nor was it the gait of a horseman.
If I am not mistaken we have to do with a gentleman."

"A gentleman!" exclaimed Athos. "Impossible! It would be a
dishonor to all the nobility."

"Fine sport, by Jove!" cried Porthos, with a laugh that
shook the windows. "Fine sport!"

"Are you still bent on departure, Athos?" asked D'Artagnan.

"No, I remain," replied Athos, with a threatening gesture
that promised no good to whomsoever it was addressed.

"Swords, then!" cried Aramis, "swords! let us not lose a
moment."

The four friends resumed their own clothes, girded on their
swords, ordered Musqueton and Blaisois to pay the bill and
to arrange everything for immediate departure, and wrapped
in their large cloaks left in search of their game.

The night was dark, snow was falling, the streets were
silent and deserted. D'Artagnan led the way through the
intricate windings and narrow alleys of the city and ere
long they had reached the house in question. For a moment
D'Artagnan thought that Parry's brother had disappeared; but
he was mistaken. The robust Scotchman, accustomed to the
snows of his native hills, had stretched himself against a
post, and like a fallen statue, insensible to the inclemency
of the weather, had allowed the snow to cover him. He rose,
however, as they approached.

"Come," said Athos, "here's another good servant. Really,
honest men are not so scarce as I thought."

"Don't be in a hurry to weave crowns for our Scotchman. I
believe the fellow is here on his own account, for I have
heard that these gentlemen born beyond the Tweed are very
vindictive. I should not like to be Groslow, if he meets
him."

"Well?" said Athos, to the man, in English.

"No one has come out," he replied.

"Then, Porthos and Aramis, will you remain with this man
while we go around to Grimaud?"

Grimaud had made himself a kind of sentry box out of a
hollow willow, and as they drew near he put his head out and
gave a low whistle.

"Soho!" cried Athos.

"Yes," said Grimaud.

"Well, has anybody come out?"

"No, but somebody has gone in."

"A man or a woman?"

"A man."

"Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan, "there are two of them, then!"

"I wish there were four," said Athos; "the two parties would
then be equal."

"Perhaps there are four," said D'Artagnan.

"What do you mean?"

"Other men may have entered before them and waited for
them."

"We can find out," said Grimaud. At the same time he pointed
to a window, through the shutters of which a faint light
streamed.

"That is true," said D'Artagnan, "let us call the others."

They returned around the house to fetch Porthos and Aramis.

"Have you seen anything?" they asked.

"No, but we are going to," replied D'Artagnan, pointing to
Grimaud, who had already climbed some five or six feet from
the ground.

All four came up together. Grimaud continued to climb like a
cat and succeeded at last in catching hold of a hook, which
served to keep one of the shutters back when opened. Then
resting his foot on a small ledge he made a sign to show all
was right.

"Well?" asked D'Artagnan.

Grimaud showed his closed hand, with two fingers spread out.

"Speak," said Athos; "we cannot see your signs. How many are
there?"

"Two. One opposite to me, the other with his back to me."

"Good. And the man opposite to you is ----

"The man I saw go in."

"Do you know him?"

"I thought I recognized him, and was not mistaken. Short and
stout."

"Who is it?" they all asked together in a low tone.

"General Oliver Cromwell."

The four friends looked at one another.

"And the other?" asked Athos.

"Thin and lanky."

"The executioner," said D'Artagnan and Aramis at the same
time.

"I can see nothing but his back," resumed Grimaud. "But
wait. He is moving; and if he has taken off his mask I shall
be able to see. Ah ---- "

And as if struck in the heart he let go the hook and dropped
with a groan.

"Did you see him?" they all asked.

Yes," said Grimaud, with his hair standing on end.

"The thin, spare man?"

"Yes."

"The executioner, in short?" asked Aramis.

"Yes."

"And who is it?" said Porthos.

"He -- he -- is ---- " murmured Grimaud, pale as a ghost and
seizing his master's hand.

"Who? He?" asked Athos.

"Mordaunt," replied Grimaud.

D'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis uttered a cry of joy.

Athos stepped back and passed his hand across his brow.

"Fatality!" he muttered.



68

Cromwell's House.



It was, in fact, Mordaunt whom D'Artagnan had followed,
without knowing it. On entering the house he had taken off
his mask and imitation beard, then, mounting a staircase,
had opened a door, and in a room lighted by a single lamp
found himself face to face with a man seated behind a desk.

This man was Cromwell.

Cromwell had two or three of these retreats in London,
unknown except to the most intimate of his friends. Mordaunt
was among these.

"It is you, Mordaunt," he said. "You are late."

"General, I wished to see the ceremony to the end, which
delayed me."

"Ah! I scarcely thought you were so curious as that."

"I am always curious to see the downfall of your honor's
enemies, and he was not among the least of them. But you,
general, were you not at Whitehall?"

"No," said Cromwell.

There was a moment's silence.

"Have you had any account of it?"

"None. I have been here since the morning. I only know that
there was a conspiracy to rescue the king."

"Ah, you knew that?" said Mordaunt.

"It matters little. Four men, disguised as workmen, were to
get the king out of prison and take him to Greenwich, where
a vessel was waiting."

"And knowing all that, your honor remained here, far from
the city, tranquil and inactive."

"Tranquil, yes," replied Cromwell. "But who told you I was
inactive?"

"But -- if the plot had succeeded?"

"I wished it to do so."

"I thought your excellence considered the death of Charles
I. as a misfortune necessary to the welfare of England."

"Yes, his death; but it would have been more seemly not upon
the scaffold."

"Why so?" asked Mordaunt.

Cromwell smiled. "Because it could have been said that I had
had him condemned for the sake of justice and had let him
escape out of pity."

"But if he had escaped?"

"Impossible; my precautions were taken."

"And does your honor know the four men who undertook to
rescue him?"

"The four Frenchmen, of whom two were sent by the queen to
her husband and two by Mazarin to me."

"And do you think Mazarin commissioned them to act as they
have done?"

"It is possible. But he will not avow it."

"How so?"

"Because they failed."

"Your honor gave me two of these Frenchmen when they were
only guilty of fighting for Charles I. Now that they are
guilty of a conspiracy against England will your honor give
me all four of them?"

"Take them," said Cromwell.

Mordaunt bowed with a smile of triumphant ferocity.

"Did the people shout at all?" Cromwell asked.

"Very little, except `Long live Cromwell!'"

"Where were you placed?"

Mordaunt tried for a moment to read in the general's face if
this was simply a useless question, or whether he knew
everything. But his piercing eyes could by no means
penetrate the sombre depths of Cromwell's.

"I was so situated as to hear and see everything," he
answered.

It was now Cromwell's turn to look fixedly at Mordaunt, and
Mordaunt to make himself impenetrable.

"It appears," said Cromwell, "that this improvised
executioner did his duty remarkably well. The blow, so they
tell me at least, was struck with a master's hand."

Mordaunt remembered that Cromwell had told him he had had no
detailed account, and he was now quite convinced that the
general had been present at the execution, hidden behind
some screen or curtain.

"In fact," said Mordaunt, with a calm voice and immovable
countenance, "a single blow sufficed."

"Perhaps it was some one in that occupation," said Cromwell.

"Do you think so, sir? He did not look like an executioner."

"And who else save an executioner would have wished to fill
that horrible office?"

"But," said Mordaunt, "it might have been some personal
enemy of the king, who had made a vow of vengeance and
accomplished it in this way. Perhaps it was some man of rank
who had grave reasons for hating the fallen king, and who,
learning that the king was about to flee and escape him,
threw himself in the way, with a mask on his face and an axe
in his hand, not as substitute for the executioner, but as
an ambassador of Fate."

"Possibly."

"And if that were the case would your honor condemn his
action?"

"It is not for me to judge. It rests between his conscience
and his God."

"But if your honor knew this man?"

"I neither know nor wish to know him. Provided Charles is
dead, it is the axe, not the man, we must thank."

"And yet, without the man, the king would have been
rescued."

Cromwell smiled.

"They would have carried him to Greenwich," he said, "and
put him on board a felucca with five barrels of powder in
the hold. Once out to sea, you are too good a politician not
to understand the rest, Mordaunt."

"Yes, they would have all been blown up."

"Just so. The explosion would have done what the axe had
failed to do. Men would have said that the king had escaped
human justice and been overtaken by God's. You see now why I
did not care to know your gentleman in the mask; for really,
in spite of his excellent intentions, I could not thank him
for what he has done."

Mordaunt bowed humbly. "Sir," he said, "you are a profound
thinker and your plan was sublime."

"Say absurd, since it has become useless. The only sublime
ideas in politics are those which bear fruit. So to-night,
Mordaunt, go to Greenwich and ask for the captain of the
felucca Lightning. Show him a white handkerchief knotted at
the four corners and tell the crew to disembark and carry
the powder back to the arsenal, unless, indeed ---- "

"Unless?" said Mordaunt, whose face was lighted by a savage
joy as Cromwell spoke:

"This skiff might be of use to you for personal projects."

"Oh, my lord, my lord!"

"That title," said Cromwell, laughing, "is all very well
here, but take care a word like that does not escape your
lips in public."

"But your honor will soon be called so generally."

"I hope so, at least," said Cromwell, rising and putting on
his cloak.

"You are going, sir?"

"Yes," said Cromwell. "I slept here last night and the night
before, and you know it is not my custom to sleep three
times in the same bed."

"Then," said Mordaunt, "your honor gives me my liberty for
to-night?"

"And even for all day to-morrow, if you want it. Since last
evening," he added, smiling, "you have done enough in my
service, and if you have any personal matters to settle it
is just that I should give you time."

"Thank you, sir; it will be well employed, I hope."

Cromwell turned as he was going.

"Are you armed?" he asked.

"I have my sword."

"And no one waiting for you outside?"

"No."

"Then you had better come with me."

"Thank you, sir, but the way by the subterranean passage
would take too much time and I have none to lose."

Cromwell placed his hand on a hidden handle and opened a
door so well concealed by the tapestry that the most
practiced eye could not have discovered it. It closed after
him with a spring. This door communicated with a
subterranean passage, leading under the street to a grotto
in the garden of a house about a hundred yards from that of
the future Protector.

It was just before this that Grimaud had perceived the two
men seated together.

D'Artagnan was the first to recover from his surprise.

"Mordaunt," he cried. "Ah! by Heaven! it is God Himself who
sent us here."

"Yes," said Porthos, "let us break the door in and fall upon
him."

"No," replied D'Artagnan, "no noise. Now, Grimaud, you come
here, climb up to the window again and tell us if Mordaunt
is alone and whether he is preparing to go out or go to bed.
If he comes out we shall catch him. If he stays in we will
break in the window. It is easier and less noisy than the
door."

Grimaud began to scale the wall again.

"Keep guard at the other door, Athos and Aramis. Porthos and
I will stay here."

The friends obeyed.

"He is alone," said Grimaud.

"We did not see his companion come out."

"He may have gone by the other door."

"What is he doing?"

"Putting on his cloak and gloves."

"He's ours," muttered D'Artagnan.

Porthos mechanically drew his dagger from the scabbard.

"Put it up again, my friend," said D'Artagnan. "We must
proceed in an orderly manner."

"Hush!" said Grimaud, "he is coming out. He has put out the
lamp, I can see nothing now."

"Get down then and quickly."

Grimaud leaped down. The snow deadened the noise of his
fall.

"Now go and tell Athos and Aramis to stand on each side of
the door and clap their hands if they catch him. We will do
the same."

The next moment the door opened and Mordaunt appeared on the
threshold, face to face with D'Artagnan. Porthos clapped his
hands and the other two came running around. Mordaunt was
livid, but he uttered no cry nor called for assistance.
D'Artagnan quietly pushed him in again, and by the light of
a lamp on the staircase made him ascend the steps backward
one by one, keeping his eyes all the time on Mordaunt's
hands, who, however, knowing that it was useless, attempted
no resistance. At last they stood face to face in the very
room where ten minutes before Mordaunt had been talking to
Cromwell.

Porthos came up behind, and unhooking the lamp on the
staircase relit that in the room. Athos and Aramis entered
last and locked the door behind them.

"Oblige me by taking a seat," said D'Artagnan, pushing a
chair toward Mordaunt, who sat down, pale but calm. Aramis,
Porthos and D'Artagnan drew their chairs near him. Athos
alone kept away and sat in the furthest corner of the room,
as if determined to be merely a spectator of the
proceedings. He seemed to be quite overcome. Porthos rubbed
his hands in feverish impatience. Aramis bit his lips till
the blood came.

D'Artagnan alone was calm, at least in appearance.

"Monsieur Mordaunt," he said, "since, after running after
one another so long, chance has at last brought us together,
let us have a little conversation, if you please."



69

Conversational.



Though Mordaunt had been so completely taken by surprise and
had mounted the stairs in such utter confusion, when once
seated he recovered himself, as it were, and prepared to
seize any possible opportunity of escape. His eye wandered
to a long stout sword on his flank and he instinctively
slipped it around within reach of his right hand.

D'Artagnan was waiting for a reply to his remark and said
nothing. Aramis muttered to himself, "We shall hear nothing
but the usual commonplace things."

Porthos sucked his mustache, muttering, "A good deal of
ceremony to-night about crushing an adder." Athos shrunk
into his corner, pale and motionless as a bas-relief.

The silence, however, could not last forever. So D'Artagnan
began:

"Sir," he said, with desperate politeness, "it seems to me
that you change your costume almost as rapidly as I have
seen the Italian mummers do, whom the Cardinal Mazarin
brought over from Bergamo and whom he doubtless took you to
see during your travels in France."

Mordaunt did not reply.

"Just now," D'Artagnan continued, "you were disguised -- I
mean to say, attired -- as a murderer, and now ---- "

"And now I look very much like a man who is going to be
murdered."

"Oh! sir," said D'Artagnan, "how can you talk like that when
you are in the company of gentlemen and have such an
excellent sword at your side?"

"No sword is excellent enough to be of use against four
swords and daggers."

"Well, that is scarcely the question. I had the honor of
asking you why you altered your costume. The mask and beard
became you very well, and as to the axe, I do not think it
would be out of keeping even at this moment. Why, then, have
you laid it aside?"

"Because, remembering the scene at Armentieres, I thought I
should find four axes for one, as I was to meet four
executioners."

"Sir," replied D'Artagnan, in the calmest manner possible,
"you are very young; I shall therefore overlook your
frivolous remarks. What took place at Armentieres has no
connection whatever with the present occasion. We could
scarcely have requested your mother to take a sword and
fight us."

"Aha! It is a duel, then?" cried Mordaunt, as if disposed to
reply at once to the provocation.

Porthos rose, always ready for this kind of adventure.

"Pardon me," said D'Artagnan. "Do not let us do things in a
hurry. We will arrange the matter rather better. Confess,
Monsieur Mordaunt, that you are anxious to kill some of us."

"All," replied Mordaunt.

"Then, my dear sir; I am convinced that these gentlemen
return your kind wishes and will be delighted to kill you
also. Of course they will do so as honorable gentlemen, and
the best proof I can furnish is this ---- "

So saying, he threw his hat on the ground, pushed back his
chair to the wall and bowed to Mordaunt with true French
grace.

"At your service, sir," he continued. "My sword is shorter
than yours, it's true, but, bah! I think the arm will make
up for the sword."

"Halt!" cried Porthos coming forward. "I begin, and without
any rhetoric."

"Allow me, Porthos," said Aramis.

Athos did not move. He might have been taken for a statue.
Even his breathing seemed to be arrested.

"Gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, "you shall have your turn.
Monsieur Mordaunt dislikes you sufficiently not to refuse
you afterward. You can see it in his eye. So pray keep your
places, like Athos, whose calmness is entirely laudable.
Besides, we will have no words about it. I have particular
business to settle with this gentleman and I shall and will
begin."

Porthos and Aramis drew back, disappointed, and drawing his
sword D'Artagnan turned to his adversary:

"Sir, I am waiting for you."

"And for my part, gentlemen, I admire you. You are disputing
which shall fight me first, but you do not consult me who am
most concerned in the matter. I hate you all, but not
equally. I hope to kill all four of you, but I am more
likely to kill the first than the second, the second than
the third, and the third than the last. I claim, then, the
right to choose my opponent. If you refuse this right you
may kill me, but I shall not fight."

"It is but fair," said Porthos and Aramis, hoping he would
choose one of them.

Athos and D'Artagnan said nothing, but their silence seemed
to imply consent.

"Well, then," said Mordaunt, "I choose for my adversary the
man who, not thinking himself worthy to be called Comte de
la Fere, calls himself Athos."

Athos sprang up, but after an instant of motionless silence
he said, to the astonishment of his friends, "Monsieur
Mordaunt, a duel between us is impossible. Submit this
honour to somebody else." And he sat down.

"Ah!" said Mordaunt, with a sneer, "there's one who is
afraid."

"Zounds!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, bounding toward him, "who
says that Athos is afraid?"

"Let him have his say, D'Artagnan," said Athos, with a smile
of sadness and contempt.

"Is it your decision, Athos?" resumed the Gascon.

"Irrevocably."

"You hear, sir," said D'Artagnan, turning to Mordaunt. "The
Comte de la Fere will not do you the honor of fighting with
you. Choose one of us to replace the Comte de la Fere."

"As long as I don't fight with him it is the same to me with
whom I fight. Put your names into a hat and draw lots."

"A good idea," said D'Artagnan.

"At least that will conciliate us all," said Aramis.

"I should never have thought of that," said Porthos, "and
yet it is very simple."

"Come, Aramis," said D'Artagnan, "write this for us in those
neat little characters in which you wrote to Marie Michon
that the mother of this gentleman intended to assassinate
the Duke of Buckingham."

Mordaunt sustained this new attack without wincing. He stood
with his arms folded, apparently as calm as any man could be
in such circumstances. If he had not courage he had what is
very like it, namely, pride.

Aramis went to Cromwell's desk, tore off three bits of paper
of equal size, wrote on the first his own name and on the
others those of his two companions, and presented them open
to Mordaunt, who by a movement of his head indicated that he
left the matter entirely to Aramis. He then rolled them
separately and put them in a hat, which he handed to
Mordaunt.

Mordaunt put his hand into the hat, took out one of the
three papers and disdainfully dropped it on the table
without reading it.

"Ah! serpent," muttered D'Artagnan, "I would give my chance
of a captaincy in the mousquetaires for that to be my name."

Aramis opened the paper, and in a voice trembling with hate
and vengeance read "D'Artagnan."

The Gascon uttered a cry of joy and turning to Mordaunt:

"I hope, sir," said he, "you have no objection to make."

"None, whatever," replied the other, drawing his sword and
resting the point on his boot.

The moment that D'Artagnan saw that his wish was
accomplished and his man would not escape him, he recovered
his usual tranquillity. He turned up his cuffs neatly and
rubbed the sole of his right boot on the floor, but did not
fail, however, to remark that Mordaunt was looking about him
in a singular manner.

"Are you ready, sir?" he said at last.

"I was waiting for you, sir," said Mordaunt, raising his
head and casting at his opponent a look it would be
impossible to describe.

"Well, then," said the Gascon, "take care of yourself, for I
am not a bad hand at the rapier."

"Nor I either."

"So much the better; that sets my mind at rest. Defend
yourself."

"One minute," said the young man. "Give me your word,
gentlemen, that you will not attack me otherwise than one
after the other."

"Is it to have the pleasure of insulting us that you say
that, my little viper?"

"No, but to set my mind at rest, as you observed just now."

"It is for something else than that, I imagine," muttered
D'Artagnan, shaking his head doubtfully.

"On the honor of gentlemen," said Aramis and Porthos.

"In that case, gentlemen, have the kindness to retire into
the corners, so as to give us ample room. We shall require
it."

"Yes, gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, "we must not leave this
person the slightest pretext for behaving badly, which, with
all due respect, I fancy he is anxious still to do."

This new attack made no impression on Mordaunt. The space
was cleared, the two lamps placed on Cromwell's desk, in
order that the combatants might have as much light as
possible; and the swords crossed.

D'Artagnan was too good a swordsman to trifle with his
opponent. He made a rapid and brilliant feint which Mordaunt
parried.

"Aha!" he cried with a smile of satisfaction.

And without losing a minute, thinking he saw an opening, he
thrust his right in and forced Mordaunt to parry a counter
en quarte so fine that the point of the weapon might have
turned within a wedding ring.

This time it was Mordaunt who smiled.

"Ah, sir," said D'Artagnan, "you have a wicked smile. It
must have been the devil who taught it you, was it not?"

Mordaunt replied by trying his opponent's weapon with an
amount of strength which the Gascon was astonished to find
in a form apparently so feeble; but thanks to a parry no
less clever than that which Mordaunt had just achieved, he
succeeded in meeting his sword, which slid along his own
without touching his chest.

Mordaunt rapidly sprang back a step.

"Ah! you lose ground, you are turning? Well, as you please,
I even gain something by it, for I no longer see that wicked
smile of yours. You have no idea what a false look you have,
particularly when you are afraid. Look at my eyes and you
will see what no looking-glass has ever shown you -- a frank
and honorable countenance."

To this flow of words, not perhaps in the best taste, but
characteristic of D'Artagnan, whose principal object was to
divert his opponent's attention, Mordaunt did not reply, but
continuing to turn around he succeeded in changing places
with D'Artagnan.

He smiled more and more sarcastically and his smile began to
make the Gascon anxious.

"Come, come," cried D'Artagnan, "we must finish with this,"
and in his turn he pressed Mordaunt hard, who continued to
lose ground, but evidently on purpose and without letting
his sword leave the line for a moment. However, as they were
fighting in a room and had not space to go on like that
forever, Mordaunt's foot at last touched the wall, against
which he rested his left hand.

"Ah, this time you cannot lose ground, my fine friend!"
exclaimed D'Artagnan. "Gentlemen, did you ever see a
scorpion pinned to a wall? No. Well, then, you shall see it
now."

In a second D'Artagnan had made three terrible thrusts at
Mordaunt, all of which touched, but only pricked him. The
three friends looked on, panting and astonished. At last
D'Artagnan, having got up too close, stepped back to prepare
a fourth thrust, but the moment when, after a fine, quick
feint, he was attacking as sharply as lightning, the wall
seemed to give way, Mordaunt disappeared through the
opening, and D'Artagnan's blade, caught between the panels,
shivered like a sword of glass. D'Artagnan sprang back; the
wall had closed again.

Mordaunt, in fact, while defending himself, had manoeuvred
so as to reach the secret door by which Cromwell had left,
had felt for the knob with his left hand, pressed it and
disappeared.

The Gascon uttered a furious imprecation, which was answered
by a wild laugh on the other side of the iron panel.

"Help me, gentlemen," cried D'Artagnan, "we must break in
this door."

"It is the devil in person!" said Aramis, hastening forward.

"He escapes us," growled Porthos, pushing his huge shoulder
against the hinges, but in vain. "'Sblood! he escapes us."

"So much the better," muttered Athos.

"I thought as much," said D'Artagnan, wasting his strength
in useless efforts. "Zounds, I thought as much when the
wretch kept moving around the room. I thought he was up to
something."

"It's a misfortune, to which his friend, the devil, treats
us," said Aramis.

"It's a piece of good fortune sent from Heaven," said Athos,
evidently much relieved.

"Really!" said D'Artagnan, abandoning the attempt to burst
open the panel after several ineffectual attempts, "Athos, I
cannot imagine how you can talk to us in that way. You
cannot understand the position we are in. In this kind of
game, not to kill is to let one's self be killed. This fox
of a fellow will be sending us a hundred iron-sided beasts
who will pick us off like sparrows in this place. Come,
come, we must be off. If we stay here five minutes more
there's an end of us."

"Yes, you are right."

"But where shall we go?" asked Porthos.

"To the hotel, to be sure, to get our baggage and horses;
and from there, if it please God, to France, where, at
least, I understand the architecture of the houses."

So, suiting the action to the word, D'Artagnan thrust the
remnant of his sword into its scabbard, picked up his hat
and ran down the stairs, followed by the others.



70

The Skiff "Lightning."



D'Artagnan had judged correctly; Mordaunt felt that he had
no time to lose, and he lost none. He knew the rapidity of
decision and action that characterized his enemies and
resolved to act with reference to that. This time the
musketeers had an adversary who was worthy of them.

After closing the door carefully behind him Mordaunt glided
into the subterranean passage, sheathing on the way his now
useless sword, and thus reached the neighboring house, where
he paused to examine himself and to take breath.

"Good!" he said, "nothing, almost nothing -- scratches,
nothing more; two in the arm and one in the breast. The
wounds that I make are better than that -- witness the
executioner of Bethune, my uncle and King Charles. Now, not
a second to lose, for a second lost will perhaps save them.
They must die -- die all together -- killed at one stroke by
the thunder of men in default of God's. They must disappear,
broken, scattered, annihilated. I will run, then, till my
legs no longer serve, till my heart bursts in my bosom but I
will arrive before they do."

Mordaunt proceeded at a rapid pace to the nearest cavalry
barracks, about a quarter of a league distant. He made that
quarter of a league in four or five minutes. Arrived at the
barracks he made himself known, took the best horse in the
stables, mounted and gained the high road. A quarter of an
hour later he was at Greenwich.

"There is the port," he murmured. "That dark point yonder is
the Isle of Dogs. Good! I am half an hour in advance of
them, an hour, perhaps. Fool that I was! I have almost
killed myself by my needless haste. Now," he added, rising
in the stirrups and looking about him, "which, I wonder, is
the Lightning?"

At this moment, as if in reply to his words, a man lying on
a coil of cables rose and advanced a few steps toward him.
Mordaunt drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and tying a
knot at each corner -- the signal agreed upon -- waved it in
the air and the man came up to him. He was wrapped in a
large rough cape, which concealed his form and partly his
face.

"Do you wish to go on the water, sir?" said the sailor.

"Yes, just so. Along the Isle of Dogs."

"And perhaps you have a preference for one boat more than
another. You would like one that sails as rapidly as ---- "

"Lightning," interrupted Mordaunt.

"Then mine is the boat you want, sir. I'm your man."

"I begin to think so, particularly if you have not forgotten
a certain signal."

"Here it is, sir," and the sailor took from his coat a
handkerchief, tied at each corner.

"Good, quite right!" cried Mordaunt, springing off his
horse. "There's not a moment to lose; now take my horse to
the nearest inn and conduct me to your vessel."

"But," asked the sailor, "where are your companions? I
thought there were four of you."

"Listen to me, sir. I'm not the man you take me for; you are
in Captain Rogers's post, are you not? under orders from
General Cromwell. Mine, also, are from him!"

"Indeed, sir, I recognize you; you are Captain Mordaunt."

Mordaunt was startled.

"Oh, fear nothing," said the skipper, showing his face. "I
am a friend."

"Captain Groslow!" cried Mordaunt.

"Himself. The general remembered that I had formerly been a
naval officer and he gave me the command of this expedition.
Is there anything new in the wind?"

"Nothing."

"I thought, perhaps, that the king's death ---- "

"Has only hastened their flight; in ten minutes they will
perhaps be here."

"What have you come for, then?"

"To embark with you."

"Ah! ah! the general doubted my fidelity?"

"No, but I wish to have a share in my revenge. Haven't you
some one who will relieve me of my horse?"

Groslow whistled and a sailor appeared.

"Patrick," said Groslow, "take this horse to the stables of
the nearest inn. If any one asks you whose it is you can say
that it belongs to an Irish gentleman."

The sailor departed without reply.

"Now," said Mordaunt, "are you not afraid that they will
recognize you?"

"There is no danger, dressed as I am in this pilot coat, on
a night as dark as this. Besides even you didn't recognize
me; they will be much less likely to."

"That is true," said Mordaunt, "and they will be far from
thinking of you. Everything is ready, is it not?"

"Yes."

"The cargo on board?"

"Yes."

"Five full casks?"

"And fifty empty ones."

"Good."

"We are carrying port wine to Anvers."

"Excellent. Now take me aboard and return to your post, for
they will soon be here."

"I am ready."

"It is important that none of your crew should see me."

"I have but one man on board, and I am as sure of him as I
am of myself. Besides, he doesn't know you; like his mates
he is ready to obey our orders knowing nothing of our plan."

"Very well; let us go."

They then went down to the Thames. A boat was fastened to
the shore by a chain fixed to a stake. Groslow jumped in,
followed by Mordaunt, and in five minutes they were quite
away from that world of houses which then crowded the
outskirts of London; and Mordaunt could discern the little
vessel riding at anchor near the Isle of Dogs. When they
reached the side of this felucca, Mordaunt, dexterous in his
eagerness for vengeance, seized a rope and climbed up the
side of the vessel with a coolness and agility very rare
among landsmen. He went with Groslow to the captain's berth,
a sort of temporary cabin of planks, for the chief apartment
had been given up by Captain Rogers to the passengers, who
were to be accommodated at the other end of the boat.

"They will have nothing to do, then at this end?" said
Mordaunt.

"Nothing at all."

"That's a capital arrangement. Return to Greenwich and bring
them here. I shall hide myself in your cabin. You have a
longboat?"

"That in which we came."

"It appeared light and well constructed."

"Quite a canoe."

"Fasten it to the poop with a rope; put the oars into it, so
that it may follow in the track and there will be nothing to
do except to cut the cord. Put a good supply of rum and
biscuit in it for the seamen; should the night happen to be
stormy they will not be sorry to find something to console
themselves with."

"Consider all this done. Do you wish to see the
powder-room?"

"No. When you return I will set the fuse myself, but be
careful to conceal your face, so that you cannot be
recognized by them."

"Never fear."

"There's ten o'clock striking at Greenwich."

Groslow, then, having given the sailor on duty an order to
be on the watch with more than usual vigilance, went down
into the longboat and soon reached Greenwich. The wind was
chilly and the jetty was deserted, as he approached it; but
he had no sooner landed than he heard a noise of horses
galloping upon the paved road.

These horsemen were our friends, or rather, an avant garde,
composed of D'Artagnan and Athos. As soon as they arrived at
the spot where Groslow stood they stopped, as if guessing
that he was the man they wanted. Athos alighted and calmly
opened the handkerchief tied at each corner, whilst
D'Artagnan, ever cautious, remained on horseback, one hand
upon his pistol, leaning forward watchfully.

On seeing the appointed signal, Groslow, who had at first
crept behind one of the cannon planted on that spot, walked
straight up to the gentlemen. He was so well wrapped up in
his cloak that it would have been impossible to see his face
even if the night had not been so dark as to render
precaution superfluous; nevertheless, the keen glance of
Athos perceived at once it was not Rogers who stood before
them.

"What do you want with us?" he asked of Groslow.

"I wish to inform you, my lord," replied Groslow, with an
Irish accent, feigned of course, "that if you are looking
for Captain Rogers you will not find him. He fell down this
morning and broke his leg. But I'm his cousin; he told me
everything and desired me to watch instead of him, and in
his place to conduct, wherever they wished to go, the
gentlemen who should bring me a handkerchief tied at each
corner, like that one which you hold and one which I have in
my pocket."

And he drew out the handkerchief.

"Was that all he said?" inquired Athos.

"No, my lord; he said you had engaged to pay seventy pounds
if I landed you safe and sound at Boulogne or any other port
you choose in France."

"What do you think of all this?" said Athos, in a low tone
to D'Artagnan, after explaining to him in French what the
sailor had said in English.

"It seems a likely story to me."

"And to me, too."

"Besides, we can but blow out his brains if he proves
false," said the Gascon; "and you, Athos, you know something
of everything and can be our captain. I dare say you know
how to navigate, should he fail us."

"My dear friend, you guess well. My father meant me for the
navy and I have some vague notions about navigation."

"You see!" cried D'Artagnan.

They then summoned their friends, who, with Blaisois,
Musqueton and Grimaud, promptly joined them, leaving Parry
behind them, who was to take back to London the horses of
the gentlemen and of their lackeys, which had been sold to
the host in settlement of their account with him. Thanks to
this stroke of business the four friends were able to take
away with them a sum of money which, if not large, was
sufficient as a provision against delays and accidents.

Parry parted from his friends regretfully; they had proposed
his going with them to France, but he had straightway
declined.

"It is very simple," Musqueton had said; "he is thinking of
Groslow."

It was Captain Groslow, the reader will remember, who had
broken Parry's head.

D'Artagnan resumed immediately the attitude of distrust that
was habitual with him. He found the wharf too completely
deserted, the night too dark, the captain too accommodating.
He had reported to Aramis what had taken place, and Aramis,
not less distrustful than he, had increased his suspicions.
A slight click of the tongue against his teeth informed
Athos of the Gascon's uneasiness.

"We have no time now for suspicions," said Athos. "The boat
is waiting for us; come."

"Besides," said Aramis, "what prevents our being distrustful
and going aboard at the same time? We can watch the
skipper."

"And if he doesn't go straight I will crush him, that's
all."

"Well said, Porthos," replied D'Artagnan. "Let us go, then.
You first, Musqueton," and he stopped his friends, directing
the valets to go first, in order to test the plank leading
from the pier to the boat.

The three valets passed without accident. Athos followed
them, then Porthos, then Aramis. D'Artagnan went last, still
shaking his head.

"What in the devil is the matter with you, my friend?" said
Porthos. "Upon my word you would make Caesar afraid."

"The matter is," replied D'Artagnan, "that I can see upon
this pier neither inspector nor sentinel nor exciseman."

"And you complain of that!" said Porthos. "Everything goes
as if in flowery paths."

"Everything goes too well, Porthos. But no matter; we must
trust in God."

As soon as the plank was withdrawn the captain took his
place at the tiller and made a sign to one of the sailors,
who, boat-hook in hand, began to push out from the labyrinth
of boats in which they were involved. The other sailor had
already seated himself on the port side and was ready to
row. As soon as there was room for rowing, his companion
rejoined him and the boat began to move more rapidly.

"At last we are off!" exclaimed Porthos.

"Alas," said Athos, "we depart alone."

"Yes; but all four together and without a scratch; which is
a consolation."

"We are not yet at our destination," observed the prudent
D'Artagnan; "beware of misadventure."

"Ah, my friend!" cried Porthos, "like the crows, you always
bring bad omens. Who could intercept us on such a night as
this, pitch dark, when one does not see more than twenty
yards before one?"

"Yes, but to-morrow morning ---- "

"To-morrow we shall be at Boulogne."

"I hope so, with all my heart," said the Gascon, "and I
confess my weakness. Yes, Athos, you may laugh, but as long
as we were within gunshot of the pier or of the vessels
lying by it I was looking for a frightful discharge of
musketry which would crush us."

"But," said Porthos, with great wisdom, "that was
impossible, for they would have killed the captain and the
sailors."

"Bah! much Monsieur Mordaunt would care. You don't imagine
he would consider a little thing like that?"

"At any rate," said Porthos, "I am glad to hear D'Artagnan
admit that he is afraid."

"I not only confess it, but am proud of it," returned the
Gascon; "I'm not such a rhinoceros as you are. Oho! what's
that?"

"The Lightning," answered the captain, "our felucca."

"So far, so good," laughed Athos.

They went on board and the captain instantly conducted them
to the berth prepared for them -- a cabin which was to serve
for all purposes and for the whole party; he then tried to
slip away under pretext of giving orders to some one.

"Stop a moment," cried D'Artagnan; "pray how many men have
you on board, captain?"

"I don't understand," was the reply.

"Explain it, Athos."

Groslow, on the question being interpreted, answered,
"Three, without counting myself."

D'Artagnan understood, for while replying the captain had
raised three fingers. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "I begin to be
more at my ease, however, whilst you settle yourselves, I
shall make the round of the boat."

"As for me," said Porthos, "I will see to the supper."

"A very good idea, Porthos," said the Gascon. "Athos lend me
Grimaud, who in the society of his friend Parry has perhaps
picked up a little English, and can act as my interpreter."

"Go, Grimaud," said Athos.

D'Artagnan, finding a lantern on the deck, took it up and
with a pistol in his hand he said to the captain, in
English, "Come," (being, with the classic English oath, the
only English words he knew), and so saying he descended to
the lower deck.

This was divided into three compartments -- one which was
covered by the floor of that room in which Athos, Porthos
and Aramis were to pass the night; the second was to serve
as the sleeping-room for the servants, the third, under the
prow of the ship, was under the temporary cabin in which
Mordaunt was concealed.

"Oho!" cried D'Artagnan, as he went down the steps of the
hatchway, preceded by the lantern, "what a number of
barrels! one would think one was in the cave of Ali Baba.
What is there in them?" he added, putting his lantern on one
of the casks.

The captain seemed inclined to go upon deck again, but
controlling himself he answered:

"Port wine."

"Ah! port wine! 'tis a comfort," said the Gascon, "since we
shall not die of thirst. Are they all full?"

Grimaud translated the question, and Groslow, who was wiping
the perspiration from off his forehead, answered:

"Some full, others empty."

D'Artagnan struck the barrels with his hand, and having
ascertained that he spoke the truth, pushed his lantern,
greatly to the captain's alarm, into the interstices between
the barrels, and finding that there was nothing concealed in
them:

"Come along," he said; and he went toward the door of the
second compartment.

"Stop!" said the Englishman, "I have the key of that door;"
and he opened the door, with a trembling hand, into the
second compartment, where Musqueton and Blaisois were
preparing supper.

Here there was evidently nothing to seek or to apprehend and
they passed rapidly to examine the third compartment.

This was the room appropriated to the sailors. Two or three
hammocks hung upon the ceiling, a table and two benches
composed the entire furniture. D'Artagnan picked up two or
three old sails hung on the walls, and meeting nothing to
suspect, regained by the hatchway the deck of the vessel.

"And this room?" he asked, pointing to the captain's cabin.

"That's my room," replied Groslow.

"Open the door."

The captain obeyed. D'Artagnan stretched out his arm in
which he held the lantern, put his head in at the half
opened door, and seeing that the cabin was nothing better
than a shed:

"Good," he said. "If there is an army on board it is not
here that it is hidden. Let us see what Porthos has found
for supper." And thanking the captain, he regained the state
cabin, where his friends were.

Porthos had found nothing, and with him fatigue had
prevailed over hunger. He had fallen asleep and was in a
profound slumber when D'Artagnan returned. Athos and Aramis
were beginning to close their eyes, which they half opened
when their companion came in again.

"Well!" said Aramis.

"All is well; we may sleep tranquilly."

On this assurance the two friends fell asleep; and
D'Artagnan, who was very weary, bade good-night to Grimaud
and laid himself down in his cloak, with naked sword at his
side, in such a manner that his body barricaded the passage,
and it should be impossible to enter the room without
upsetting him.



71

Port Wine.



In ten minutes the masters slept; not so the servants
---hungry, and more thirsty than hungry.

Blaisois and Musqueton set themselves to preparing their bed
which consisted of a plank and a valise. On a hanging table,
which swung to and fro with the rolling of the vessel, were
a pot of beer and three glasses.

"This cursed rolling!" said Blaisois. "I know it will serve
me as it did when we came over."

"And to think," said Musqueton, "that we have nothing to
fight seasickness with but barley bread and hop beer. Pah!"

"But where is your wicker flask, Monsieur Musqueton? Have
you lost it?" asked Blaisois.

"No," replied Musqueton, "Parry kept it. Those devilish
Scotchmen are always thirsty. And you, Grimaud," he said to
his companion, who had just come in after his round with
D'Artagnan, "are you thirsty?"

"As thirsty as a Scotchman!" was Grimaud's laconic reply.

And he sat down and began to cast up the accounts of his
party, whose money he managed.

"Oh, lackadaisy! I'm beginning to feel queer!" cried
Blaisois.

"If that's the case," said Musqueton, with a learned air,
"take some nourishment."

"Do you call that nourishment?" said Blaisois, pointing to
the barley bread and pot of beer upon the table.

"Blaisois," replied Musqueton, "remember that bread is the
true nourishment of a Frenchman, who is not always able to
get bread, ask Grimaud."

"Yes, but beer?" asked Blaisois sharply, "is that their true
drink?"

"As to that," answered Musqueton, puzzled how to get out of
the difficulty, "I must confess that to me beer is as
disagreeable as wine is to the English."

"What! Monsieur Musqueton! The English -- do they dislike
wine?"

"They hate it."

"But I have seen them drink it."

"As a punishment. For example, an English prince died one
day because they had put him into a butt of Malmsey. I heard
the Chevalier d'Herblay say so."

"The fool!" cried Blaisois, "I wish I had been in his
place."

"Thou canst be," said Grimaud, writing down his figures.

"How?" asked Blaisois, "I can? Explain yourself."

Grimaud went on with his sum and cast up the whole.

"Port," he said, extending his hand in the direction of the
first compartment examined by D'Artagnan and himself.

"Eh? eh? ah? Those barrels I saw through the door?"

"Port!" replied Grimaud, beginning a fresh sum.

"I have heard," said Blaisois, "that port is a very good
wine."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Musqueton, smacking his lips.
"Excellent; there is port wine in the cellar of Monsieur le
Baron de Bracieux."

"Suppose we ask these Englishmen to sell us a bottle," said
the honest Blaisois.

"Sell!" cried Musqueton, about whom there was a remnant of
his ancient marauding character left. "One may well
perceive, young man, that you are inexperienced. Why buy
what one can take?"

"Take!" said Blaisois; "covet the goods of your neighbor?
That is forbidden, it seems to me."

"Where forbidden?" asked Musqueton.

"In the commandments of God, or of the church, I don't know
which. I only know it says, `Thou shalt not covet thy
neighbor's goods, nor yet his wife.'"

"That is a child's reason, Monsieur Blaisois," said
Musqueton in his most patronizing manner. "Yes, you talk
like a child -- I repeat the word. Where have you read in
the Scriptures, I ask you, that the English are your
neighbors?"

"Where, that is true," said Blaisois; "at least, I can't now
recall it."

"A child's reason -- I repeat it," continued Musqueton. "If
you had been ten years engaged in war, as Grimaud and I have
been, my dear Blaisois, you would know the difference there
is between the goods of others and the goods of enemies. Now
an Englishman is an enemy; this port wine belongs to the
English, therefore it belongs to us."

"And our masters?" asked Blaisois, stupefied by this
harangue, delivered with an air of profound sagacity, "will
they be of your opinion?"

Musqueton smiled disdainfully.

"I suppose that you think it necessary that I should disturb
the repose of these illustrious lords to say, `Gentlemen,
your servant, Musqueton, is thirsty.' What does Monsieur
Bracieux care, think you, whether I am thirsty or not?"

"'Tis a very expensive wine," said Blaisois, shaking his
head.

"Were it liquid gold, Monsieur Blaisois, our masters would
not deny themselves this wine. Know that Monsieur de
Bracieux is rich enough to drink a tun of port wine, even if
obliged to pay a pistole for every drop." His manner became
more and more lofty every instant; then he arose and after
finishing off the beer at one draught he advanced
majestically to the door of the compartment where the wine
was. "Ah! locked!" he exclaimed; "these devils of English,
how suspicious they are!"

"Locked!" said Blaisois; "ah! the deuce it is; unlucky, for
my stomach is getting more and more upset."

"Locked!" repeated Musqueton.

"But," Blaisois ventured to say, "I have heard you relate,
Monsieur Musqueton, that once on a time, at Chantilly, you
fed your master and yourself by taking partridges in a
snare, carp with a line, and bottles with a slipnoose."

"Perfectly true; but there was an airhole in the cellar and
the wine was in bottles. I cannot throw the loop through
this partition nor move with a pack-thread a cask of wine
which may perhaps weigh two hundred pounds."

"No, but you can take out two or three boards of the
partition," answered Blaisois, "and make a hole in the cask
with a gimlet."

Musqueton opened his great round eyes to the utmost,
astonished to find in Blaisois qualities for which he did
not give him credit.

"'Tis true," he said; "but where can I get a chisel to take
the planks out, a gimlet to pierce the cask?"

"Trousers," said Grimaud, still squaring his accounts.

"Ah, yes!" said Musqueton.

Grimaud, in fact, was not only the accountant, but the
armorer of the party; and as he was a man full of
forethought, these trousers, carefully rolled up in his
valise, contained every sort of tool for immediate use.

Musqueton, therefore, was soon provided with tools and he
began his task. In a few minutes he had extracted three
boards. He tried to pass his body through the aperture, but
not being like the frog in the fable, who thought he was
larger than he really was, he found he must take out three
or four more before he could get through.

He sighed and set to work again.

Grimaud had now finished his accounts. He arose and stood
near Musqueton.

"I," he said.

"What?" said Musqueton.

"I can pass."

"That is true," said Musqueton, glancing at his friend's
long and thin body, "you will pass easily."

"And he knows the full casks," said Blaisois, "for he has
already been in the hold with Monsieur le Chevalier
d'Artagnan. Let Monsieur Grimaud go in, Monsieur Mouston."

"I could go in as well as Grimaud," said Musqueton, a little
piqued.

"Yes, but that would take too much time and I am thirsty. I
am getting more and more seasick."

"Go in, then, Grimaud," said Musqueton, handing him the beer
pot and gimlet.

"Rinse the glasses," said Grimaud. Then with a friendly
gesture toward Musqueton, that he might forgive him for
finishing an enterprise so brilliantly begun by another, he
glided like a serpent through the opening and disappeared.

Blaisois was in a state of great excitement; he was in
ecstasies. Of all the exploits performed since their arrival
in England by the extraordinary men with whom he had the
honor to be associated, this seemed without question to be
the most wonderful.

"You are about to see" said Musqueton, looking at Blaisois
with an expression of superiority which the latter did not
even think of questioning, "you are about to see, Blaisois,
how we old soldiers drink when we are thirsty."

"My cloak," said Grimaud, from the bottom of the hold.

"What do you want?" asked Blaisois.

"My cloak -- stop up the aperture with it."

"Why?" asked Blaisois.

"Simpleton!" exclaimed Musqueton; "suppose any one came into
the room."

"Ah, true," cried Blaisois, with evident admiration; "but it
will be dark in the cellar."

"Grimaud always sees, dark or light, night as well as day,"
answered Musqueton.

"That is lucky," said Blaisois. "As for me, when I have no
candle I can't take two steps without knocking against
something."

"That's because you haven't served," said Musqueton. "Had
you been in the army you would have been able to pick up a
needle on the floor of a closed oven. But hark! I think some
one is coming."

Musqueton made, with a low whistling sound, the sign of
alarm well known to the lackeys in the days of their youth,
resumed his place at the table and made a sign to Blaisois
to follow his example.

Blaisois obeyed.

The door of their cabin was opened. Two men, wrapped in
their cloaks, appeared.

"Oho!" said they, "not in bed at a quarter past eleven.
That's against all rules. In a quarter of an hour let every
one be in bed and snoring."

These two men then went toward the compartment in which
Grimaud was secreted; opened the door, entered and shut it
after them.

"Ah!" cried Blaisois, "he is lost!"

"Grimaud's a cunning fellow," murmured Musqueton.

They waited for ten minutes, during which time no noise was
heard that might indicate that Grimaud was discovered, and
at the expiration of that anxious interval the two men
returned, closed the door after them, and repeating their
orders that the servants should go to bed and extinguish
their lights, disappeared.

"Shall we obey?" asked Blaisois. "All this looks
suspicious."

"They said a quarter of an hour. We still have five
minutes," replied Musqueton.

"Suppose we warn the masters."

"Let's wait for Grimaud."

"But perhaps they have killed him."

"Grimaud would have cried out."

"You know he is almost dumb."

"We should have heard the blow, then."

"But if he doesn't return?"

"Here he is."

At that very moment Grimaud drew back the cloak which hid
the aperture and came in with his face livid, his eyes
staring wide open with terror, so that the pupils were
contracted almost to nothing, with a large circle of white
around them. He held in his hand a tankard full of a dark
substance, and approaching the gleam of light shed by the
lamp he uttered this single monosyllable: "Oh!" with such an
expression of extreme terror that Musqueton started,
alarmed, and Blaisois was near fainting from fright.

Both, however, cast an inquisitive glance into the tankard
-- it was full of gunpowder.

Convinced that the ship was full of powder instead of having
a cargo of wine, Grimaud hastened to awake D'Artagnan, who
had no sooner beheld him than he perceived that something
extraordinary had taken place. Imposing silence, Grimaud put
out the little night lamp, then knelt down and poured into
the lieutenant's ear a recital melodramatic enough not to
require play of feature to give it pith.

This was the gist of his strange story:

The first barrel that Grimaud had found on passing into the
compartment he struck -- it was empty. He passed on to
another -- it, also, was empty, but the third which he tried
was, from the dull sound it gave out, evidently full. At
this point Grimaud stopped and was preparing to make a hole
with his gimlet, when he found a spigot; he therefore placed
his tankard under it and turned the spout; something,
whatever it was the cask contained, fell silently into the
tankard.

Whilst he was thinking that he should first taste the liquor
which the tankard contained before taking it to his
companions, the door of the cellar opened and a man with a
lantern in his hands and enveloped in a cloak, came and
stood just before the hogshead, behind which Grimaud, on
hearing him come in, instantly crept. This was Groslow. He
was accompanied by another man, who carried in his hand
something long and flexible rolled up, resembling a washing
line. His face was hidden under the wide brim of his hat.
Grimaud, thinking that they had come, as he had, to try the
port wine, effaced himself behind his cask and consoled
himself with the reflection that if he were discovered the
crime was not a great one.

"Have you the wick?" asked the one who carried the lantern.

"Here it is," answered the other.

At the voice of this last speaker, Grimaud started and felt
a shudder creeping through his very marrow. He rose gently,
so that his head was just above the round of the barrel, and
under the large hat he recognized the pale face of Mordaunt.

"How long will this fuse burn?" asked this person.

"About five minutes," replied the captain.

That voice also was known to Grimaud. He looked from one to
the other and after Mordaunt he recognized Groslow.

"Then tell the men to be in readiness -- don't tell them why
now. When the clock strikes a quarter after midnight collect
your men. Get down into the longboat."

"That is, when I have lighted the match?"

"I will undertake that. I wish to be sure of my revenge. Are
the oars in the boat?"

"Everything is ready."

"'Tis well."

Mordaunt knelt down and fastened one end of the train to the
spigot, in order that he might have nothing to do but to set
it on fire at the opposite end with the match.

He then arose.

"You hear me -- at a quarter past midnight -- in fact, in
twenty minutes."

"I understand all perfectly, sir," replied Groslow; "but
allow me to say there is great danger in what you undertake;
would it not be better to intrust one of the men to set fire
to the train?"

"My dear Groslow," answered Mordaunt, "you know the French
proverb, `Nothing one does not do one's self is ever well
done.' I shall abide by that rule."

Grimaud had heard all this, if he had not understood it. But
what he saw made good what he lacked in perfect
comprehension of the language. He had seen the two mortal
enemies of the musketeers, had seen Mordaunt adjust the
fuse; he had heard the proverb, which Mordaunt had given in
French. Then he felt and felt again the contents of the
tankard he held in his hand; and, instead of the lively
liquor expected by Blaisois and Musqueton, he found beneath
his fingers the grains of some coarse powder.

Mordaunt went away with the captain. At the door he stopped
to listen.

"Do you hear how they sleep?" he asked.

In fact, Porthos could be heard snoring through the
partition.

"'Tis God who gives them into our hands," answered Groslow.

"This time the devil himself shall not save them," rejoined
Mordaunt.

And they went out together.



72

End of the Port Wine Mystery.



Grimaud waited till he heard the bolt grind in the lock and
when he was satisfied that he was alone he slowly rose from
his recumbent posture.

"Ah!" he said, wiping with his sleeve large drops of sweat
from his forehead, "how lucky it was that Musqueton was
thirsty!"

He made haste to pass out by the opening, still thinking
himself in a dream; but the sight of the gunpowder in the
tankard proved to him that his dream was a fatal nightmare.

It may be imagined that D'Artagnan listened to these details
with increasing interest; before Grimaud had finished he
rose without noise and putting his mouth to Aramis's ear,
and at the same time touching him on the shoulder to prevent
a sudden movement:

"Chevalier," he said, "get up and don't make the least
noise."

Aramis awoke. D'Artagnan, pressing his hand, repeated his
call. Aramis obeyed.

"Athos is near you," said D'Artagnan; "warn him as I have
warned you."

Aramis easily aroused Athos, whose sleep was light, like
that of all persons of a finely organized constitution. But
there was more difficulty in arousing Porthos. He was
beginning to ask full explanation of that breaking in on his
sleep, which was very annoying to him, when D'Artagnan,
instead of explaining, closed his mouth with his hand.

Then our Gascon, extending his arms, drew to him the heads
of his three friends till they almost touched one another.

"Friends," he said, "we must leave this craft at once or we
are dead men."

"Bah!" said Athos, "are you still afraid?"

"Do you know who is captain of this vessel?"

"No."

"Captain Groslow."

The shudder of the three musketeers showed to D'Artagnan
that his words began to make some impression on them.

"Groslow!" said Aramis; "the devil!

"Who is this Groslow?" asked Porthos. "I don't remember
him."

"Groslow is the man who broke Parry's head and is now
getting ready to break ours."

"Oh! oh!"

"And do you know who is his lieutenant?"

"His lieutenant? There is none," said Athos. "They don't
have lieutenants in a felucca manned by a crew of four."

"Yes, but Monsieur Groslow is not a captain of the ordinary
kind; he has a lieutenant, and that lieutenant is Monsieur
Mordaunt."

This time the musketeers did more than shudder -- they
almost cried out. Those invincible men were subject to a
mysterious and fatal influence which that name had over
them; the mere sound of it filled them with terror.

"What shall we do?" said Athos.

"We must seize the felucca," said Aramis.

"And kill him," said Porthos.

"The felucca is mined," said D'Artagnan. "Those casks which
I took for casks of port wine are filled with powder. When
Mordaunt finds himself discovered he will destroy all,
friends and foes; and on my word he would be bad company in
going either to Heaven or to hell."

"You have some plan, then?" asked Athos.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Have you confidence in me?"

"Give your orders," said the three musketeers.

"Wry well; come this way."

D'Artagnan went toward a very small, low window, just large
enough to let a man through. He turned it gently on its
hinges.

"There," he said, "is our road."

"The deuce! it is a very cold one, my dear friend," said
Aramis.

"Stay here, if you like, but I warn you 'twill be rather too
warm presently."

"But we cannot swim to the shore."

"The longboat is yonder, lashed to the felucca. We will take
possession of it and cut the cable. Come, my friends."

"A moment's delay," said Athos; "our servants?"

"Here we are!" they cried.

Meantime the three friends were standing motionless before
the awful sight which D'Artagnan, in raising the shutters,
had disclosed to them through the narrow opening of the
window.

Those who have once beheld such a spectacle know that there
is nothing more solemn, more striking, than the raging sea,
rolling, with its deafening roar, its dark billows beneath
the pale light of a wintry moon.

"Gracious Heaven, we are hesitating!" cried D'Artagnan; "if
we hesitate what will the servants do?"

"I do not hesitate, you know," said Grimaud.

"Sir," interposed Blaisois, "I warn you that I can only swim
in rivers."

"And I not at all," said Musqueton.

But D'Artagnan had now slipped through the window.

"You have decided, friend?" said Athos.

"Yes," the Gascon answered; "Athos! you, who are a perfect
being, bid spirit triumph over body. Do you, Aramis, order
the servants. Porthos, kill every one who stands in your
way."

And after pressing the hand of Athos, D'Artagnan chose a
moment when the ship rolled backward, so that he had only to
plunge into the water, which was already up to his waist.

Athos followed him before the felucca rose again on the
waves; the cable which tied the boat to the vessel was then
seen plainly rising out of the sea.

D'Artagnan swam to it and held it, suspending himself by
this rope, his head alone out of water.

In one second Athos joined him.

Then they saw, as the felucca turned, two other heads
peeping, those of Aramis and Grimaud.

"I am uneasy about Blaisois," said Athos; "he can, he says,
only swim in rivers."

"When people can swim at all they can swim anywhere. To the
boat! to the boat!"

"But Porthos, I do not see him."

"Porthos is coming -- he swims like Leviathan."

In fact, Porthos did not appear; for a scene, half tragedy
and half comedy, had been performed by him with Musqueton
and Blaisois, who, frightened by the noise of the sea, by
the whistling of the wind, by the sight of that dark water
yawning like a gulf beneath them, shrank back instead of
going forward.

"Come, come!" said Porthos; "jump in."

"But, monsieur," said Musqueton, "I can't swim; let me stay
here."

"And me, too, monsieur," said Blaisois.

"I assure you, I shall be very much in the way in that
little boat," said Musqueton.

"And I know I shall drown before reaching it," continued
Blaisois.

"Come along! I shall strangle you both if you don't get
out," said Porthos at last, seizing Musqueton by the throat.
"Forward, Blaisois!"

A groan, stifled by the grasp of Porthos, was all the reply
of poor Blaisois, for the giant, taking him neck and heels,
plunged him into the water headforemost, pushing him out of
the window as if he had been a plank.

"Now, Musqueton," he said, "I hope you don't mean to desert
your master?"

"Ah, sir," replied Musqueton, his eyes filling with tears,
"why did you re-enter the army? We were all so happy in the
Chateau de Pierrefonds!"

And without any other complaint, passive and obedient,
either from true devotion to his master or from the example
set by Blaisois, Musqueton leaped into the sea headforemost.
A sublime action, at all events, for Musqueton looked upon
himself as dead. But Porthos was not a man to abandon an old
servant, and when Musqueton rose above the water, blind as a
new-born puppy, he found he was supported by the large hand
of Porthos and that he was thus enabled, without having
occasion even to move, to advance toward the cable with the
dignity of a very triton.

In a few minutes Porthos had rejoined his companions, who
were already in the boat; but when, after they had all got
in, it came to his turn, there was great danger that in
putting his huge leg over the edge of the boat he would
upset the little vessel. Athos was the last to enter.

"Are you all here?" he asked.

"Ah! have you your sword, Athos?" cried D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"Cut the cable, then."

Athos drew a sharp poniard from his belt and cut the cord.
The felucca went on, the boat continued stationary, rocked
only by the swashing waves.

"Come, Athos!" said D'Artagnan, giving his hand to the
count; "you are going to see something curious," added the
Gascon.



73

Fatality.



Scarcely had D'Artagnan uttered these words when a ringing
and sudden noise was heard resounding through the felucca,
which had now become dim in the obscurity of the night.

"That, you may be sure," said the Gascon, "means something."

They then at the same instant perceived a large lantern
carried on a pole appear on the deck, defining the forms of
shadows behind it.

Suddenly a terrible cry, a cry of despair, was wafted
through space; and as if the shrieks of anguish had driven
away the clouds, the veil which hid the moon was cleated
away and the gray sails and dark shrouds of the felucca were
plainly visible beneath the silvery light.

Shadows ran, as if bewildered, to and fro on the vessel, and
mournful cries accompanied these delirious walkers. In the
midst of these screams they saw Mordaunt upon the poop with
a torch in hand.

The agitated figures, apparently wild with terror, consisted
of Groslow, who at the hour fixed by Mordaunt had collected
his men and the sailors. Mordaunt, after having listened at
the door of the cabin to hear if the musketeers were still
asleep, had gone down into the cellar, convinced by their
silence that they were all in a deep slumber. Then he had
run to the train, impetuous as a man who is excited by
revenge, and full of confidence, as are those whom God
blinds, he had set fire to the wick of nitre.

All this while Groslow and his men were assembled on deck.

"Haul up the cable and draw the boat to us," said Groslow.

One of the sailors got down the side of the ship, seized the
cable, and drew it; it came without the least resistance.

"The cable is cut!" he cried, "no boat!"

"How! no boat!" exclaimed Groslow; "it is impossible."

"'Tis true, however," answered the sailor; "there's nothing
in the wake of the ship; besides, here's the end of the
cable."

"What's the matter?" cried Mordaunt, who, coming up out of
the hatchway, rushed to the stern, waving his torch.

"Only that our enemies have escaped; they have cut the cord
and gone off with the boat."

Mordaunt bounded with one step to the cabin and kicked open
the door.

"Empty!" he exclaimed; "the infernal demons!"

"We must pursue them," said Groslow, "they can't be gone
far, and we will sink them, passing over them."

"Yes, but the fire," ejaculated Mordaunt; "I have lighted
it."

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Groslow, rushing to the
hatchway; "perhaps there is still time to save us."

Mordaunt answered only by a terrible laugh, threw his torch
into the sea and plunged in after it. The instant Groslow
put his foot upon the hatchway steps the ship opened like
the crater of a volcano. A burst of flame rose toward the
skies with an explosion like that of a hundred cannon; the
air burned, ignited by flaming embers, then the frightful
lightning disappeared, the brands sank, one after another,
into the abyss, where they were extinguished, and save for a
slight vibration in the air, after a few minutes had elapsed
one would have thought that nothing had happened.

Only -- the felucca had disappeared from the surface of the
sea and Groslow and his three sailors were consumed.

The four friends saw all this -- not a single detail of this
fearful scene escaped them. At one moment, bathed as they
were in a flood of brilliant light, which illumined the sea
for the space of a league, they might each be seen, each by
his own peculiar attitude and manner expressing the awe
which, even in their hearts of bronze, they could not help
experiencing. Soon a torrent of vivid sparks fell around
them -- then, at last, the volcano was extinguished -- then
all was dark and still -- the floating bark and heaving
ocean.

They sat silent and dejected.

"By Heaven!" at last said Athos, the first to speak, "by
this time, I think, all must be over."

"Here, my lords! save me! help!" cried a voice, whose
mournful accents, reaching the four friends, seemed to
proceed from some phantom of the ocean.

All looked around; Athos himself stared.

"'Tis he! it is his voice!"

All still remained silent, the eyes of all were turned in
the direction where the vessel had disappeared, endeavoring
in vain to penetrate the darkness. After a minute or two
they were able to distinguish a man, who approached them,
swimming vigorously.

Athos extended his arm toward him, pointing him out to his
companions.

"Yes, yes, I see him well enough," said D'Artagnan.

"He -- again!" cried Porthos, who was breathing like a
blacksmith's bellows; "why, he is made of iron."

"Oh, my God!" muttered Athos.

Aramis and D'Artagnan whispered to each other.

Mordaunt made several strokes more, and raising his arm in
sign of distress above the waves: "Pity, pity on me,
gentlemen, in Heaven's name! my strength is failing me; I am
dying."

The voice that implored aid was so piteous that it awakened
pity in the heart of Athos.

"Poor fellow!" he exclaimed.

"Indeed!" said D'Artagnan, "monsters have only to complain
to gain your sympathy. I believe he's swimming toward us.
Does he think we are going to take him in? Row, Porthos,
row." And setting the example he plowed his oar into the
sea; two strokes took the bark on twenty fathoms further.

"Oh! you will not abandon me! You will not leave me to
perish! You will not be pitiless!" cried Mordaunt.

"Ah! ah!" said Porthos to Mordaunt, "I think we have you
now, my hero! and there are no doors by which you can escape
this time but those of hell."

"Oh! Porthos!" murmured the Comte de la Fere.

"Oh, pray, for mercy's sake, don't fly from me. For pity's
sake!" cried the young man, whose agony-drawn breath at
times, when his head went under water, under the wave,
exhaled and made the icy waters bubble.

D'Artagnan, however, who had consulted with Aramis, spoke to
the poor wretch. "Go away," he said; "your repentance is too
recent to inspire confidence. See! the vessel in which you
wished to fry us is still smoking; and the situation in
which you are is a bed of roses compared to that in which
you wished to place us and in which you have placed Monsieur
Groslow and his companions."

"Sir!" replied Mordaunt, in a tone of deep despair, "my
penitence is sincere. Gentlemen, I am young, scarcely
twenty-three years old. I was drawn on by a very natural
resentment to avenge my mother. You would have done what I
did."

Mordaunt wanted now only two or three fathoms to reach the
boat, for the approach of death seemed to give him
supernatural strength.

"Alas!" he said, "I am then to die? You are going to kill
the son, as you killed the mother! Surely, if I am culpable
and if I ask for pardon, I ought to be forgiven."

Then, as if his strength failed him, he seemed unable to
sustain himself above the water and a wave passed over his
head, which drowned his voice.

"Oh! this is torture to me," cried Athos.

Mordaunt reappeared.

"For my part," said D'Artagnan, "I say this must come to an
end; murderer, as you were, of your uncle! executioner, as
you were, of King Charles! incendiary! I recommend you to
sink forthwith to the bottom of the sea; and if you come
another fathom nearer, I'll stave your wicked head in with
this oar."

"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan!" cried Athos, "my son, I entreat
you; the wretch is dying, and it is horrible to let a man
die without extending a hand to save him. I cannot resist
doing so; he must live."

"Zounds!" replied D'Artagnan, "why don't you give yourself
up directly, feet and hands bound, to that wretch? Ah! Comte
de la Fere, you wish to perish by his hands! I, your son, as
you call me -- I will not let you!"

'Twas the first time D'Artagnan had ever refused a request
from Athos.

Aramis calmly drew his sword, which he had carried between
his teeth as he swam.

"If he lays his hand on the boat's edge I will cut it off,
regicide that he is."

"And I," said Porthos. "Wait."

"What are you going to do?" asked Aramis.

"Throw myself in the water and strangle him."

"Oh, gentlemen!" cried Athos, "be men! be Christians! See!
death is depicted on his face! Ah! do not bring on me the
horrors of remorse! Grant me this poor wretch's life. I will
bless you -- I ---- "

"I am dying!" cried Mordaunt, "come to me! come to me!"

D'Artagnan began to be touched. The boat at this moment
turned around, and the dying man was by that turn brought
nearer Athos.

"Monsieur the Comte de la Fere," he cried, "I supplicate
you! pity me! I call on you -- where are you? I see you no
longer -- I am dying -- help me! help me!"

"Here I am, sir!" said Athos, leaning and stretching out his
arm to Mordaunt with that air of dignity and nobility of
soul habitual to him; "here I am, take my hand and jump into
our boat."

Mordaunt made a last effort -- rose -- seized the hand thus
extended to him and grasped it with the vehemence of
despair.

"That's right," said Athos; "put your other hand here. "And
he offered him his shoulder as another stay and support, so
that his head almost touched that of Mordaunt; and these two
mortal enemies were in as close an embrace as if they had
been brothers.

"Now, sir," said the count, "you are safe -- calm yourself."

"Ah! my mother," cried Mordaunt, with eyes on fire with a
look of hate impossible to paint, "I can only offer thee one
victim, but it shall at any rate be the one thou wouldst
thyself have chosen!"

And whilst D'Artagnan uttered a cry, Porthos raised the oar,
and Aramis sought a place to strike, a frightful shake given
to the boat precipitated Athos into the sea; whilst
Mordaunt, with a shout of triumph, grasped the neck of his
victim, and in order to paralyze his movements, twined arms
and legs around the musketeer. For an instant, without an
exclamation, without a cry for help, Athos tried to sustain
himself on the surface of the waters, but the weight dragged
him down; he disappeared by degrees; soon nothing was to be
seen except his long, floating hair; then both men
disappeared and the bubbling of the water, which, in its
turn, was soon effaced, alone indicated the spot where these
two had sunk.

Mute with horror, the three friends had remained
open-mouthed, their eyes dilated, their arms extended like
statues, and, motionless as they were, the beating of their
hearts was audible. Porthos was the first who came to
himself. He tore his hair.

"Oh!" he cried, "Athos! Athos! thou man of noble heart; woe
is me! I have let thee perish!"

At this instant, in the midst of the silver circle illumined
by the light of the moon the same whirlpool which had been
made by the sinking men was again obvious, and first were
seen, rising above the waves, a wisp of hair, then a pale
face with open eyes, yet, nevertheless, the eyes of death;
then a body, which, after rising of itself even to the waist
above the sea, turned gently on its back, according to the
caprice of the waves, and floated.

In the bosom of this corpse was plunged a poniard, the gold
hilt of which shone in the moonbeams.

"Mordaunt! Mordaunt!" cried the three friends; "'tis
Mordaunt!"

"But Athos!" exclaimed D'Artagnan.

Suddenly the boat leaned on one side beneath a new and
unexpected weight and Grimaud uttered a shout of joy; every
one turned around and beheld Athos, livid, his eyes dim and
his hands trembling, supporting himself on the edge of the
boat. Eight vigorous arms lifted him up immediately and laid
him in the boat, where directly Athos was warmed and
reanimated, reviving with the caresses and cares of his
friends, who were intoxicated with joy.

"You are not hurt?" asked D'Artagnan.

"No," replied Athos; "and he ---- "

"Oh, he! now we may say at last, thank Heaven! he is really
dead. Look!" and D'Artagnan, obliging Athos to look in the
direction he pointed, showed him the body of Mordaunt
floating on its back, which, sometimes submerged, sometimes
rising, seemed still to pursue the four friends with looks
of insult and mortal hatred.

At last he sank. Athos had followed him with a glance in
which the deepest melancholy and pity were expressed.

"Bravo! Athos!" cried Aramis, with an emotion very rare in
him.

"A capital blow you gave!" cried Porthos.

"I have a son. I wished to live," said Athos.

"In short," said D'Artagnan, "this has been the will of
God."

"It was not I who killed him," said Athos in a soft, low
tone, "'twas destiny."



74

How Musqueton, after being very nearly roasted, had a Narrow
Escape of being eaten.



A deep silence reigned for a long time in the boat after the
fearful scene described.

The moon, which had shone for a short time, disappeared
behind the clouds; every object was again plunged in the
obscurity that is so awful in the deserts and still more so
in that liquid desert, the ocean, and nothing was heard save
the whistling of the west wind driving along the tops of the
crested billows.

Porthos was the first to speak.

"I have seen," he said, "many dreadful things, but nothing
that ever agitated me so much as what I have just witnessed.
Nevertheless, even in my present state of perturbation, I
protest that I feel happy. I have a hundred pounds' weight
less upon my chest. I breathe more freely." In fact, Porthos
breathed so loud as to do credit to the free play of his
powerful lungs.

"For my part," observed Aramis, "I cannot say the same as
you do, Porthos. I am still terrified to such a degree that
I scarcely believe my eyes. I look around the boat,
expecting every moment to see that poor wretch holding
between his hands the poniard plunged into his heart."

"Oh! I feel easy," replied Porthos. "The poniard was pointed
at the sixth rib and buried up to the hilt in his body. I do
not reproach you, Athos, for what you have done. On the
contrary, when one aims a blow that is the regulation way to
strike. So now, I breathe again -- I am happy!"

"Don't be in haste to celebrate a victory, Porthos,"
interposed D'Artagnan; "never have we incurred a greater
danger than we are now encountering. Men may subdue men --
they cannot overcome the elements. We are now on the sea, at
night, without any pilot, in a frail bark; should a blast of
wind upset the boat we are lost."

Musqueton heaved a deep sigh.

"You are ungrateful, D'Artagnan," said Athos; "yes,
ungrateful to Providence, to whom we owe our safety in the
most miraculous manner. Let us sail before the wind, and
unless it changes we shall be drifted either to Calais or
Boulogne. Should our bark be upset we are five of us good
swimmers, able enough to turn it over again, or if not, to
hold on by it. Now we are on the very road which all the
vessels between Dover and Calais take, 'tis impossible but
that we should meet with a fisherman who will pick us up."

"But should we not find any fisherman and should the wind
shift to the north?"

"That," said Athos, "would be quite another thing; and we
should nevermore see land until we were upon the other side
of the Atlantic."

"Which implies that we may die of hunger," said Aramis.

"'Tis more than possible," answered the Comte de la Fere.

Musqueton sighed again, more deeply than before.

"What is the matter? what ails you?" asked Porthos.

"I am cold, sir," said Musqueton.

"Impossible! your body is covered with a coating of fat
which preserves it from the cold air."

"Ah! sir, 'tis this very coating of fat that makes me
shiver."

"How is that, Musqueton?

"Alas! your honor, in the library of the Chateau of Bracieux
there are a lot of books of travels."

"What then?"

"Amongst them the voyages of Jean Mocquet in the time of
Henry IV."

"Well?"

"In these books, your honor, 'tis told how hungry voyagers,
drifting out to sea, have a bad habit of eating each other
and beginning with ---- "

"The fattest among them!" cried D'Artagnan, unable in spite
of the gravity of the occasion to help laughing.

"Yes, sir," answered Musqueton; "but permit me to say I see
nothing laughable in it. However," he added, turning to
Porthos, "I should not regret dying, sir, were I sure that
by doing so I might still be useful to you."

"Mouston," replied Porthos, much affected, "should we ever
see my castle of Pierrefonds again you shall have as your
own and for your descendants the vineyard that surrounds the
farm."

"And you should call it `Devotion,'" added Aramis; "the
vineyard of self-sacrifice, to transmit to latest ages the
recollection of your devotion to your master."

"Chevalier," said D'Artagnan, laughing, "you could eat a
piece of Mouston, couldn't you, especially after two or
three days of fasting?"

"Oh, no," replied Aramis, "I should much prefer Blaisois; we
haven't known him so long."

One may readily conceive that during these jokes which were
intended chiefly to divert Athos from the scene which had
just taken place, the servants, with the exception of
Grimaud, were not silent. Suddenly Musqueton uttered a cry
of delight, taking from beneath one of the benches a bottle
of wine; and on looking more closely in the same place he
discovered a dozen similar bottles, bread, and a monster
junk of salted beef.

"Oh, sir!" he cried, passing the bottle to Porthos, "we are
saved -- the bark is supplied with provisions."

This intelligence restored every one save Athos to gayety.

"Zounds!" exclaimed Porthos, "'tis astonishing how empty
violent agitation makes the stomach."

And he drank off half a bottle at a draught and bit great
mouthfuls of the bread and meat.

"Now," said Athos, "sleep, or try to sleep, my friends, and
I will watch."

In a few moments, notwithstanding their wet clothes, the icy
blast that blew and the previous scene of terror, these
hardy adventurers, with their iron frames, inured to every
hardship, threw themselves down, intending to profit by the
advice of Athos, who sat at the helm, pensively wakeful,
guiding the little bark the way it was to go, his eyes fixed
on the heavens, as if he sought to verify not only the road
to France, but the benign aspect of protecting Providence.
After some hours of repose the sleepers were aroused by
Athos.

Dawn was shedding its pallid, placid glimmer on the purple
ocean, when at the distance of a musket shot from them was
seen a dark gray mass, above which gleamed a triangular
sail; then masters and servants joined in a fervent cry to
the crew of that vessel to hear them and to save.

"A bark!" all cried together.

It was, in fact, a small craft from Dunkirk bound for
Boulogne.

A quarter of an hour afterward the rowboat of this craft
took them all aboard. Grimaud tendered twenty guineas to the
captain, and at nine o'clock in the morning, having a fair
wind, our Frenchmen set foot on their native land.

"Egad! how strong one feels here!" said Porthos, almost
burying his large feet in the sands. "Zounds! I could defy a
nation!"

"Be quiet, Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "we are observed."

"We are admired, i'faith," answered Porthos.

"These people who are looking at us are only merchants,"
said Athos, "and are looking more at the cargo than at us."

"I shall not trust to that," said the lieutenant, "and I
shall make for the Dunes* as soon as possible."



*Sandy hills about Dunkirk, from which it derives its name.



The party followed him and soon disappeared with him behind
the hillocks of sand unobserved. Here, after a short
conference, they proposed to separate.

"And why separate?" asked Athos.

"Because," answered the Gascon, "we were sent, Porthos and
I, by Cardinal Mazarin to fight for Cromwell; instead of
fighting for Cromwell we have served Charles I. -- not the
same thing by any means. In returning with the Comte de la
Fere and Monsieur d'Herblay our crime would be confirmed. We
have circumvented Cromwell, Mordaunt, and the sea, but we
shall find a certain difficulty in circumventing Mazarin."

"You forget," replied Athos, "that we consider ourselves
your prisoners and not free from the engagement we entered
into."

"Truly, Athos," interrupted D'Artagnan, "I am vexed that
such a man as you are should talk nonsense which schoolboys
would be ashamed of. Chevalier," he continued, addressing
Aramis, who, leaning proudly on his sword, seemed to agree
with his companion, "Chevalier, Porthos and I run no risk;
besides, should any ill-luck happen to two of us, will it
not be much better that the other two should be spared to
assist those who may be apprehended? Besides, who knows
whether, divided, we may not obtain a pardon -- you from the
queen, we from Mazarin -- which, were we all four together,
would never be granted. Come, Athos and Aramis, go to the
right; Porthos, come with me to the left; these gentlemen
should file off into Normandy, whilst we, by the nearest
road, reach Paris."

He then gave his friends minute directions as to their
route.

"Ah! my dear friend," exclaimed Athos, "how I should admire
the resources of your mind did I not stop to adore those of
your heart."

And he gave him his hand.

"Isn't this fox a genius, Athos?" asked the Gascon. "No! he
knows how to crunch fowls, to dodge the huntsman and to find
his way home by day or by night, that's all. Well, is all
said?"

"All."

"Then let's count our money and divide it. Ah! hurrah!
there's the sun! A merry morning to you, Sunshine. 'Tis a
long time since I saw thee!"

"Come, come, D'Artagnan," said Athos, "do not affect to be
strong-minded; there are tears in your eyes. Let us be open
with each other and sincere."

"What!" cried the Gascon, "do you think, Athos, we can take
leave, calmly, of two friends at a time not free from danger
to you and Aramis?"

"No," answered Athos; "embrace me, my son."

"Zounds!" said Porthos, sobbing, "I believe I'm crying; but
how foolish all this is!"

Then they embraced. At that moment their fraternal bond of
union was closer than ever, and when they parted, each to
take the route agreed on, they turned back to utter
affectionate expressions, which the echoes of the Dunes
repeated. At last they lost sight of each other.

"Sacrebleu! D'Artagnan," said Porthos, "I must out with it
at once, for I can't keep to myself anything I have against
you; I haven't been able to recognize you in this matter."

"Why not?" said D'Artagnan, with his wise smile.

"Because if, as you say, Athos and Aramis are in real
danger, this is not the time to abandon them. For my part, I
confess to you that I was all ready to follow them and am
still ready to rejoin them, in spite of all the Mazarins in
the world."

"You would be right, Porthos, but for one thing, which may
change the current of your ideas; and that is, that it is
not those gentlemen who are in the greatest danger, it is
ourselves; it is not to abandon them that we have separated,
but to avoid compromising them."

"Really?" said Porthos, opening his eyes in astonishment.

"Yes, no doubt. If they are arrested they will only be put
in the Bastile; if we are arrested it is a matter of the
Place de Greve."

"Oh! oh!" said Porthos, "there is quite a gap between that
fate and the baronial coronet you promised me, D'Artagnan."

"Bah! perhaps not so great as you think, Porthos; you know
the proverb, `All roads lead to Rome.'"

"But how is it that we are incurring greater risks than
Athos and Aramis?" asked Porthos.

"Because they have but fulfilled the mission confided to
them by Queen Henrietta and we have betrayed that confided
to us by Mazarin; because, going hence as emissaries to
Cromwell, we became partisans of King Charles; because,
instead of helping cut off the royal head condemned by those
fellows called Mazarin, Cromwell, Joyce, Bridge, Fairfax,
etc., we very nearly succeeded in saving it."

"Upon my word that is true," said Porthos; "but how can you
suppose, my dear friend, that in the midst of his great
preoccupations General Cromwell has had time to think ---- "

"Cromwell thinks of everything; Cromwell has time for
everything; and believe me, dear friend, we ought not to
lose our time -- it is precious. We shall not be safe till
we have seen Mazarin, and then ---- "

"The devil!" said Porthos; "what can we say to Mazarin?"

"Leave that to me -- I have my plan. He laughs best who
laughs last. Cromwell is mighty, Mazarin is tricky, but I
would rather have to do with them than with the late
Monsieur Mordaunt."

"Ah!" said Porthos, "it is very pleasant to be able to say
`the late Monsieur Mordaunt.'"

"My faith, yes," said D'Artagnan. "But we must be going."

The two immediately started across country toward the road
to Paris, followed by Musqueton, who, after being too cold
all night, at the end of a quarter of an hour found himself
too warm.



75

The Return.



During the six weeks that Athos and Aramis had been absent
from France, the Parisians, finding themselves one morning
without either queen or king, were greatly annoyed at being
thus deserted, and the absence of Mazarin, a thing so long
desired, did not compensate for that of the two august
fugitives.

The first feeling that pervaded Paris on hearing of the
flight to Saint Germain, was that sort of affright which
seizes children when they awake in the night and find
themselves alone. A deputation was therefore sent to the
queen to entreat her to return to Paris; but she not only
declined to receive the deputies, but sent an intimation by
Chancellor Seguier, implying that if the parliament did not
humble itself before her majesty by negativing all the
questions that had been the cause of the quarrel, Paris
would be besieged the very next day.

This threatening answer, unluckily for the court, produced
quite a different effect to that which was intended. It
wounded the pride of the parliament, which, supported by the
citizens, replied by declaring that Cardinal Mazarin was the
cause of all the discontent; denounced him as the enemy both
of the king and the state, and ordered him to retire from
the court that same day and from France within a week
afterward; enjoining, in case of disobedience on his part,
all the subjects of the king to pursue and take him.

Mazarin being thus placed beyond the pale of the protection
of the law, preparations on both sides were commenced -- by
the queen, to attack Paris, by the citizens, to defend it.
The latter were occupied in breaking up the pavement and
stretching chains across the streets, when, headed by the
coadjutor, appeared the Prince de Conti (the brother of the
Prince de Conde) and the Duc de Longueville, his
brother-in-law. This unexpected band of auxiliaries arrived
in Paris on the tenth of January and the Prince of Conti was
named, but not until after a stormy discussion,
generalissimo of the army of the king, out of Paris.

As for the Duc de Beaufort, he arrived from Vendome,
according to the annals of the day, bringing with him his
high bearing and his long and beautiful hair, qualifications
which gained him the sovereignty of the marketplaces.

The Parisian army had organized with the promptness
characteristic of the bourgeois whenever they are moved by
any sentiment whatever to disguise themselves as soldiers.
On the nineteenth the impromptu army had attempted a sortie,
more to assure itself and others of its actual existence
than with any more serious intention. They carried a banner,
on which could be read this strange device: "We are seeking
our king."

The next following days were occupied in trivial movements
which resulted only in the carrying off of a few herds of
cattle and the burning of two or three houses.

That was still the situation of affairs up to the early days
of February. On the first day of that month our four
companions had landed at Boulogne, and, in two parties, had
set out for Paris. Toward the end of the fourth day of the
journey Athos and Aramis reached Nanterre, which place they
cautiously passed by on the outskirts, fearing that they
might encounter some troop from the queen's army.

It was against his will that Athos took these precautions,
but Aramis had very judiciously reminded him that they had
no right to be imprudent, that they had been charged by King
Charles with a supreme and sacred mission, which, received
at the foot of the scaffold, could be accomplished only at
the feet of Queen Henrietta. Upon that, Athos yielded.

On reaching the capital Athos and Aramis found it in arms.
The sentinel at the gate refused even to let them pass, and
called his sergeant.

The sergeant, with the air of importance which such people
assume when they are clad with military dignity, said:

"Who are you, gentlemen?"

"Two gentlemen."

"And where do you come from?"

"From London."

"And what are you going to do in Paris?"

"We are going with a mission to Her Majesty, the Queen of
England."

"Ah, every one seems to be going to see the queen of
England. We have already at the station three gentlemen
whose passports are under examination, who are on their way
to her majesty. Where are your passports?"

"We have none; we left England, ignorant of the state of
politics here, having left Paris before the departure of the
king."

"Ah!" said the sergeant, with a cunning smile, "you are
Mazarinists, who are sent as spies."

"My dear friend," here Athos spoke, "rest assured, if we
were Mazarinists we should come well prepared with every
sort of passport. In your situation distrust those who are
well provided with every formality."

"Enter the guardroom," said the sergeant; "we will lay your
case before the commandant of the post."

The guardroom was filled with citizens and common people,
some playing, some drinking, some talking. In a corner,
almost hidden from view, were three gentlemen, who had
preceded Athos and Aramis, and an officer was examining
their passports. The first impulse of these three, and of
those who last entered, was to cast an inquiring glance at
each other. The first arrivals wore long cloaks, in whose
drapery they were carefully enveloped; one of them, shorter
than the rest, remained pertinaciously in the background.

When the sergeant on entering the room announced that in all
probability he was bringing in two Mazarinists, it appeared
to be the unanimous opinion of the officers on guard that
they ought not to pass.

"Be it so," said Athos; "yet it is probable, on the
contrary, that we shall enter, because we seem to have to do
with sensible people. There seems to be only one thing to
do, which is, to send our names to Her Majesty the Queen of
England, and if she engages to answer for us I presume we
shall be allowed to enter."

On hearing these words the shortest of the other three men
seemed more attentive than ever to what was going on,
wrapping his cloak around him more carefully than before.

"Merciful goodness!" whispered Aramis to Athos, "did you
see?"

"What?" asked Athos.

"The face of the shortest of those three gentlemen?"

"No."

"He looked to me -- but 'tis impossible."

At this instant the sergeant, who had been for his orders,
returned, and pointing to the three gentlemen in cloaks,
said:

"The passports are in order; let these three gentlemen
pass."

The three gentlemen bowed and hastened to take advantage of
this permission.

Aramis looked after them, and as the last of them passed
close to him he pressed the hand of Athos.

"What is the matter with you, my friend?" asked the latter.

"I have -- doubtless I am dreaming; tell me, sir," he said
to the sergeant, "do you know those three gentlemen who are
just gone out?"

"Only by their passports; they are three Frondists, who are
gone to rejoin the Duc de Longueville."

"'Tis strange," said Aramis, almost involuntarily; "I
fancied that I recognized Mazarin himself."

The sergeant burst into a fit of laughter.

"He!" he cried; "he venture himself amongst us, to be hung!
Not so foolish as all that."

"Ah!" muttered Athos, "I may be mistaken, I haven't the
unerring eye of D'Artagnan."

"Who is speaking of Monsieur D'Artagnan?" asked an officer
who appeared at that moment upon the threshold of the room.

"What!" cried Aramis and Athos, "what! Planchet!"

"Planchet," added Grimaud; "Planchet, with a gorget,
indeed!"

"Ah, gentlemen!" cried Planchet, "so you are back again in
Paris. Oh, how happy you make us! no doubt you come to join
the princes!"

"As thou seest, Planchet," said Aramis, whilst Athos smiled
on seeing what important rank was held in the city militia
by the former comrade of Musqueton, Bazin and Grimaud.

"And Monsieur d'Artagnan, of whom you spoke just now,
Monsieur d'Herblay; may I ask if you have any news of him?"

"We parted from him four days ago and we have reason to
believe that he has reached Paris before us."

"No, sir; I am sure he hasn't yet arrived. But then he may
have stopped at Saint Germain."

"I don't think so; we appointed to meet at La Chevrette."

"I was there this very day."

"And had the pretty Madeleine no news?" asked Aramis,
smiling.

"No, sir, and it must be admitted that she seemed very
anxious."

"In fact," said Aramis, "there is no time lost and we made
our journey quickly. Permit me, then, my dear Athos, without
inquiring further about our friend, to pay my respects to M.
Planchet."

"Ah, monsieur le chevalier," said Planchet, bowing.

"Lieutenant?" asked Aramis.

"Lieutenant, with a promise of becoming captain."

"'Tis capital; and pray, how did you acquire all these
honors?"

"In the first place, gentlemen, you know that I was the
means of Monsieur de Rochefort's escape; well, I was very
near being hung by Mazarin and that made me more popular
than ever."

"So, owing to your popularity ---- "

"No; thanks to something better. You know, gentlemen, that I
served the Piedmont regiment and had the honor of being a
sergeant?"

"Yes."

"Well, one day when no one could drill a mob of citizens,
who began to march, some with the right foot, others with
the left, I succeeded, I did, in making them all begin with
the same foot, and I was made lieutenant on the spot."

"So I presume," said Athos, "that you have a large number of
the nobles with you?"

"Certainly. There are the Prince de Conti, the Duc de
Longueville, the Duc de Beaufort, the Duc de Bouillon, the
Marechal de la Mothe, the Marquis de Sevigne, and I don't
know who, for my part."

"And the Vicomte Raoul de Bragelonne?" inquired Athos, in a
tremulous voice. "D'Artagnan told me that he had recommended
him to your care, in parting."

"Yes, count; nor have I lost sight of him for a single
instant since."

"Then," said Athos in a tone of delight, "he is well? no
accident has happened to him?"

"None, sir."

"And he lives?"

"Still at the Hotel of the Great Charlemagne."

"And passes his time?"

"Sometimes with the queen of England, sometimes with Madame
de Chevreuse. He and the Count de Guiche are like each
other's shadows."

"Thanks, Planchet, thanks!" cried Athos, extending his hand
to the lieutenant.

"Oh, sir!" Planchet only touched the tips of the count's
fingers.

"Well, what are you doing, count -- to a former lackey?

"My friend," said Athos, "he has given me news of Raoul."

"And now, gentlemen," said Planchet, who had not heard what
they were saying, "what do you intend to do?"

"Re-enter Paris, if you will let us, my good Planchet."

"Let you. sir? Now, as ever, I am nothing but your servant."
Then turning to his men:

"Allow these gentlemen to pass," he said; "they are friends
of the Duc de Beaufort."

"Long live the Duc de Beaufort!" cried the sentinels.

The sergeant drew near to Planchet.

"What! without passports?" he murmured.

"Without passports," said Planchet.

"Take notice, captain," he continued, giving Planchet his
expected title, "take notice that one of the three men who
just now went out from here told me privately to distrust
these gentlemen."

"And I," said Planchet, with dignity, "I know them and I
answer for them."

As he said this, he pressed Grimaud's hand, who seemed
honored by the distinction.

"Farewell till we meet again," said Aramis, as they took
leave of Planchet; "if anything happens to us we shall blame
you for it."

"Sir," said Planchet, "I am in all things at your service."

"That fellow is no fool," said Aramis, as he got on his
horse.

"How should he be?" replied Athos, whilst mounting also,
"seeing he was used so long to brush your hats."



76

The Ambassadors.



The two friends rode rapidly down the declivity of the
Faubourg, but on arriving at the bottom were surprised to
find that the streets of Paris had become rivers, and the
open places lakes; after the great rains which fell in
January the Seine had overflowed its banks and the river
inundated half the capital. The two gentlemen were obliged,
therefore, to get off their horses and take a boat; and in
that strange manner they approached the Louvre.

Night had closed in, and Paris, seen thus, by the light of
lanterns flickering on the pools of water, crowded with
ferry-boats of every kind, including those that glittered
with the armed patrols, with the watchword, passing from
post to post -- Paris presented such an aspect as to
strongly seize the senses of Aramis, a man most susceptible
to warlike impressions.

They reached the queen's apartments, but were compelled to
stop in the ante-chamber, since her majesty was at that
moment giving audience to gentlemen bringing her news from
England.

"We? too?" said Athos, to the footman who had given him that
answer, "not only bring news from England, but have just
come from there."

"What? then, are your names, gentlemen?"

"The Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d'Herblay," said
Aramis.

"Ah! in that case, gentlemen," said the footman, on hearing
the names which the queen had so often pronounced with hope,
"in that case it is another thing, and I think her majesty
will pardon me for not keeping you here a moment. Please
follow me," and he went on before, followed by Athos and
Aramis.

On arriving at the door of the room where the queen was
receiving he made a sign for them to wait and opening the
door:

"Madame," he said, "I hope your majesty will forgive me for
disobeying your orders, when you learn that the gentlemen I
have come to announce are the Comte de la Fere and the
Chevalier d'Herblay."

On hearing those two names the queen uttered a cry of joy,
which the two gentlemen heard.

"Poor queen!" murmured Athos.

"Oh, let them come in! let them come in," cried the young
princess, bounding to the door.

The poor child was constant in her attendance on her mother
and sought by her filial attentions to make her forget the
absence of her two sons and her other daughter.

"Come in, gentlemen," repeated the princess, opening the
door herself.

The queen was seated on a fauteuil and before her were
standing two or three gentlemen, and among them the Duc de
Chatillon, the brother of the nobleman killed eight or nine
years previously in a duel on account of Madame de
Longueville, on the Place Royale. All these gentlemen had
been noticed by Athos and Aramis in the guardhouse, and when
the two friends were announced they started and exchanged
some words in a low tone. "Well, sirs!" cried the queen, on
perceiving the two friends, "you have come, faithful
friends! But the royal couriers have been more expeditious
than you, and here are Monsieur de Flamarens and Monsieur de
Chatillon, who bring me from Her Majesty the Queen Anne of
Austria, the very latest intelligence."

Aramis and Athos were astounded by the calmness, even the
gayety of the queen's manner.

"Go on with your recital, sirs," said the queen, turning to
the Duc de Chatillon. "You said that His Majesty, King
Charles, my august consort, had been condemned to death by a
majority of his subjects!"

"Yes, madame," Chatillon stammered out.

Athos and Aramis were more and more astonished.

"And that being conducted to the scaffold," resumed the
queen -- "oh, my lord! oh, my king! -- and that being led to
the scaffold he had been saved by an indignant people."

"Just so madame," replied Chatillon, in so low a voice that
though the two friends were listening eagerly they could
hardly hear this affirmation.

The queen clasped her hands in enthusiastic gratitude,
whilst her daughter threw her arms around her mother's neck
and kissed her -- her own eyes streaming with tears.

"Now, madame, nothing remains to me except to proffer my
respectful homage," said Chatillon, who felt confused and
ashamed beneath the stern gaze of Athos.

"One moment, yes," answered the queen. "One moment -- I beg
-- for here are the Chevalier d'Herblay and the Comte de la
Fere, just arrived from London, and they can give you, as
eye-witnesses, such details as you can convey to the queen,
my royal sister. Speak, gentlemen, speak -- I am listening;
conceal nothing, gloss over nothing. Since his majesty still
lives, since the honor of the throne is safe, everything
else is a matter of indifference to me."

Athos turned pale and laid his hand on his heart.

"Well!" exclaimed the queen, who remarked this movement and
his paleness. "Speak, sir! I beg you to do so."

"I beg you to excuse me, madame; I wish to add nothing to
the recital of these gentlemen until they perceive
themselves that they have perhaps been mistaken."

"Mistaken!" cried the queen, almost suffocated by emotion;
"mistaken! what has happened, then?"

"Sir," interposed Monsieur de Flamarens to Athos, "if we are
mistaken the error has originated with the queen. I do not
suppose you will have the presumption to set it to rights --
that would be to accuse Her Majesty, Queen Anne, of
falsehood."

"With the queen, sir?" replied Athos, in his calm, vibrating
voice.

"Yes," murmured Flamarens, lowering his eyes.

Athos sighed deeply.

"Or rather, sir," said Aramis, with his peculiar irritating
politeness, "the error of the person who was with you when
we met you in the guardroom; for if the Comte de la Fere and
I are not mistaken, we saw you in the company of a third
gentleman."

Chatillon and Flamarens started.

"Explain yourself, count!" cried the queen, whose anxiety
grew greater every moment. "On your brow I read despair --
your lips falter ere you announce some terrible tidings --
your hands tremble. Oh, my God! my God! what has happened?"

"Lord!" ejaculated the young princess, falling on her knees,
"have mercy on us!"

"Sir," said Chatillon, "if you bring bad tidings it will be
cruel in you to announce them to the queen."

Aramis went so close to Chatillon as almost to touch him.

"Sir," said he, with compressed lips and flashing eyes, "you
have not the presumption to instruct the Comte de la Fere
and myself what we ought to say here?"

During this brief altercation Athos, with his hands on his
heart, his head bent low, approached the queen and in a
voice of deepest sorrow said:

"Madame, princes -- who by nature are above other men --
receive from Heaven courage to support greater misfortunes
than those of lower rank, for their hearts are elevated as
their fortunes. We ought not, therefore, I think, to act
toward a queen so illustrious as your majesty as we should
act toward a woman of our lowlier condition. Queen, destined
as you are to endure every sorrow on this earth, hear the
result of our unhappy mission."

Athos, kneeling down before the queen, trembling and very
cold, drew from his bosom, inclosed in the same case, the
order set in diamonds which the queen had given to Lord de
Winter and the wedding ring which Charles I. before his
death had placed in the hands of Aramis. Since the moment he
had first received these two mementoes Athos had never
parted with them.

He opened the case and offered them to the queen with deep
and silent anguish.

The queen stretched out her hand, seized the ring, pressed
it convulsively to her lips -- and without being able to
breathe a sigh, to give vent to a sob, she extended her
arms, became deadly pale, and fell senseless in the arms of
her attendants and her daughter.

Athos kissed the hem of the robe of the widowed queen and
rising, with a dignity that made a deep impression on those
around:

"I, the Comte de la Fere, a gentleman who has never deceived
any human being, swear before God and before this unhappy
queen, that all that was possible to save the king of
England was done whilst we were on English ground. Now,
chevalier," he added, turning to Aramis, "let us go. Our
duty is fulfilled."

"Not yet." said Aramis; "we have still a word to say to
these gentlemen."

And turning to Chatillon: "Sir, be so good as not to go away
without giving me an opportunity to tell you something I
cannot say before the queen."

Chatillon bowed in token of assent and they all went out,
stopping at the window of a gallery on the ground floor.

"Sir," said Aramis, "you allowed yourself just now to treat
us in a most extraordinary manner. That would not be
endurable in any case, and is still less so on the part of
those who came to bring the queen the message of a liar."

"Sir!" cried De Chatillon.

"What have you done with Monsieur de Bruy? Has he by any
possibility gone to change his face which was too like that
of Monsieur de Mazarin? There is an abundance of Italian
masks at the Palais Royal, from harlequin even to
pantaloon."

"Chevalier! chevalier!" said Athos.

"Leave me alone," said Aramis impatiently. "You know well
that I don't like to leave things half finished."

"Conclude, then, sir," answered De Chatillon, with as much
hauteur as Aramis.

"Gentlemen," resumed Aramis, "any one but the Comte de la
Fere and myself would have had you arrested -- for we have
friends in Paris -- but we are contented with another
course. Come and converse with us for just five minutes,
sword in hand, upon this deserted terrace."

"One moment, gentlemen," cried Flamarens. "I know well that
the proposition is tempting, but at present it is impossible
to accept it."

"And why not?" said Aramis, in his tone of raillery. "Is it
Mazarin's proximity that makes you so prudent?"

"Oh, you hear that, Flamarens!" said Chatillon. "Not to
reply would be a blot on my name and my honor."

"That is my opinion," said Aramis.

"You will not reply, however, and these gentlemen, I am
sure, will presently be of my opinion."

Aramis shook his head with a motion of indescribable
insolence.

Chatillon saw the motion and put his hand to his sword.

"Willingly," replied De Chatillon.

"Duke," said Flamarens, "you forget that to-morrow you are
to command an expedition of the greatest importance,
projected by the prince, assented to by the queen. Until
to-morrow evening you are not at your own disposal."

"Let it be then the day after to-morrow," said Aramis.

"To-morrow, rather," said De Chatillon, "if you will take
the trouble of coming so far as the gates of Charenton."

"How can you doubt it, sir? For the pleasure of a meeting
with you I would go to the end of the world."

"Very well, to-morrow, sir."

"I shall rely on it. Are you going to rejoin your cardinal?
Swear first, on your honor, not to inform him of our
return."

"Conditions?"

"Why not?"

"Because it is for victors to make conditions, and you are
not yet victors, gentlemen."

"Then let us draw on the spot. It is all one to us -- to us
who do not command to-morrow's expedition."

Chatillon and Flamarens looked at each other. There was such
irony in the words and in the bearing of Aramis that the
duke had great difficulty in bridling his anger, but at a
word from Flamarens he restrained himself and contented
himself with saying:

"You promise, sir -- that's agreed -- that I shall find you
to-morrow at Charenton?"

"Oh, don't be afraid, sir," replied Aramis; and the two
gentlemen shortly afterward left the Louvre.

"For what reason is all this fume and fury?" asked Athos.
"What have they done to you?"

"They -- did you not see what they did?"

"No."

"They laughed when we swore that we had done our duty in
England. Now, if they believed us, they laughed in order to
insult us; if they did not believe it they insulted us all
the more. However, I'm glad not to fight them until
to-morrow. I hope we shall have something better to do
to-night than to draw the sword."

"What have we to do?"

"Egad! to take Mazarin."

Athos curled his lip with disdain.

"These undertakings do not suit me, as you know, Aramis."

"Why?"

"Because it is taking people unawares."

"Really, Athos, you would make a singular general. You would
fight only by broad daylight, warn your foe before an
attack, and never attempt anything by night lest you should
be accused of taking advantage of the darkness."

Athos smiled.

"You know one cannot change his nature," he said. "Besides,
do you know what is our situation, and whether Mazarin's
arrest wouldn't be rather an encumbrance than an advantage?"

"Say at once you disapprove of my proposal."

"I think you ought to do nothing, since you exacted a
promise from these gentlemen not to let Mazarin know that we
were in France."

"I have entered into no engagement and consider myself quite
free. Come, come."

"Where?"

"Either to seek the Duc de Beaufort or the Duc de Bouillon,
and to tell them about this."

"Yes, but on one condition -- that we begin by the
coadjutor. He is a priest, learned in cases of conscience,
and we will tell him ours."

It was then agreed that they were to go first to Monsieur de
Bouillon, as his house came first; but first of all Athos
begged that he might go to the Hotel du Grand Charlemagne,
to see Raoul.

They re-entered the boat which had brought them to the
Louvre and thence proceeded to the Halles; and taking up
Grimaud and Blaisois, they went on foot to the Rue
Guenegaud.

But Raoul was not at the Hotel du Grand Charlemagne. He had
received a message from the prince, to whom he had hastened
with Olivain the instant he had received it.



77

The three Lieutenants of the Generalissimo.



The night was dark, but still the town resounded with those
noises that disclose a city in a state of siege. Athos and
Aramis did not proceed a hundred steps without being stopped
by sentinels placed before the barricades, who demanded the
watchword; and on their saying that they were going to
Monsieur de Bouillon on a mission of importance a guide was
given them under pretext of conducting them, but in fact as
a spy over their movements.

On arriving at the Hotel de Bouillon they came across a
little troop of three cavaliers, who seemed to know every
possible password; for they walked without either guide or
escort, and on arriving at the barricades had nothing to do
but to speak to those who guarded them, who instantly let
them pass with evident deference, due probably to their high
birth.

On seeing them Athos and Aramis stood still.

"Oh!" cried Aramis, "do you see, count?"

"Yes," said Athos.

"Who do these three cavaliers appear to you to be?"

"What do you think, Aramis?"

"Why, they are our men."

"You are not mistaken; I recognize Monsieur de Flamarens."

"And I, Monsieur de Chatillon."

"As to the cavalier in the brown cloak ---- "

"It is the cardinal."

"In person."

"How the devil do they venture so near the Hotel de
Bouillon?"

Athos smiled, but did not reply. Five minutes afterward they
knocked at the prince's door.

This door was guarded by a sentinel and there was also a
guard placed in the courtyard, ready to obey the orders of
the Prince de Conti's lieutenant.

Monsieur de Bouillon had the gout, but notwithstanding his
illness, which had prevented his mounting on horseback for
the last month ---that is, since Paris had been besieged --
he was ready to receive the Comte de la Fere and the
Chevalier d'Herblay.

He was in bed, but surrounded with all the paraphernalia of
war. Everywhere were swords, pistols, cuirasses, and
arquebuses, and it was plain that as soon as his gout was
better Monsieur de Bouillon would give a pretty tangle to
the enemies of the parliament to unravel. Meanwhile, to his
great regret, as he said, he was obliged to keep his bed.

"Ah, gentlemen," he cried, as the two friends entered, "you
are very happy! you can ride, you can go and come and fight
for the cause of the people. But I, as you see, am nailed to
my bed -- ah! this demon, gout -- this demon, gout!"

"My lord," said Athos, "we are just arrived from England and
our first concern is to inquire after your health."

"Thanks, gentlemen, thanks! As you see, my health is but
indifferent. But you come from England. And King Charles is
well, as I have just heard?"

"He is dead, my lord!" said Aramis.

"Pooh!" said the duke, too much astonished to believe it
true.

"Dead on the scaffold; condemned by parliament."

"Impossible!"

"And executed in our presence."

"What, then, has Monsieur de Flamarens been telling me?"

"Monsieur de Flamarens?"

"Yes, he has just gone out."

Athos smiled. "With two companions?" he said.

"With two companions, yes," replied the duke. Then he added
with a certain uneasiness, "Did you meet them?"

"Why, yes, I think so -- in the street," said Athos; and he
looked smilingly at Aramis, who looked at him with an
expression of surprise.

"The devil take this gout!" cried Monsieur de Bouillon,
evidently ill at ease.

"My lord," said Athos, "we admire your devotion to the cause
you have espoused, in remaining at the head of the army
whilst so ill, in so much pain."

"One must," replied Monsieur de Bouillon, "sacrifice one's
comfort to the public good; but I confess to you I am now
almost exhausted. My spirit is willing, my head is clear,
but this demon, the gout, o'ercrows me. I confess, if the
court would do justice to my claims and give the head of my
house the title of prince, and if my brother De Turenne were
reinstated in his command I would return to my estates and
leave the court and parliament to settle things between
themselves as they might."

"You are perfectly right, my lord."

"You think so? At this very moment the court is making
overtures to me; hitherto I have repulsed them; but since
such men as you assure me that I am wrong in doing so, I've
a good mind to follow your advice and to accept a
proposition made to me by the Duc de Chatillon just now."

"Accept it, my lord, accept it," said Aramis.

"Faith! yes. I am even sorry that this evening I almost
repulsed -- but there will be a conference to-morrow and we
shall see."

The two friends saluted the duke.

"Go, gentlemen," he said; "you must be much fatigued after
your voyage. Poor King Charles! But, after all, he was
somewhat to blame in all that business and we may console
ourselves with the reflection that France has no cause of
reproach in the matter and did all she could to serve him."

"Oh! as to that," said Aramis, "we are witnesses. Mazarin
especially ---- "

"Yes, do you know, I am very glad to hear you give that
testimony; the cardinal has some good in him, and if he were
not a foreigner -- well, he would be more justly estimated.
Oh! the devil take this gout!"

Athos and Aramis took their leave, but even in the
ante-chamber they could still hear the duke's cries; he was
evidently suffering the tortures of the damned.

When they reached the street, Aramis said:

"Well, Athos, what do you think?"

"Of whom?"

"Pardieu! of Monsieur de Bouillon."

"My friend, I think that he is much troubled with gout."

"You noticed that I didn't breathe a word as to the purpose
of our visit?"

"You did well; you would have caused him an access of his
disease. Let us go to Monsieur de Beaufort."

The two friends went to the Hotel de Vendome. It was ten
o'clock when they arrived. The Hotel de Vendome was not less
guarded than the Hotel de Bouillon, and presented as warlike
an appearance. There were sentinels, a guard in the court,
stacks of arms, and horses saddled. Two horsemen going out
as Athos and Aramis entered were obliged to give place to
them.

"Ah! ah! gentlemen," said Aramis, "decidedly it is a night
for meetings. We shall be very unfortunate if, after meeting
so often this evening, we should not succeed in meeting
to-morrow."

"Oh, as to that, sir," replied Chatillon (for it was he who,
with Flamarens, was leaving the Duc de Beaufort), "you may
be assured; for if we meet by night without seeking each
other, much more shall we meet by day when wishing it."

"I hope that is true," said Aramis.

"As for me, I am sure of it," said the duke.

De Flamarens and De Chatillon continued on their way and
Athos and Aramis dismounted.

Hardly had they given the bridles of their horses to their
lackeys and rid themselves of their cloaks when a man
approached them, and after looking at them for an instant by
the doubtful light of the lantern hung in the centre of the
courtyard he uttered an exclamation of joy and ran to
embrace them.

"Comte de la Fere!" the man cried out; "Chevalier d'Herblay!
How does it happen that you are in Paris?"

"Rochefort!" cried the two friends.

"Yes! we arrived four or five days ago from the Vendomois,
as you know, and we are going to give Mazarin something to
do. You are still with us, I presume?"

"More than ever. And the duke?"

"Furious against the cardinal. You know his success -- our
dear duke? He is really king of Paris; he can't go out
without being mobbed by his admirers."

"Ah! so much the better! Can we have the honor of seeing his
highness?"

"I shall be proud to present you," and Rochefort walked on.
Every door was opened to him. Monsieur de Beaufort was at
supper, but he rose quickly on hearing the two friends
announced.

"Ah!" he cried, "by Jove! you're welcome, sirs. You are
coming to sup with me, are you not? Boisgoli, tell Noirmont
that I have two guests. You know Noirmont, do you not? The
successor of Father Marteau who makes the excellent pies you
know of. Boisgoli, let him send one of his best, but not
such a one as he made for La Ramee. Thank God! we don't want
either rope ladders or gag-pears now."

"My lord," said Athos, "do not let us disturb you. We came
merely to inquire after your health and to take your
orders."

"As to my health, since it has stood five years of prison,
with Monsieur de Chavigny to boot, 'tis excellent! As to my
orders, since every one gives his own commands in our party,
I shall end, if this goes on, by giving none at all."

"In short, my lord," said Athos, glancing at Aramis, "your
highness is discontented with your party?"

"Discontented, sir! say my highness is furious! To such a
degree, I assure you, though I would not say so to others,
that if the queen, acknowledging the injuries she has done
me, would recall my mother and give me the reversion of the
admiralty, which belonged to my father and was promised me
at his death, well! it would not be long before I should be
training dogs to say that there were greater traitors in
France than the Cardinal Mazarin!"

At this Athos and Aramis could not help exchanging not only
a look but a smile; and had they not known it for a fact,
this would have told them that De Chatillon and De Flamarens
had been there.

"My lord," said Athos, "we are satisfied; we came here only
to express our loyalty and to say that we are at your
lordship's service and his most faithful servants."

"My most faithful friends, gentlemen, my most faithful
friends; you have proved it. And if ever I am reconciled
with the court I shall prove to you, I hope, that I remain
your friend, as well as that of -- what the devil are their
names -- D'Artagnan and Porthos?"

"D'Artagnan and Porthos."

"Ah, yes. You understand, then, Comte de la Fere, you
understand, Chevalier d'Herblay, that I am altogether and
always at your service."

Athos and Aramis bowed and went out.

"My dear Athos," cried Aramis, "I think you consented to
accompany me only to give me a lesson -- God forgive me!"

"Wait a little, Aramis; it will be time for you to perceive
my motive when we have paid our visit to the coadjutor."

"Let us then go to the archiepiscopal palace," said Aramis.

They directed their horses to the city. On arriving at the
cradle from which Paris sprang they found it inundated with
water, and it was again necessary to take a boat. The palace
rose from the bosom of the water, and to see the number of
boats around it one would have fancied one's self not in
Paris, but in Venice. Some of these boats were dark and
mysterious, others noisy and lighted up with torches. The
friends slid in through this congestion of embarkation and
landed in their turn. The palace was surrounded with water,
but a kind of staircase had been fixed to the lower walls;
and the only difference was, that instead of entering by the
doors, people entered by the windows.

Thus did Athos and Aramis make their appearance in the
ante-chamber, where about a dozen noblemen were collected in
waiting.

"Good heavens!" said Aramis to Athos, "does the coadjutor
intend to indulge himself in the pleasure of making us cool
our hearts off in his ante-chamber?"

"My dear friend, we must take people as we find them. The
coadjutor is at this moment one of the seven kings of Paris,
and has a court. Let us send in our names, and if he does
not send us a suitable message we will leave him to his own
affairs or those of France. Let us call one of these
lackeys, with a demi-pistole in the left hand."

"Exactly so," cried Aramis. "Ah! if I'm not mistaken here's
Bazin. Come here, fellow."

Bazin, who was crossing the ante-chamber majestically in his
clerical dress, turned around to see who the impertinent
gentleman was who thus addressed him; but seeing his friends
he went up to them quickly and expressed delight at seeing
them.

"A truce to compliments," said Aramis; "we want to see the
coadjutor, and instantly, as we are in haste."

"Certainly, sir -- it is not such lords as you are who are
allowed to wait in the ante-chamber, only just now he has a
secret conference with Monsieur de Bruy."

"De Bruy!" cried the friends, "'tis then useless our seeing
monsieur the coadjutor this evening," said Aramis, "so we
give it up."

And they hastened to quit the palace, followed by Bazin, who
was lavish of bows and compliments.

"Well," said Athos, when Aramis and he were in the boat
again, "are you beginning to be convinced that we should
have done a bad turn to all these people in arresting
Mazarin?"

"You are wisdom incarnate, Athos," Aramis replied.

What had especially been observed by the two friends was the
little interest taken by the court of France in the terrible
events which had occurred in England, which they thought
should have arrested the attention of all Europe.

In fact, aside from a poor widow and a royal orphan who wept
in the corner of the Louvre, no one appeared to be aware
that Charles I. had ever lived and that he had perished on
the scaffold.

The two friends made an appointment for ten o'clock on the
following day; for though the night was well advanced when
they reached the door of the hotel, Aramis said that he had
certain important visits to make and left Athos to enter
alone.

At ten o'clock the next day they met again. Athos had been
out since six o'clock.

"Well, have you any news?" Athos asked.

"Nothing. No one has seen D'Artagnan and Porthos has, not
appeared. Have you anything?"

"Nothing."

"The devil!" said Aramis.

"In fact," said Athos, "this delay is not natural; they took
the shortest route and should have arrived before we did."

"Add to that D'Artagnan's rapidity in action and that he is
not the man to lose an hour, knowing that we were expecting
him."

"He expected, you will remember, to be here on the fifth."

"And here we are at the ninth. This evening the margin of
possible delay expires."

"What do you think should be done," asked Athos. "if we have
no news of them to-night?"

"Pardieu! we must go and look for them."

"All right," said Athos.

"But Raoul?" said Aramis.

A light cloud passed over the count's face.

"Raoul gives me much uneasiness," he said. "He received
yesterday a message from the Prince de Conde; he went to
meet him at Saint Cloud and has not returned."

"Have you seen Madame de Chevreuse?"

"She was not at home. And you, Aramis, you were going, I
think, to visit Madame de Longueville."

"I did go there."

"Well?"

"She was no longer there, but she had left her new address."

"Where was she?"

"Guess; I give you a thousand chances."

"How should I know where the most beautiful and active of
the Frondists was at midnight? for I presume it was when you
left me that you went to visit her."

"At the Hotel de Ville, my dear fellow."

"What! at the Hotel de Ville? Has she, then, been appointed
provost of merchants?"

"No; but she has become queen of Paris, ad interim, and
since she could not venture at once to establish herself in
the Palais Royal or the Tuileries, she is installed at the
Hotel de Ville, where she is on the point of giving an heir
or an heiress to that dear duke."

"You didn't tell me of that, Aramis."

"Really? It was my forgetfulness then; pardon me."

"Now," asked Athos, "what are we to do with ourselves till
evening? Here we are without occupation, it seems to me."

"You forget, my friend, that we have work cut out for us in
the direction of Charenton; I hope to see Monsieur de
Chatillon, whom I've hated for a long time, there."

"Why have you hated him?"

"Because he is the brother of Coligny."

"Ah, true! he who presumed to be a rival of yours, for which
he was severely punished; that ought to satisfy you."

"'Yes, but it does not; I am rancorous -- the only stigma
that proves me to be a churchman. Do you understand? You
understand that you are in no way obliged to go with me."

"Come, now," said Athos, "you are joking."

"In that case, my dear friend, if you are resolved to
accompany me there is no time to lose; the drum beats; I
observed cannon on the road; I saw the citizens in order of
battle on the Place of the Hotel de Ville; certainly the
fight will be in the direction of Charenton, as the Duc de
Chatillon said."

"I supposed," said Athos, "that last night's conferences
would modify those warlike arrangements."

"No doubt; but they will fight, none the less, if only to
mask the conferences."

"Poor creatures!" said Athos, "who are going to be killed,
in order that Monsieur de Bouillon may have his estate at
Sedan restored to him, that the reversion of the admiralty
may be given to the Duc de Beaufort, and that the coadjutor
may be made a cardinal."

"Come, come, dear Athos, confess that you would not be so
philosophical if your Raoul were to be involved in this
affair."

"Perhaps you speak the truth, Aramis."

"Well, let us go, then, where the fighting is, for that is
the most likely place to meet with D'Artagnan, Porthos, and
possibly even Raoul. Stop, there are a fine body of citizens
passing; quite attractive, by Jupiter! and their captain --
see! he has the true military style."

"What, ho!" said Grimaud.

"What?" asked Athos.

"Planchet, sir."

"Lieutenant yesterday," said Aramis, "captain to-day,
colonel, doubtless, to-morrow; in a fortnight the fellow
will be marshal of France."

"Question him about the fight," said Athos.

Planchet, prouder than ever of his new duties, deigned to
explain to the two gentlemen that he was ordered to take up
his position on the Place Royale with two hundred men,
forming the rear of the army of Paris, and to march on
Charenton when necessary.

"This day will be a warm one," said Planchet, in a warlike
tone.

"No doubt," said Aramis, "but it is far from here to the
enemy."

"Sir, the distance will be diminished," said a subordinate.

Aramis saluted, then turning toward Athos:

"I don't care to camp on the Place Royale with all these
people," he said. "Shall we go forward? We shall see better
what is going on."

"And then Monsieur de Chatillon will not come to the Place
Royale to look for you. Come, then, my friend, we will go
forward."

"Haven't you something to say to Monsieur de Flamarens on
your own account?"

"My friend," said Athos, "I have made a resolution never to
draw my sword save when it is absolutely necessary."

"And how long ago was that?"

"When I last drew my poniard."

"Ah! Good! another souvenir of Monsieur Mordaunt. Well, my
friend, nothing now is lacking except that you should feel
remorse for having killed that fellow."

"Hush!" said Athos, putting a finger on his lips, with the
sad smile peculiar to him; "let us talk no more of Mordaunt
-- it will bring bad luck." And Athos set forward toward
Charenton, followed closely by Aramis.



78

The Battle of Charenton.



As Athos and Aramis proceeded, and passed different
companies on the road, they became aware that they were
arriving near the field of battle.

"Ah! my friend!" cried Athos, suddenly, "where have you
brought us? I fancy I perceive around us faces of different
officers in the royal army; is not that the Duc de Chatillon
himself coming toward us with his brigadiers?"

"Good-day, sirs," said the duke, advancing; "you are puzzled
by what you see here, but one word will explain everything.
There is now a truce and a conference. The prince, Monsieur
de Retz, the Duc de Beaufort, the Duc de Bouillon, are
talking over public affairs. Now one of two things must
happen: either matters will not be arranged, or they will be
arranged, in which last case I shall be relieved of my
command and we shall still meet again."

"Sir," said Aramis, "you speak to the point. Allow me to ask
you a question: Where are the plenipotentiaries?"

"At Charenton, in the second house on the right on entering
from the direction of Paris."

"And was this conference arranged beforehand?"

"No, gentlemen, it seems to be the result of certain
propositions which Mazarin made last night to the
Parisians."

Athos and Aramis exchanged smiles; for they well knew what
those propositions were, to whom they had been made and who
had made them.

"And that house in which the plenipotentiaries are," asked
Athos, "belongs to ---- "

"To Monsieur de Chanleu, who commands your troops at
Charenton. I say your troops, for I presume that you
gentlemen are Frondeurs?"

"Yes, almost," said Aramis.

"We are for the king and the princes," added Athos.

"We must understand each other," said the duke. "The king is
with us and his generals are the Duke of Orleans and the
Prince de Conde, although I must add 'tis almost impossible
now to know to which party any one belongs."

"Yes," answered Athos, "but his right place is in our ranks,
with the Prince de Conti, De Beaufort, D'Elbeuf, and De
Bouillon; but, sir, supposing that the conference is broken
off -- are you going to try to take Charenton?"

"Such are my orders."

"Sir, since you command the cavalry ---- "

"Pardon me, I am commander-in-chief."

"So much the better. You must know all your officers -- I
mean those more distinguished."

"Why, yes, very nearly."

"Will you then kindly tell me if you have in your command
the Chevalier d'Artagnan, lieutenant in the musketeers?"

"No, sir, he is not with us; he left Paris more than six
weeks ago and is believed to have gone on a mission to
England."

"I knew that, but I supposed he had returned."

"No, sir; no one has seen him. I can answer positively on
that point, for the musketeers belong to our forces and
Monsieur de Cambon, the substitute for Monsieur d'Artagnan,
still holds his place."

The two friends looked at each other.

"You see," said Athos.

"It is strange," said Aramis.

"It is absolutely certain that some misfortune has happened
to them on the way."

"If we have no news of them this evening, to-morrow we must
start."

Athos nodded affirmatively, then turning:

"And Monsieur de Bragelonne, a young man fifteen years of
age, attached to the Prince de Conde -- has he the honor of
being known to you?" diffident in allowing the sarcastic
Aramis to perceive how strong were his paternal feelings.

"Yes, surely, he came with the prince; a charming young man;
he is one of your friends then, monsieur le comte?"

"Yes, sir," answered Athos, agitated; "so much so that I
wish to see him if possible."

"Quite possible, sir; do me the favor to accompany me and I
will conduct you to headquarters."

"Halloo, there!" cried Aramis, turning around; "what a noise
behind us!"

"A body of cavaliers is coming toward us," said Chatillon.

"I recognize the coadjutor by his Frondist hat."

"And I the Duc de Beaufort by his white plume of ostrich
feathers."

"They are coming, full gallop; the prince is with them --
ah! he is leaving them!"

"They are beating the rappel!" cried Chatillon; "we must
discover what is going on."

In fact, they saw the soldiers running to their arms; the
trumpets sounded; the drums beat; the Duc de Beaufort drew
his sword. On his side the prince sounded a rappel and all
the officers of the royalist army, mingling momentarily with
the Parisian troops, ran to him.

"Gentlemen," cried Chatillon, "the truce is broken, that is
evident; they are going to fight; go, then, into Charenton,
for I shall begin in a short time -- there's a signal from
the prince!"

The cornet of a troop had in fact just raised the standard
of the prince.

"Farewell, till the next time we meet," cried Chatillon, and
he set off, full gallop.

Athos and Aramis turned also and went to salute the
coadjutor and the Duc de Beaufort. As to the Duc de
Bouillon, he had such a fit of gout as obliged him to return
to Paris in a litter; but his place was well filled by the
Duc d'Elbeuf and his four sons, ranged around him like a
staff. Meantime, between Charenton and the royal army was
left a space which looked ready to serve as a last resting
place for the dead.

"Gentlemen," cried the coadjutor, tightening his sash, which
he wore, after the fashion of the ancient military prelates,
over his archiepiscopal simar, "there's the enemy
approaching. Let us save them half of their journey."

And without caring whether he were followed or not he set
off; his regiment, which bore the name of the regiment of
Corinth, from the name of his archbishopric, darted after
him and began the fight. Monsieur de Beaufort sent his
cavalry, toward Etampes and Monsieur de Chanleu, who
defended the place, was ready to resist an assault, or if
the enemy were repulsed, to attempt a sortie.

The battle soon became general and the coadjutor performed
miracles of valor. His proper vocation had always been the
sword and he was delighted whenever he could draw it from
the scabbard, no matter for whom or against whom.

Chanleu, whose fire at one time repulsed the royal regiment,
thought that the moment was come to pursue it; but it was
reformed and led again to the charge by the Duc de Chatillon
in person. This charge was so fierce, so skillfully
conducted, that Chanleu was almost surrounded. He commanded
a retreat, which began, step by step, foot by foot;
unhappily, in an instant he fell, mortally wounded. De
Chatillon saw him fall and announced it in a loud voice to
his men, which raised their spirits and completely
disheartened their enemies, so that every man thought only
of his own safety and tried to gain the trenches, where the
coadjutor was trying to reform his disorganized regiment.

Suddenly a squadron of cavalry galloped up to encounter the
royal troops, who were entering, pele-mele, the
intrenchments with the fugitives. Athos and Aramis charged
at the head of their squadrons; Aramis with sword and pistol
in his hands, Athos with his sword in his scabbard, his
pistol in his saddle-bags; calm and cool as if on the
parade, except that his noble and beautiful countenance
became sad as he saw slaughtered so many men who were
sacrificed on the one side to the obstinacy of royalty and
on the other to the personal rancor of the princes. Aramis,
on the contrary, struck right and left and was almost
delirious with excitement. His bright eyes kindled, and his
mouth, so finely formed, assumed a wicked smile; every blow
he aimed was sure, and his pistol finished the deed --
annihilated the wounded wretch who tried to rise again.

On the opposite side two cavaliers, one covered with a gilt
cuirass, the other wearing simply a buff doublet, from which
fell the sleeves of a vest of blue velvet, charged in front.
The cavalier in the gilt cuirass fell upon Aramis and struck
a blow that Aramis parried with his wonted skill.

"Ah! 'tis you, Monsieur de Chatillon," cried the chevalier;
"welcome to you -- I expected you."

"I hope I have not made you wait too long, sir," said the
duke; "at all events, here I am."

"Monsieur de Chatillon," cried Aramis, taking from his
saddle-bags a second pistol, "I think if your pistols have
been discharged you are a dead man."

"Thank God, sir, they are not!"

And the duke, pointing his pistol at Aramis, fired. But
Aramis bent his head the instant he saw the duke's finger
press the trigger and the ball passed without touching him.

"Oh! you've missed me," cried Aramis, "but I swear to
Heaven! I will not miss you."

"If I give you time!" cried the duke, spurring on his horse
and rushing upon him with his drawn sword.

Aramis awaited him with that terrible smile which was
peculiar to him on such occasions, and Athos, who saw the
duke advancing toward Aramis with the rapidity of lightning,
was just going to cry out, "Fire! fire, then!" when the shot
was fired. De Chatillon opened his arms and fell back on the
crupper of his horse.

The ball had entered his breast through a notch in the
cuirass.

"I am a dead man," he said, and fell from his horse to the
ground.

"I told you this, I am now grieved I have kept my word. Can
I be of any use to you?"

Chatillon made a sign with his hand and Aramis was about to
dismount when he received a violent shock; 'twas a thrust
from a sword, but his cuirass turned aside the blow.

He turned around and seized his new antagonist by the wrist,
when he started back, exclaiming, "Raoul!"

"Raoul?" cried Athos.

The young man recognized at the same instant the voices of
his father and the Chevalier d'Herblay; two officers in the
Parisian forces rushed at that instant on Raoul, but Aramis
protected him with his sword.

"My prisoner!" he cried.

Athos took his son's horse by the bridle and led him forth
out of the melee.

At this crisis of the battle, the prince, who had been
seconding De Chatillon in the second line, appeared in the
midst of the fight; his eagle eye made him known and his
blows proclaimed the hero.

On seeing him, the regiment of Corinth, which the coadjutor
had not been able to reorganize in spite of all his efforts,
threw itself into the midst of the Parisian forces, put them
into confusion and re-entered Charenton flying. The
coadjutor, dragged along with his fugitive forces, passed
near the group formed by Athos, Raoul and Aramis. Aramis
could not in his jealousy avoid being pleased at the
coadjutor's misfortune, and was about to utter some bon mot
more witty than correct, when Athos stopped him.

"On, on!" he cried, "this is no moment for compliments; or
rather, back, for the battle seems to be lost by the
Frondeurs."

"It is a matter of indifference to me," said Aramis; "I came
here only to meet De Chatillon; I have met him, I am
contented; 'tis something to have met De Chatillon in a
duel!"

"And besides, we have a prisoner," said Athos, pointing to
Raoul.

The three cavaliers continued their road on full gallop.

"What were you doing in the battle, my friend?" inquired
Athos of the youth; "'twas not your right place, I think, as
you were not equipped for an engagement!"

"I had no intention of fighting to-day, sir; I was charged,
indeed, with a mission to the cardinal and had set out for
Rueil, when, seeing Monsieur de Chatillon charge, an
invincible desire possessed me to charge at his side. It was
then that he told me two cavaliers of the Parisian army were
seeking me and named the Comte de la Fere."

"What! you knew we were there and yet wished to kill your
friend the chevalier?"

"I did not recognize the chevalier in armor, sir!" said
Raoul, blushing; "though I might have known him by his skill
and coolness in danger."

"Thank you for the compliment, my young friend," replied
Aramis, "we can see from whom you learned courtesy. Then you
were going to Rueil?"

"Yes! I have a despatch from the prince to his eminence."

"You must still deliver it," said Athos.

"No false generosity, count! the fate of our friends, to say
nothing of our own, is perhaps in that very despatch."

"This young man must not, however, fail in his duty," said
Athos.

"In the first place, count, this youth is our prisoner; you
seem to forget that. What I propose to do is fair in war;
the vanquished must not be dainty in the choice of means.
Give me the despatch, Raoul."

The young man hesitated and looked at Athos as if seeking to
read in his eyes a rule of conduct.

"Give him the despatch, Raoul! you are the chevalier's
prisoner."

Raoul gave it up reluctantly; Aramis instantly seized and
read it.

"You," he said, "you, who are so trusting, read and reflect
that there is something in this letter important for us to
see."

Athos took the letter, frowning, but an idea that he should
find something in this letter about D'Artagnan conquered his
unwillingness to read it.

"My lord, I shall send this evening to your eminence in
order to reinforce the troop of Monsieur de Comminges, the
ten men you demand. They are good soldiers, fit to confront
the two violent adversaries whose address and resolution
your eminence is fearful of."

"Oh!" cried Athos.

"Well," said Aramis, "what think you about these two enemies
whom it requires, besides Comminges's troop, ten good
soldiers to confront; are they not as like as two drops of
water to D'Artagnan and Porthos?"

"We'll search Paris all day long," said Athos, "and if we
have no news this evening we will return to the road to
Picardy; and I feel no doubt that, thanks to D'Artagnan's
ready invention, we shall then find some clew which will
solve our doubts."

"Yes, let us search Paris and especially inquire of Planchet
if he has yet heard from his former master."

"That poor Planchet! You speak of him very much at your
ease, Aramis; he has probably been killed. All those
fighting citizens went out to battle and they have been
massacred."

It was, then, with a sentiment of uneasiness whether
Planchet, who alone could give them information, was alive
or dead, that the friends returned to the Place Royale; to
their great surprise they found the citizens still encamped
there, drinking and bantering each other, although,
doubtless, mourned by their families, who thought they were
at Charenton in the thickest of the fighting.

Athos and Aramis again questioned Planchet, but he had seen
nothing of D'Artagnan; they wished to take Planchet with
them, but he could not leave his troop, who at five o'clock
returned home, saying that they were returning from the
battle, whereas they had never lost sight of the bronze
equestrian statue of Louis XIII.



79

The Road to Picardy.



On leaving Paris, Athos and Aramis well knew that they would
be encountering great danger; but we know that for men like
these there could be no question of danger. Besides, they
felt that the denouement of this second Odyssey was at hand
and that there remained but a single effort to make.

Besides, there was no tranquillity in Paris itself.
Provisions began to fail, and whenever one of the Prince de
Conti's generals wished to gain more influence he got up a
little popular tumult, which he put down again, and thus for
the moment gained a superiority over his colleagues.

In one of these risings. the Duc de Beaufort pillaged the
house and library of Mazarin, in order to give the populace,
as he put it, something to gnaw at. Athos and Aramis left
Paris after this coup-d'etat, which took place on the very
evening of the day in which the Parisians had been beaten at
Charenton.

They quitted Paris, beholding it abandoned to extreme want,
bordering on famine; agitated by fear, torn by faction.
Parisians and Frondeurs as they were, the two friends
expected to find the same misery, the same fears, the same
intrigue in the enemy's camp; but what was their surprise,
after passing Saint Denis, to hear that at Saint Germain
people were singing and laughing, and leading generally
cheerful lives. The two gentlemen traveled by byways in
order not to encounter the Mazarinists scattered about the
Isle of France, and also to escape the Frondeurs, who were
in possession of Normandy and who never failed to conduct
captives to the Duc de Longueville, in order that he might
ascertain whether they were friends or foes. Having escaped
these dangers, they returned by the main road to Boulogne,
at Abbeville, and followed it step by step, examining every
track.

Nevertheless, they were still in a state of uncertainty.
Several inns were visited by them, several innkeepers
questioned, without a single clew being given to guide their
inquiries, when at Montreuil Athos felt upon the table that
something rough was touching his delicate fingers. He turned
up the cloth and found these hieroglyphics carved upon the
wood with a knife:

"Port .... D'Art .... 2d February."

"This is capital!" said Athos to Aramis, "we were to have
slept here, but we cannot -- we must push on." They rode
forward and reached Abbeville. There the great number of
inns puzzled them; they could not go to all; how could they
guess in which those whom they were seeking had stayed?

"Trust me," said Aramis, "do not expect to find anything in
Abbeville. If we had only been looking for Porthos, Porthos
would have stationed himself in one of the finest hotels and
we could easily have traced him. But D'Artagnan is devoid of
such weaknesses. Porthos would have found it very difficult
even to make him see that he was dying of hunger; he has
gone on his road as inexorable as fate and we must seek him
somewhere else."

They continued their route. It had now become a weary and
almost hopeless task, and had it not been for the threefold
motives of honor, friendship and gratitude, implanted in
their hearts, our two travelers would have given up many a
time their rides over the sand, their interrogatories of the
peasantry and their close inspection of faces.

They proceeded thus to Peronne.

Athos began to despair. His noble nature felt that their
ignorance was a sort of reflection upon them. They had not
looked carefully enough for their lost friends. They had not
shown sufficient pertinacity in their inquiries. They were
willing and ready to retrace their steps, when, in crossing
the suburb which leads to the gates of the town, upon a
white wall which was at the corner of a street turning
around the rampart, Athos cast his eyes upon a drawing in
black chalk, which represented, with the awkwardness of a
first attempt, two cavaliers riding furiously; one of them
carried a roll of paper on which were written these words:
"They are following us."

"Oh!" exclaimed Athos, "here it is, as clear as day; pursued
as he was, D'Artagnan would not have tarried here five
minutes had he been pressed very closely, which gives us
hopes that he may have succeeded in escaping."

Aramis shook his head.

"Had he escaped we should either have seen him or have heard
him spoken of."

"You are right, Aramis, let us travel on."

To describe the impatience and anxiety of these two friends
would be impossible. Uneasiness took possession of the
tender, constant heart of Athos, and fearful forecasts were
the torment of the impulsive Aramis. They galloped on for
two or three hours as furiously as the cavaliers on the
wall. All at once, in a narrow pass, they perceived that the
road was partially barricaded by an enormous stone. It had
evidently been rolled across the pass by some arm of giant
strength.

Aramis stopped.

"Oh!" he said, looking at the stone, "this is the work of
either Hercules or Porthos. Let us get down, count, and
examine this rock."

They both alighted. The stone had been brought with the
evident intention of barricading the road, but some one
having perceived the obstacle had partially turned it aside.

With the assistance of Blaisois and Grimaud the friends
succeeded in turning the stone over. Upon the side next the
ground were scratched the following words:



"Eight of the light dragoons are pursuing us. If we reach
Compiegne we shall stop at the Peacock. It is kept by a
friend of ours."



"At last we have something definite," said Athos; "let us go
to the Peacock."

"Yes," answered Aramis, "but if we are to get there we must
rest our horses, for they are almost broken-winded."

Aramis was right; they stopped at the first tavern and made
each horse swallow a double quantity of corn steeped in
wine; they gave them three hours' rest and then set off
again. The men themselves were almost dead with fatigue, but
hope supported them.

In six hours they reached Compiegne and alighted at the
Peacock. The host proved to be a worthy man, as bald as a
Chinaman. They asked him if some time ago he had not
received in his house two gentlemen who were pursued by
dragoons; without answering he went out and brought in the
blade of a rapier.

"Do you know that?" he asked.

Athos merely glanced at it.

"'Tis D'Artagnan's sword," he said.

"Does it belong to the smaller or to the larger of the two?"
asked the host.

"To the smaller."

"I see that you are the friends of these gentlemen."

"Well, what has happened to them?"

"They were pursued by eight of the light dragoons, who rode
into the courtyard before they had time to close the gate."

"Eight!" said Aramis; "it surprises me that two such heroes
as Porthos and D'Artagnan should have allowed themselves to
be arrested by eight men."

"The eight men would doubtless have failed had they not been
assisted by twenty soldiers of the regiment of Italians in
the king's service, who are in garrison in this town so that
your friends were overpowered by numbers."

"Arrested, were they?" inquired Athos; "is it known why?"

"No, sir, they were carried off instantly, and had not even
time to tell me why; but as soon as they were gone I found
this broken sword-blade, as I was helping to raise two dead
men and five or six wounded ones."

"'Tis still a consolation that they were not wounded," said
Aramis.

"Where were they taken?" asked Athos.

"Toward the town of Louvres," was the reply.

The two friends having agreed to leave Blaisois and Grimaud
at Compiegne with the horses, resolved to take post horses;
and having snatched a hasty dinner they continued their
journey to Louvres. Here they found only one inn, in which
was consumed a liqueur which preserves its reputation to our
time and which is still made in that town.

"Let us alight here," said Athos. "D'Artagnan will not have
let slip an opportunity of drinking a glass of this liqueur,
and at the same time leaving some trace of himself."

They went into the town and asked for two glasses of
liqueur, at the counter -- as their friends must have done
before them. The counter was covered with a plate of pewter;
upon this plate was written with the point of a large pin:
"Rueil . . . D . ."

"They went to Rueil," cried Aramis.

"Let us go to Rueil," said Athos.

"It is to throw ourselves into the wolf's jaws," said
Aramis.

"Had I been as great a friend of Jonah as I am of D'Artagnan
I should have followed him even into the inside of the whale
itself; and you would have done the same, Aramis."

"Certainly -- but you make me out better than I am, dear
count. Had I been alone I should scarcely have gone to Rueil
without great caution. But where you go, I go."

They then set off for Rueil. Here the deputies of the
parliament had just arrived, in order to enter upon those
famous conferences which were to last three weeks, and
produced eventually that shameful peace, at the conclusion
of which the prince was arrested. Rueil was crowded with
advocates, presidents and councillors, who came from the
Parisians, and, on the side of the court, with officers and
guards; it was therefore easy, in the midst of this
confusion, to remain as unobserved as any one might wish;
besides, the conferences implied a truce, and to arrest two
gentlemen, even Frondeurs, at this time, would have been an
attack on the rights of the people.

The two friends mingled with the crowd and fancied that
every one was occupied with the same thought that tormented
them. They expected to hear some mention made of D'Artagnan
or of Porthos, but every one was engrossed by articles and
reforms. It was the advice of Athos to go straight to the
minister.

"My friend," said Aramis, "take care; our safety lies in our
obscurity. If we were to make ourselves known we should be
sent to rejoin our friends in some deep ditch, from which
the devil himself could not take us out. Let us try not to
find them out by accident, but from our notions. Arrested at
Compiegne, they have been carried to Rueil; at Rueil they
have been questioned by the cardinal, who has either kept
them near him or sent them to Saint Germain. As to the
Bastile, they are not there, though the Bastile is
especially for the Frondeurs. They are not dead, for the
death of D'Artagnan would make a sensation. As for Porthos,
I believe him to be eternal, like God, although less
patient. Do not let us despond, but wait at Rueil, for my
conviction is that they are at Rueil. But what ails you? You
are pale."

"It is this," answered Athos, with a trembling voice.

"I remember that at the Castle of Rueil the Cardinal
Richelieu had some horrible `oubliettes' constructed."

"Oh! never fear," said Aramis. "Richelieu was a gentleman,
our equal in birth, our superior in position. He could, like
the king, touch the greatest of us on the head, and touching
them make such heads shake on their shoulders. But Mazarin
is a low-born rogue, who can at the most take us by the
collar, like an archer. Be calm -- for I am sure that
D'Artagnan and Porthos are at Rueil, alive and well."

"But," resumed Athos, "I recur to my first proposal. I know
no better means than to act with candor. I shall seek, not
Mazarin, but the queen, and say to her, `Madame, restore to
us your two servants and our two friends.'"

Aramis shook his head.

"'Tis a last resource, but let us not employ it till it is
imperatively called for; let us rather persevere in our
researches."

They continued their inquiries and at last met with a light
dragoon who had formed one of the guard which had escorted
D'Artagnan to Rueil.

Athos, however, perpetually recurred to his proposed
interview with the queen.

"In order to see the queen," said Aramis, "we must first see
the cardinal; and when we have seen the cardinal -- remember
what I tell you, Athos -- we shall be reunited to our
friends, but not in the way you wish. Now, that way of
joining them is not very attractive to me, I confess. Let us
act in freedom, that we may act well and quickly."

"I shall go," he said, "to the queen."

"Well, then," answered Aramis, "pray tell me a day or two
beforehand, that I may take that opportunity of going to
Paris."

"To whom?"

"Zounds! how do I know? perhaps to Madame de Longueville.
She is all-powerful yonder; she will help me. But send me
word should you be arrested, for then I will return
directly."

"Why do you not take your chance and be arrested with me?"

"No, I thank you."

"Should we, by being arrested, be all four together again,
we should not, I am not sure, be twenty-four hours in prison
without getting free."

"My friend, since I killed Chatillon, adored of the ladies
of Saint Germain, I am too great a celebrity not to fear a
prison doubly. The queen is likely to follow Mazarin's
counsels and to have me tried."

"Do you think she loves this Italian so much as they say she
does?"

"Did she not love an Englishman?"

"My friend, she is a woman."

"No, no, you are deceived -- she is a queen."

"Dear friend, I shall sacrifice myself and go and see Anne
of Austria."

"Adieu, Athos, I am going to raise an army."

"For what purpose?"

"To come back and besiege Rueil."

"Where shall we meet again?"

"At the foot of the cardinal's gallows."

The two friends departed -- Aramis to return to Paris, Athos
to take measures preparatory to an interview with the queen.



80

The Gratitude of Anne of Austria.



Athos found much less difficulty than he had expected in
obtaining an audience of Anne of Austria. It was granted,
and was to take place after her morning's "levee," at which,
in accordance with his rights of birth, he was entitled to
be present. A vast crowd filled the apartments of Saint
Germain. Anne had never at the Louvre had so large a court;
but this crowd represented chiefly the second class of
nobility, while the Prince de Conti, the Duc de Beaufort and
the coadjutor assembled around them the first nobility of
France.

The greatest possible gayety prevailed at court. The
particular characteristic of this was that more songs were
made than cannons fired during its continuance. The court
made songs on the Parisians and the Parisians on the court;
and the casualties, though not mortal, were painful, as are
all wounds inflicted by the weapon of ridicule.

In the midst of this seeming hilarity, nevertheless,
people's minds were uneasy. Was Mazarin to remain the
favorite and minister of the queen? Was he to be carried
back by the wind which had blown him there? Every one hoped
so, so that the minister felt that all around him, beneath
the homage of the courtiers, lay a fund of hatred, ill
disguised by fear and interest. He felt ill at ease and at a
loss what to do.

Conde himself, whilst fighting for him, lost no opportunity
of ridiculing, of humbling him. The queen, on whom he threw
himself as sole support, seemed to him now not much to be
relied upon.

When the hour appointed for the audience arrived Athos was
obliged to stay until the queen, who was waited upon by a
new deputation from Paris, had consulted with her minister
as to the propriety and manner of receiving them. All were
fully engrossed with the affairs of the day; Athos could not
therefore have chosen a more inauspicious moment to speak of
his friends -- poor atoms, lost in that raging whirlwind.

But Athos was a man of inflexible determination; he firmly
adhered to a purpose once formed, when it seemed to him to
spring from conscience and to be prompted by a sense of
duty. He insisted on being introduced, saying that although
he was not a deputy from Monsieur de Conti, or Monsieur de
Beaufort, or Monsieur de Bouillon, or Monsieur d'Elbeuf, or
the coadjutor, or Madame de Longueville, or Broussel, or the
Parliament, and although he had come on his own private
account, he nevertheless had things to say to her majesty of
the utmost importance.

The conference being finished, the queen summoned him to her
cabinet.

Athos was introduced and announced by name. It was a name
that too often resounded in her majesty's ears and too often
vibrated in her heart for Anne of Austria not to recognize
it; yet she remained impassive, looking at him with that
fixed stare which is tolerated only in women who are queens,
either by the power of beauty or by the right of birth.

"It is then a service which you propose to render us,
count?" asked Anne of Austria, after a moment's silence.

"Yes, madame, another service," said Athos, shocked that the
queen did not seem to recognize him.

Athos had a noble heart, and made, therefore, but a poor
courtier.

Anne frowned. Mazarin, who was sitting at a table folding up
papers, as if he had only been a secretary of state, looked
up.

"Speak," said the queen.

Mazarin turned again to his papers.

"Madame," resumed Athos, "two of my friends, named
D'Artagnan and Monsieur du Vallon, sent to England by the
cardinal, suddenly disappeared when they set foot on the
shores of France; no one knows what has become of them."

"Well?" said the queen.

"I address myself, therefore, first to the benevolence of
your majesty, that I may know what has become of my friends,
reserving to myself, if necessary, the right of appealing
hereafter to your justice."

"Sir," replied Anne, with a degree of haughtiness which to
certain persons became impertinence, "this is the reason
that you trouble me in the midst of so many absorbing
concerns! an affair for the police! Well, sir, you ought to
know that we no longer have a police, since we are no longer
at Paris."

"I think your majesty will have no need to apply to the
police to know where my friends are, but that if you will
deign to interrogate the cardinal he can reply without any
further inquiry than into his own recollections."

"But, God forgive me!" cried Anne, with that disdainful curl
of the lips peculiar to her, "I believe that you are
yourself interrogating."

"Yes, madame, here I have a right to do so, for it concerns
Monsieur d'Artagnan ---d'Artagnan," he repeated, in such a
manner as to bow the regal brow with recollections of the
weak and erring woman.

The cardinal saw that it was now high time to come to the
assistance of Anne.

"Sir," he said, "I can tell you what is at present unknown
to her majesty. These individuals are under arrest. They
disobeyed orders."

"I beg of your majesty, then," said Athos, calmly and not
replying to Mazarin, "to quash these arrests of Messieurs
d'Artagnan and du Vallon."

"What you ask is merely an affair of discipline and does not
concern me," said the queen.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan never made such an answer as that when
the service of your majesty was concerned," said Athos,
bowing with great dignity. He was going toward the door when
Mazarin stopped him.

"You, too, have been in England, sir?" he said, making a
sign to the queen, who was evidently going to issue a severe
order.

"I was a witness of the last hours of Charles I. Poor king!
culpable, at the most, of weakness, how cruelly punished by
his subjects! Thrones are at this time shaken and it is to
little purpose for devoted hearts to serve the interests of
princes. This is the second time that Monsieur d'Artagnan
has been in England. He went the first time to save the
honor of a great queen; the second, to avert the death of a
great king."

"Sir," said Anne to Mazarin, with an accent from which daily
habits of dissimulation could not entirely chase the real
expression, "see if we can do something for these
gentlemen."

"I wish to do, madame, all that your majesty pleases."

"Do what Monsieur de la Fere requests; that is your name, is
it not, sir?"

"I have another name, madame -- I am called Athos."

"Madame," said Mazarin, with a smile, "you may rest easy;
your wishes shall be fulfilled."

"You hear, sir?" said the queen.

"Yes, madame, I expected nothing less from the justice of
your majesty. May I not go and see my friends?"

"Yes, sir, you shall see them. But, apropos, you belong to
the Fronde, do you not?"

"Madame, I serve the king."

"Yes, in your own way."

"My way is the way of all gentlemen, and I know only one
way," answered Athos, haughtily.

"Go, sir, then," said the queen; "you have obtained what you
wish and we know all we desire to know."

Scarcely, however, had the tapestry closed behind Athos when
she said to Mazarin:

"Cardinal, desire them to arrest that insolent fellow before
he leaves the court."

"Your majesty," answered Mazarin, "desires me to do only
what I was going to ask you to let me do. These bravoes who
resuscitate in our epoch the traditions of another reign are
troublesome; since there are two of them already there, let
us add a third."

Athos was not altogether the queen's dupe, but he was not a
man to run away on suspicion -- above all, when distinctly
told that he should see his friends again. He waited, then,
in the ante-chamber with impatience, till he should be
conducted to them.

He walked to the window and looked into the court. He saw
the deputation from the Parisians enter it; they were coming
to assign the definitive place for the conference and to
make their bow to the queen. A very imposing escort awaited
them without the gates.

Athos was looking on attentively, when some one touched him
softly on the shoulder.

"Ah! Monsieur de Comminges," he said.

"Yes, count, and charged with a commission for which I beg
of you to accept my excuses."

"What is it?"

"Be so good as to give me up your sword, count."

Athos smiled and opened the window.

"Aramis!" he cried.

A gentleman turned around. Athos fancied he had seen him
among the crowd. It was Aramis. He bowed with great
friendship to the count.

"Aramis," cried Athos, "I am arrested."

"Good," replied Aramis, calmly.

"Sir," said Athos, turning to Comminges and giving him
politely his sword by the hilt, "here is my sword; have the
kindness to keep it safely for me until I quit my prison. I
prize it -- it was given to my ancestor by King Francis I.
In his time they armed gentlemen, not disarmed them. Now,
whither do you conduct me?"

"Into my room first," replied Comminges; "the queen will
ultimately decide your place of domicile."

Athos followed Comminges without saying a single word.



81

Cardinal Mazarin as King.



The arrest produced no sensation, indeed was almost unknown,
and scarcely interrupted the course of events. To the
deputation it was formally announced that the queen would
receive it.

Accordingly, it was admitted to the presence of Anne, who,
silent and lofty as ever, listened to the speeches and
complaints of the deputies; but when they had finished their
harangues not one of them could say, so calm remained her
face, whether or no she had heard them.

On the other hand, Mazarin, present at that audience, heard
very well what those deputies demanded. It was purely and
simply his removal, in terms clear and precise.

The discourse being finished, the queen remained silent.

"Gentlemen," said Mazarin, "I join with you in supplicating
the queen to put an end to the miseries of her subjects. I
have done all in my power to ameliorate them and yet the
belief of the public, you say, is that they proceed from me,
an unhappy foreigner, who has been unable to please the
French. Alas! I have never been understood, and no wonder. I
succeeded a man of the most sublime genius that ever upheld
the sceptre of France. The memory of Richelieu annihilates
me. In vain -- were I an ambitious man -- should I struggle
against such remembrances as he has left; but that I am not
ambitious I am going to prove to you. I own myself
conquered. I shall obey the wishes of the people. If Paris
has injuries to complain of, who has not some wrongs to be
redressed? Paris has been sufficiently punished; enough
blood has flowed, enough misery has humbled a town deprived
of its king and of justice. 'Tis not for me, a private
individual, to disunite a queen from her kingdom. Since you
demand my resignation, I retire."

"Then," said Aramis, in his neighbor's ear, "the conferences
are over. There is nothing to do but to send Monsieur
Mazarin to the most distant frontier and to take care that
he does not return even by that, nor any other entrance into
France."

"One instant, sir," said the man in a gown, whom he
addressed; "a plague on't! how fast you go! one may soon see
that you're a soldier. There's the article of remunerations
and indemnifications to be discussed and set to rights."

"Chancellor," said the queen, turning to Seguier, our old
acquaintance, "you will open the conferences. They can take
place at Rueil. The cardinal has said several things which
have agitated me, therefore I will not speak more fully now.
As to his going or staying, I feel too much gratitude to the
cardinal not to leave him free in all his actions; he shall
do what he wishes to do."

A transient pallor overspread the speaking countenance of
the prime minister; he looked at the queen with anxiety. Her
face was so passionless, that he, as every one else present,
was incapable of reading her thoughts.

"But," added the queen, "in awaiting the cardinal's decision
let there be, if you please, a reference to the king only."

The deputies bowed and left the room.

"What!" exclaimed the queen, when the last of them had
quitted the apartment, "you would yield to these limbs of
the law -- these advocates?"

"To promote your majesty's welfare, madame," replied
Mazarin, fixing his penetrating eyes on the queen, "there is
no sacrifice that I would not make."

Anne dropped her head and fell into one of those reveries so
habitual with her. A recollection of Athos came into her
mind. His fearless deportment, his words, so firm, yet
dignified, the shades which by one word he had evoked,
recalled to her the past in all its intoxication of poetry
and romance, youth, beauty, the eclat of love at twenty
years of age, the bloody death of Buckingham, the only man
whom she had ever really loved, and the heroism of those
obscure champions who had saved her from the double hatred
of Richelieu and the king.

Mazarin looked at her, and whilst she deemed herself alone
and freed from the world of enemies who sought to spy into
her secret thoughts, he read her thoughts in her
countenance, as one sees in a transparent lake clouds pass
-- reflections, like thoughts, of the heavens.

"Must we, then," asked Anne of Austria, "yield to the storm,
buy peace, and patiently and piously await better times?"

Mazarin smiled sarcastically at this speech, which showed
that she had taken the minister's proposal seriously.

Anne's head was bent down -- she had not seen the Italian's
smile; but finding that her question elicited no reply she
looked up.

"Well, you do not answer, cardinal, what do you think about
it?"

"I am thinking, madame, of the allusion made by that
insolent gentleman, whom you have caused to be arrested, to
the Duke of Buckingham -- to him whom you allowed to be
assassinated -- to the Duchess de Chevreuse, whom you
suffered to be exiled -- to the Duc de Beaufort, whom you
imprisoned; but if he made allusion to me it was because he
is ignorant of the relation in which I stand to you."

Anne drew up, as she always did, when anything touched her
pride. She blushed, and that she might not answer, clasped
her beautiful hands till her sharp nails almost pierced
them.

"That man has sagacity, honor and wit, not to mention
likewise that he is a man of undoubted resolution. You know
something about him, do you not, madame? I shall tell him,
therefore, and in doing so I shall confer a personal favor
on him, how he is mistaken in regard to me. What is proposed
to me would be, in fact, almost an abdication, and an
abdication requires reflection."

"An abdication?" repeated Anne; "I thought, sir, that it was
kings alone who abdicated!"

"Well," replied Mazarin, "and am I not almost a king --
king, indeed, of France? Thrown over the foot of the royal
bed, my simar, madame, looks not unlike the mantle worn by
kings."

This was one of the humiliations which Mazarin made Anne
undergo more frequently than any other, and one that bowed
her head with shame. Queen Elizabeth and Catherine II. of
Russia are the only two monarchs of their set on record who
were at once sovereigns and lovers. Anne of Austria looked
with a sort of terror at the threatening aspect of the
cardinal -- his physiognomy in such moments was not
destitute of a certain grandeur.

"Sir," she replied, "did I not say, and did you not hear me
say to those people, that you should do as you pleased?"

"In that case," said Mazarin, "I think it must please me
best to remain; not only on account of my own interest, but
for your safety."

"Remain, then, sir; nothing can be more agreeable to me;
only do not allow me to be insulted."

"You are referring to the demands of the rebels and to the
tone in which they stated them? Patience! They have selected
a field of battle on which I am an abler general than they
-- that of a conference. No, we shall beat them by merely
temporizing. They want food already. They will be ten times
worse off in a week."

"Ah, yes! Good heavens! I know it will end in that way; but
it is not they who taunt me with the most wounding
reproaches, but ---- "

"I understand; you mean to allude to the recollections
perpetually revived by these three gentlemen. However, we
have them safe in prison, and they are just sufficiently
culpable for us to keep them in prison as long as we find it
convenient. One only is still not in our power and braves
us. But, devil take him! we shall soon succeed in sending
him to join his boon companions. We have accomplished more
difficult things than that. In the first place I have as a
precaution shut up at Rueil, near me, under my own eyes,
within reach of my hand, the two most intractable ones.
To-day the third will be there also."

"As long as they are in prison all will be well," said Anne,
"but one of these days they will get out."

"Yes, if your majesty releases them."

"Ah!" exclaimed Anne, following the train of her own
thoughts on such occasions, "one regrets Paris!"

"Why so?"

"On account of the Bastile, sir, which is so strong and so
secure."

"Madame, these conferences will bring us peace; when we have
peace we shall regain Paris; with Paris, the Bastile, and
our four bullies shall rot therein."

Anne frowned slightly when Mazarin, in taking leave, kissed
her hand.

Mazarin, after this half humble, half gallant attention,
went away. Anne followed him with her eyes, and as he
withdrew, at every step he took, a disdainful smile was seen
playing, then gradually burst upon her lips.

"I once," she said, "despised the love of a cardinal who
never said `I shall do,' but, `I have done so and so.' That
man knew of retreats more secure than Rueil, darker and more
silent even than the Bastile. Degenerate world!"



82

Precaution's.



After quitting Anne, Mazarin took the road to Rueil, where
he usually resided; in those times of disturbance he went
about with numerous followers and often disguised himself.
In military dress he was, indeed, as we have stated, a very
handsome man.

In the court of the old Chateau of Saint Germain he entered
his coach, and reached the Seine at Chatou. The prince had
supplied him with fifty light horse, not so much by way of
guard as to show the deputies how readily the queen's
generals dispersed their troops and to prove that they might
be safely scattered at pleasure. Athos, on horseback,
without his sword and kept in sight by Comminges, followed
the cardinal in silence. Grimaud, finding that his master
had been arrested, fell back into the ranks near Aramis,
without saying a word and as if nothing had happened.

Grimaud had, indeed, during twenty-two years of service,
seen his master extricate himself from so many difficulties
that nothing less than Athos's imminent death was likely to
make him uneasy.

At the branching off of the road toward Paris, Aramis, who
had followed in the cardinal's suite, turned back. Mazarin
went to the right hand and Aramis could see the prisoner
disappear at the turning of the avenue. Athos, at the same
moment, moved by a similar impulse, looked back also. The
two friends exchanged a simple inclination of the head and
Aramis put his finger to his hat, as if to bow, Athos alone
comprehending by that signal that he had some project in his
head.

Ten minutes afterward Mazarin entered the court of that
chateau which his predecessor had built for him at Rueil; as
he alighted, Comminges approached him.

"My lord," he asked, "where does your eminence wish Monsieur
Comte de la Fere to be lodged?"

"In the pavilion of the orangery, of course, in front of the
pavilion where the guard is. I wish every respect to be
shown the count, although he is the prisoner of her majesty
the queen."

"My lord," answered Comminges, "he begs to be taken to the
place where Monsieur d'Artagnan is confined -- that is, in
the hunting lodge, opposite the orangery.

Mazarin thought for an instant.

Comminges saw that he was undecided.

"'Tis a very strong post," he resumed, "and we have forty
good men, tried soldiers, having no connection with
Frondeurs nor any interest in the Fronde."

"If we put these three men together, Monsieur Comminges,"
said Mazarin, "we must double the guard, and we are not rich
enough in fighting men to commit such acts of prodigality."

Comminges smiled; Mazarin read and construed that smile.

"You do not know these men, Monsieur Comminges, but I know
them, first personally, also by hearsay. I sent them to
carry aid to King Charles and they performed prodigies to
save him; had it not been for an adverse destiny, that
beloved monarch would this day have been among us."

"But since they served your eminence so well, why are they,
my lord cardinal, in prison?"

"In prison?" said Mazarin, "and when has Rueil been a
prison?"

"Ever since there were prisoners in it," answered Comminges.

"These gentlemen, Comminges, are not prisoners," returned
Mazarin, with his ironical smile, "only guests; but guests
so precious that I have put a grating before each of their
windows and bolts to their doors, that they may not refuse
to continue my visitors. So much do I esteem them that I am
going to make the Comte de la Fere a visit, that I may
converse with him tete-a-tete, and that we may not be
disturbed at our interview you must conduct him, as I said
before, to the pavilion of the orangery; that, you know, is
my daily promenade. Well, while taking my walk I will call
on him and we will talk. Although he professes to be my
enemy I have sympathy for him, and if he is reasonable
perhaps we shall arrange matters."

Comminges bowed, and returned to Athos, who was awaiting
with apparent calmness, but with real anxiety, the result of
the interview.

"Well?" he said to the lieutenant.

"Sir," replied Comminges, "it seems that it is impossible."

"Monsieur de Comminges," said Athos, "I have been a soldier
all my life and I know the force of orders; but outside your
orders there is a service you can render me."

"I will do it with all my heart," said Comminges; "for I
know who you are and what service you once performed for her
majesty; I know, too, how dear to you is the young man who
came so valiantly to my aid when that old rogue of a
Broussel was arrested. I am entirely at your service, except
only for my orders."

"Thank you, sir; what I am about to ask will not compromise
you in any degree."

"If it should even compromise me a little," said Monsieur de
Comminges, with a smile, "still make your demand. I don't
like Mazarin any better than you do. I serve the queen and
that draws me naturally into the service of the cardinal;
but I serve the one with joy and the other against my will.
Speak, then, I beg of you; I wait and listen."

"Since there is no harm," said Athos, "in my knowing that
D'Artagnan is here, I presume there will be none in his
knowing that I am here."

"I have received no orders on that point."

"Well, then, do me the kindness to give him my regards and
tell him that I am his neighbor. Tell him also what you have
just told me -- that Mazarin has placed me in the pavilion
of the orangery in order to make me a visit, and assure him
that I shall take advantage of this honor he proposes to
accord to me to obtain from him some amelioration of our
captivity."

"Which cannot last," interrupted Comminges; "the cardinal
said so; there is no prison here."

"But there are oubliettes!" replied Athos, smiling.

"Oh! that's a different thing; yes, I know there are
traditions of that sort," said Comminges. "It was in the
time of the other cardinal, who was a great nobleman; but
our Mazarin -- impossible! an Italian adventurer would not
dare to go such lengths with such men as ourselves.
Oubliettes are employed as a means of kingly vengeance, and
a low-born fellow such as he is would not have recourse to
them. Your arrest is known, that of your friends will soon
be known; and all the nobility of France would demand an
explanation of your disappearance. No, no, be easy on that
score. I will, however, inform Monsieur d'Artagnan of your
arrival here."

Comminges then led the count to a room on the ground floor
of a pavilion, at the end of the orangery. They passed
through a courtyard as they went, full of soldiers and
courtiers. In the centre of this court, in the form of a
horseshoe, were the buildings occupied by Mazarin, and at
each wing the pavilion (or smaller building), where
D'Artagnan was confined, and that, level with the orangery,
where Athos was to be. From the ends of these two wings
extended the park.

Athos, when he reached his appointed room, observed through
the gratings of his window, walls and roofs; and was told,
on inquiry, by Comminges, that he was looking on the back of
the pavilion where D'Artagnan was confined.

"Yes, 'tis too true," said Comminges, "'tis almost a prison;
but what a singular fancy this is of yours, count -- you,
who are the very flower of our nobility -- to squander your
valor and loyalty amongst these upstarts, the Frondists!
Really, count, if ever I thought that I had a friend in the
ranks of the royal army, it was you. A Frondeur! you, the
Comte de la Fere, on the side of Broussel, Blancmesnil and
Viole! For shame! you, a Frondeur!"

"On my word of honor," said Athos, "one must be either a
Mazarinist or a Frondeur. For a long time I had these words
whispered in my ears, and I chose the latter; at any rate,
it is a French word. And now, I am a Frondeur -- not of
Broussel's party, nor of Blancmesnil's, nor am I with Viole;
but with the Duc de Beaufort, the Ducs de Bouillon and
d'Elbeuf; with princes, not with presidents, councillors and
low-born lawyers. Besides, what a charming outlook it would
have been to serve the cardinal! Look at that wall --
without a single window -- which tells you fine things about
Mazarin's gratitude!"

"Yes," replied De Comminges, "more especially if it could
reveal how Monsieur d'Artagnan for this last week has been
anathematizing him."

"Poor D'Artagnan'" said Athos, with the charming melancholy
that was one of the traits of his character, "so brave, so
good, so terrible to the enemies of those he loves. You have
two unruly prisoners there, sir."

"Unruly," Comminges smiled; "you wish to terrify me, I
suppose. When he came here, Monsieur D'Artagnan provoked and
braved the soldiers and inferior officers, in order, I
suppose, to have his sword back. That mood lasted some time;
but now he's as gentle as a lamb and sings Gascon songs,
which make one die of laughing."

"And Du Vallon?" asked Athos.

"Ah, he's quite another sort of person -- a formidable
gentleman, indeed. The first day he broke all the doors in
with a single push of his shoulder; and I expected to see
him leave Rueil in the same way as Samson left Gaza. But his
temper cooled down, like his friend's; he not only gets used
to his captivity, but jokes about it."

"So much the better," said Athos.

"Do you think anything else was to be expected of them?"
asked Comminges, who, putting together what Mazarin had said
of his prisoners and what the Comte de la Fere had said,
began to feel a degree of uneasiness.

Athos, on the other hand, reflected that this recent
gentleness of his friends most certainly arose from some
plan formed by D'Artagnan. Unwilling to injure them by
praising them too highly, he replied: "They? They are two
hotheads -- the one a Gascon, the other from Picardy; both
are easily excited, but they quiet down immediately. You
have had a proof of that in what you have just related to
me."

This, too, was the opinion of Comminges, who withdrew
somewhat reassured. Athos remained alone in the vast
chamber, where, according to the cardinal's directions, he
was treated with all the courtesy due to a nobleman. He
awaited Mazarin's promised visit to get some light on his
present situation.



83

Strength and Sagacity.



Now let us pass the orangery to the hunting lodge. At the
extremity of the courtyard, where, close to a portico formed
of Ionic columns, were the dog kennels, rose an oblong
building, the pavilion of the orangery, a half circle,
inclosing the court of honor. It was in this pavilion, on
the ground floor, that D'Artagnan and Porthos were confined,
suffering interminable hours of imprisonment in a manner
suitable to each different temperament.

D'Artagnan was pacing to and fro like a caged tiger; with
dilated eyes, growling as he paced along by the bars of a
window looking upon the yard of servant's offices.

Porthos was ruminating over an excellent dinner he had just
demolished.

The one seemed to be deprived of reason, yet he was
meditating. The other seemed to meditate, yet he was more
than half asleep. But his sleep was a nightmare, which might
be guessed by the incoherent manner in which he sometimes
snored and sometimes snorted.

"Look," said D'Artagnan, "day is declining. It must be
nearly four o'clock. We have been in this place nearly
eighty-three hours."

"Hem!" muttered Porthos, with a kind of pretense of
answering.

"Did you hear, eternal sleeper?" cried D'Artagnan, irritated
that any one could doze during the day, when he had the
greatest difficulty in sleeping during the night.

"What?" said Porthos.

"I say we have been here eighty-three hours."

"'Tis your fault," answered Porthos.

"How, my fault?"

"Yes, I offered you escape."

"By pulling out a bar and pushing down a door?"

"Certainly."

"Porthos, men like us can't go out from here purely and
simply."

"Faith!" said Porthos, "as for me, I could go out with that
purity and that simplicity which it seems to me you despise
too much."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.

"And besides," he said, "going out of this chamber isn't
all."

"Dear friend," said Porthos, "you appear to be in a somewhat
better humor to-day than you were yesterday. Explain to me
why going out of this chamber isn't everything."

"Because, having neither arms nor password, we shouldn't
take fifty steps in the court without knocking against a
sentinel."

Very well," said Porthos, "we will kill the sentinel and we
shall have his arms."

"Yes, but before we can kill him -- and he will be hard to
kill, that Swiss -- he will shriek out and the whole picket
will come, and we shall be taken like foxes, we, who are
lions, and thrown into some dungeon, where we shall not even
have the consolation of seeing this frightful gray sky of
Rueil, which no more resembles the sky of Tarbes than the
moon is like the sun. Lack-a-day! if we only had some one to
instruct us about the physical and moral topography of this
castle. Ah! when one thinks that for twenty years, during
which time I did not know what to do with myself, it never
occurred to me to come to study Rueil."

"What difference does that make?" said Porthos. "We shall go
out all the same."

"Do you know, my dear fellow, why master pastrycooks never
work with their hands?"

"No," said Porthos, "but I should be glad to be informed."

"It is because in the presence of their pupils they fear
that some of their tarts or creams may turn out badly
cooked."

"What then?"

"Why, then they would be laughed at, and a master pastrycook
must never be laughed at."

"And what have master pastrycooks to do with us?"

"We ought, in our adventures, never to be defeated or give
any one a chance to laugh at us. In England, lately, we
failed, we were beaten, and that is a blemish on our
reputation."

"By whom, then, were we beaten?" asked Porthos.

"By Mordaunt."

"Yes, but we have drowned Monsieur Mordaunt."

"That is true, and that will redeem us a little in the eyes
of posterity, if posterity ever looks at us. But listen,
Porthos: though Monsieur Mordaunt was a man not to be
despised, Mazarin is not less strong than he, and we shall
not easily succeed in drowning him. We must, therefore,
watch and play a close game; for," he added with a sigh, "we
two are equal, perhaps, to eight others; but we are not
equal to the four that you know of."

"That is true," said Porthos, echoing D'Artagnan's sigh.

"Well, Porthos, follow my examples; walk back and forth till
some news of our friends reaches us or till we are visited
by a good idea. But don't sleep as you do all the time;
nothing dulls the intellect like sleep. As to what may lie
before us, it is perhaps less serious than we at first
thought. I don't believe that Monsieur de Mazarin thinks of
cutting off our heads, for heads are not taken off without
previous trial; a trial would make a noise, and a noise
would get the attention of our friends, who would check the
operations of Monsieur de Mazarin."

"How well you reason!" said Porthos, admiringly.

"Well, yes, pretty well," replied D'Artagnan; "and besides,
you see, if they put us on trial, if they cut off our heads,
they must meanwhile either keep us here or transfer us
elsewhere."

"Yes, that is inevitable," said Porthos.

"Well, it is impossible but that Master Aramis, that
keen-scented bloodhound, and Athos, that wise and prudent
nobleman, will discover our retreat. Then, believe me, it
will be time to act."

"Yes, we will wait. We can wait the more contentedly, that
it is not absolutely bad here, but for one thing, at least."

"What is that?"

"Did you observe, D'Artagnan, that three days running they
have brought us braised mutton?"

"No; but if it occurs a fourth time I shall complain of it,
so never mind."

"And then I feel the loss of my house, 'tis a long time
since I visited my castles."

"Forget them for a time; we shall return to them, unless
Mazarin razes them to the ground."

"Do you think that likely?"

"No, the other cardinal would have done so, but this one is
too mean a fellow to risk it."

"You reconcile me, D'Artagnan."

"Well, then, assume a cheerful manner, as I do; we must joke
with the guards, we must gain the good-will of the soldiers,
since we can't corrupt them. Try, Porthos, to please them
more than you are wont to do when they are under our
windows. Thus far you have done nothing but show them your
fist; and the more respectable your fist is, Porthos, the
less attractive it is. Ah, I would give much to have five
hundred louis, only."

"So would I," said Porthos, unwilling to be behind
D'Artagnan in generosity; "I would give as much as a hundred
pistoles."

The two prisoners were at this point of their conversation
when Comminges entered, preceded by a sergeant and two men,
who brought supper in a basket with two handles, filled with
basins and plates.

"What!" exclaimed Porthos, "mutton again?"

"My dear Monsieur de Comminges," said D'Artagnan, "you will
find that my friend, Monsieur du Vallon, will go to the most
fatal lengths if Cardinal Mazarin continues to provide us
with this sort of meat; mutton every day."

"I declare," said Porthos, "I shall eat nothing if they do
not take it away."

"Remove the mutton," cried Comminges; "I wish Monsieur du
Vallon to sup well, more especially as I have news to give
him that will improve his appetite."

"Is Mazarin dead?" asked Porthos.

"No; I am sorry to tell you he is perfectly well."

"So much the worse," said Porthos.

"What is that news?" asked D'Artagnan. "News in prison is a
fruit so rare that I trust, Monsieur de Comminges, you will
excuse my impatience -- the more eager since you have given
us to understand that the news is good."

"Should you be glad to hear that the Comte de la Fere is
well?" asked De Comminges.

D'Artagnan's penetrating gray eyes were opened to the
utmost.

"Glad!" he cried; "I should be more than glad! Happy --
beyond measure!"

"Well, I am desired by him to give you his compliments and
to say that he is in good health."

D'Artagnan almost leaped with joy. A quick glance conveyed
his thought to Porthos: "If Athos knows where we are, if he
opens communication with us, before long Athos will act."

Porthos was not very quick to understand the language of
glances, but now since the name of Athos had suggested to
him the same idea, he understood.

"Do you say," asked the Gascon, timidly, "that the Comte de
la Fere has commissioned you to give his compliments to
Monsieur du Vallon and myself?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you have seen him?"

"Certainly I have."

"Where? if I may ask without indiscretion."

"Near here," replied De Comminges, smiling; "so near that if
the windows which look on the orangery were not stopped up
you could see him from where you are."

"He is wandering about the environs of the castle," thought
D'Artagnan. Then he said aloud:

"You met him, I dare say, in the park -- hunting, perhaps?"

"No; nearer, nearer still. Look, behind this wall," said De
Comminges, knocking against the wall.

"Behind this wall? What is there, then, behind this wall? I
was brought here by night, so devil take me if I know where
I am."

"Well," said Comminges, "suppose one thing."

"I will suppose anything you please."

"Suppose there were a window in this wall."

"Well?"

"From that window you would see Monsieur de la Fere at his."

"The count, then, is in the chateau?"

"Yes."

"For what reason?"

"The same as yourself."

"Athos -- a prisoner?"

"You know well," replied De Comminges, "that there are no
prisoners at Rueil, because there is no prison."

"Don't let us play upon words, sir. Athos has been
arrested."

"Yesterday, at Saint Germain, as he came out from the
presence of the queen."

The arms of D'Artagnan fell powerless by his side. One might
have supposed him thunderstruck; a paleness ran like a cloud
over his dark skin, but disappeared immediately.

"A prisoner?" he reiterated.

"A prisoner," repeated Porthos, quite dejected.

Suddenly D'Artagnan looked up and in his eyes there was a
gleam which scarcely even Porthos observed; but it died away
and he appeared more sorrowful than before.

"Come, come," said Comminges, who, since D'Artagnan, on the
day of Broussel's arrest, had saved him from the hands of
the Parisians, had entertained a real affection for him,
"don't be unhappy; I never thought of bringing you bad news.
Laugh at the chance which has brought your friend near to
you and Monsieur du Vallon, instead of being in the depths
of despair about it."

But D'Artagnan was still in a desponding mood.

"And how did he look?" asked Porthos, who, perceiving that
D'Artagnan had allowed the conversation to drop, profited by
it to put in a word or two.

"Very well, indeed, sir," replied Comminges; "at first, like
you, he seemed distressed; but when he heard that the
cardinal was going to pay him a visit this very evening ----
"

"Ah!" cried D'Artagnan, "the cardinal is about to visit the
Comte de la Fere?"

"Yes; and the count desired me to tell you that he should
take advantage of this visit to plead for you and for
himself."

"Ah! our dear count!" said D'Artagnan.

"A fine thing, indeed!" grunted Porthos. "A great favor!
Zounds! Monsieur the Comte de la Fere, whose family is
allied to the Montmorency and the Rohan, is easily the equal
of Monsieur de Mazarin."

"No matter," said D'Artagnan, in his most wheedling tone.
"On reflection, my dear Du Vallon, it is a great honor for
the Comte de la Fere, and gives good reason to hope. In
fact, it seems to me so great an honor for a prisoner that I
think Monsieur de Comminges must be mistaken."

"What? I am mistaken?"

"Monsieur de Mazarin will not come to visit the Comte de la
Fere, but the Comte de la Fere will be sent for to visit
him."

"No, no, no," said Comminges, who made a point of having the
facts appear exactly as they were, "I clearly understood
what the cardinal said to me. He will come and visit the
Comte de la Fere."

D'Artagnan tried to gather from the expression of his eyes
whether Porthos understood the importance of that visit, but
Porthos did not even look toward him.

"It is, then, the cardinal's custom to walk in his
orangery?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Every evening he shuts himself in there. That, it seems, is
where he meditates on state affairs."

"In that case," said D'Artagnan, "I begin to believe that
Monsieur de la Fere will receive the visit of his eminence;
he will, of course, have an escort."

"Yes -- two soldiers."

"And will he talk thus of affairs in presence of two
strangers?"

"The soldiers are Swiss, who understand only German.
Besides, according to all probability they will wait at the
door."

D'Artagnan made a violent effort over himself to keep his
face from being too expressive.

"Let the cardinal take care of going alone to visit the
Comte de la Fere," said D'Artagnan; "for the count must be
furious."

Comminges began to laugh. "Oh, oh! why, really, one would
say that you four were anthropaphagi! The count is an
affable man; besides, be is unarmed; at the first word from
his eminence the two soldiers about him would run to his
assistance."

"Two soldiers," said D'Artagnan, seeming to remember
something, "two soldiers, yes; that, then, is why I hear two
men called every evening and see them walking sometimes for
half an hour, under my window."

"That is it; they are waiting for the cardinal, or rather
for Bernouin, who comes to call them when the cardinal goes
out."

"Fine-looking men, upon my word!" said D'Artagnan.

"They belong to the regiment that was at Lens, which the
prince assigned to the cardinal."

"Ah, monsieur," said D'Artagnan, as if to sum up in a word
all that conversation, "if only his eminence would relent
and grant to Monsieur de la Fere our liberty."

"I wish it with all my heart," said Comminges.

"Then, if he should forget that visit, you would find no
inconvenience in reminding him of it?"

"Not at all."

"Ah, that gives me more confidence."

This skillful turn of the conversation would have seemed a
sublime manoeuvre to any one who could have read the
Gascon's soul.

"Now," said D'Artagnan, "I've one last favor to ask of you,
Monsieur de Comminges."

"At your service, sir."

"You will see the count again?"

"To-morrow morning."

"Will you remember us to him and ask him to solicit for me
the same favor that he will have obtained?"

"You want the cardinal to come here?"

"No; I know my place and am not so presumptuous. Let his
eminence do me the honor to give me a hearing; that is all I
want."

"Oh!" muttered Porthos, shaking his head, "never should I
have thought this of him! How misfortune humbles a man!"

"I promise you it shall be done," answered De Comminges.

"Tell the count that I am well; that you found me sad, but
resigned."

"I am pleased, sir, to hear that."

"And the same, also, for Monsieur du Vallon ---- "

"Not for me ," cried Porthos; "I am not by any means
resigned."

"But you will be resigned, my friend."

"Never!"

"He will become so, monsieur; I know him better than he
knows himself. Be silent, dear Du Vallon, and resign
yourself."

"Adieu, gentlemen," said De Comminges; "sleep well!"

"We will try."

De Comminges went away, D'Artagnan remaining apparently in
the same attitude of humble resignation; but scarcely had he
departed when he turned and clasped Porthos in his arms with
an expression not to be doubted.

"Oh!" cried Porthos; "what's the matter now? Have you gone
mad, my dear friend?"

"What is the matter?" returned D'Artagnan; "we are saved!"

"I don't see that at all," answered Porthos. "I think we are
all taken prisoners, except Aramis, and that our chances of
getting out are lessened since one more of us is caught in
Mazarin's mousetrap."

"Which is far too strong for two of us, but not strong
enough for three of us," returned D'Artagnan.

"I don't understand," said Porthos.

"Never mind; let's sit down to table and take something to
strengthen us for the night."

"What are we to do, then, to-night?"

"To travel -- perhaps."

"But ---- "

"Sit down, dear friend, to table. When one is eating, ideas
flow easily. After supper, when they are perfected, I will
communicate my plans to you."

So Porthos sat down to table without another word and ate
with an appetite that did honor to the confidence that was
ever inspired in him by D'Artagnan's inventive imagination.



84

Strength and Sagacity -- Continued.



Supper was eaten in silence, but not in sadness; for from
time to time one of those sweet smiles which were habitual
to him in moments of good-humor illumined the face of
D'Artagnan. Not a scintilla of these was lost on Porthos;
and at every one he uttered an exclamation which betrayed to
his friend that he had not lost sight of the idea which
possessed his brain.

At dessert D'Artagnan reposed in his chair, crossed one leg
over the other and lounged about like a man perfectly at his
ease.

Porthos rested his chin on his hands, placed his elbows on
the table and looked at D'Artagnan with an expression of
confidence which imparted to that colossus an admirable
appearance of good-fellowship.

"Well?" said D'Artagnan, at last.

"Well!" repeated Porthos.

"You were saying, my dear friend ---- "

"No; I said nothing."

"Yes; you were saying you wished to leave this place."

"Ah, indeed! the will was never wanting."

"To get away you would not mind, you added, knocking down a
door or a wall."

"'Tis true -- I said so, and I say it again."

"And I answered you, Porthos, that it was not a good plan;
that we couldn't go a hundred steps without being
recaptured, because we were without clothes to disguise
ourselves and arms to defend ourselves."

"That is true; we should need clothes and arms."

"Well," said D'Artagnan, rising, "we have them, friend
Porthos, and even something better."

"Bah!" said Porthos, looking around.

"Useless to look; everything will come to us when wanted. At
about what time did we see the two Swiss guards walking
yesterday?"

"An hour after sunset."

"If they go out to-day as they did yesterday we shall have
the honor, then, of seeing them in half an hour?"

"In a quarter of an hour at most."

"Your arm is still strong enough, is it not, Porthos?"

Porthos unbuttoned his sleeve, raised his shirt and looked
complacently on his strong arm, as large as the leg of any
ordinary man.

"Yes, indeed," said he, "I believe so."

"So that you could without trouble convert these tongs into
a hoop and yonder shovel into a corkscrew?"

"Certainly." And the giant took up these two articles, and
without any apparent effort produced in them the
metamorphoses suggested by his companion.

"There!" he cried.

"Capital!" exclaimed the Gascon. "Really, Porthos, you are a
gifted individual!"

"I have heard speak," said Porthos, "of a certain Milo of
Crotona, who performed wonderful feats, such as binding his
forehead with a cord and bursting it -- of killing an ox
with a blow of his fist and carrying it home on his
shoulders, et cetera. I used to learn all these feat by
heart yonder, down at Pierrefonds, and I have done all that
he did except breaking a cord by the corrugation of my
temples."

"Because your strength is not in your head, Porthos," said
his friend.

"No; it is in my arms and shoulders," answered Porthos with
gratified naivete.

"Well, my dear friend, let us approach the window and there
you can match your strength against that of an iron bar."

Porthos went to the window, took a bar in his hands, clung
to it and bent it like a bow; so that the two ends came out
of the sockets of stone in which for thirty years they had
been fixed.

"Well! friend, the cardinal, although such a genius, could
never have done that."

"Shall I take out any more of them?" asked Porthos.

"No; that is sufficient; a man can pass through that."

Porthos tried, and passed the upper portion of his body
through.

"Yes," he said.

"Now pass your arm through this opening."

"Why?"

"You will know presently -- pass it."

Porthos obeyed with military promptness and passed his arm
through the opening.

"Admirable!" said D'Artagnan.

"The scheme goes forward, it seems."

"On wheels, dear friend."

"Good! What shall I do now?"

"Nothing."

"It is finished, then?"

"No, not yet."

"I should like to understand," said Porthos.

"Listen, my dear friend; in two words you will know all. The
door of the guardhouse opens, as you see."

"Yes, I see."

"They are about to send into our court, which Monsieur de
Mazarin crosses on his way to the orangery, the two guards
who attend him."

"There they are, coming out."

"If only they close the guardhouse door! Good! They close
it."

"What, then?"

"Silence! They may hear us."

"I don't understand it at all."

"As you execute you will understand."

"And yet I should have preferred ---- "

"You will have the pleasure of the surprise."

"Ah, that is true."

"Hush!"

Porthos remained silent and motionless.

In fact, the two soldiers advanced on the side where the
window was, rubbing their hands, for it was cold, it being
the month of February.

At this moment the door of the guardhouse was opened and one
of the soldiers was summoned away.

"Now," said D'Artagnan, "I am going to call this soldier and
talk to him. Don't lose a word of what I'm going to say to
you, Porthos. Everything lies in the execution."

"Good, the execution of plots is my forte."

"I know it well. I depend on you. Look, I shall turn to the
left, so that the soldier will be at your right, as soon as
he mounts on the bench to talk to us."

"But supposing he doesn't mount?"

"He will; rely upon it. As soon as you see him get up,
stretch out your arm and seize him by the neck. Then,
raising him up as Tobit raised the fish by the gills, you
must pull him into the room, taking care to squeeze him so
tight that he can't cry out."

"Oh!" said Porthos. "Suppose I happen to strangle him?"

"To be sure there would only be a Swiss the less in the
world; but you will not do so, I hope. Lay him down here;
we'll gag him and tie him -- no matter where -- somewhere.
So we shall get from him one uniform and a sword."

"Marvelous!" exclaimed Porthos, looking at the Gascon with
the most profound admiration.

"Pooh!" replied D'Artagnan.

"Yes," said Porthos, recollecting himself, "but one uniform
and one sword will not suffice for two."

"Well; but there's his comrade."

"True," said Porthos.

"Therefore, when I cough, stretch out your arm."

"Good!"

The two friends then placed themselves as they had agreed,
Porthos being completely hidden in an angle of the window.

"Good-evening, comrade," said D'Artagnan in his most
fascinating voice and manner.

"Good-evening, sir," answered the soldier, in a strong
provincial accent.

"'Tis not too warm to walk," resumed D'Artagnan.

"No, sir."

"And I think a glass of wine will not be disagreeable to
you?"

"A glass of wine will be extremely welcome."

"The fish bites -- the fish bites!" whispered the Gascon to
Porthos.

"I understand," said Porthos.

"A bottle, perhaps?"

"A whole bottle? Yes, sir."

"A whole bottle, if you will drink my health."

"Willingly," answered the soldier.

"Come, then, and take it, friend," said the Gascon.

"With all my heart. How convenient that there's a bench
here. Egad! one would think it had been placed here on
purpose."

"Get on it; that's it, friend."

And D'Artagnan coughed.

That instant the arm of Porthos fell. His hand of iron
grasped, quick as lightning, firm as a pair of blacksmith's
pincers, the soldier's throat. He raised him, almost
stifling him as he drew him through the aperture, at the
risk of flaying him in the passage. He then laid him down on
the floor, where D'Artagnan, after giving him just time
enough to draw his breath, gagged him with his long scarf;
and the moment he had done so began to undress him with the
promptitude and dexterity of a man who had learned his
business on the field of battle. Then the soldier, gagged
and bound, was placed upon the hearth, the fire of which had
been previously extinguished by the two friends.

"Here's a sword and a dress," said Porthos.

"I take them," said D'Artagnan, "for myself. If you want
another uniform and sword you must play the same trick over
again. Stop! I see the other soldier issue from the
guardroom and come toward us."

"I think," replied Porthos, "it would be imprudent to
attempt the same manoeuvre again; it is said that no man can
succeed twice in the same way, and a failure would be
ruinous. No; I will go down, seize the man unawares and
bring him to you ready gagged."

"That is better," said the Gascon.

"Be ready," said Porthos, as he slipped through the opening.

He did as he said. Porthos seized his opportunity, caught
the next soldier by his neck, gagged him and pushed him like
a mummy through the bars into the room, and entered after
him. Then they undressed him as they had done the first,
laid him on their bed and bound him with the straps which
composed the bed -- the bedstead being of oak. This
operation proved as great a success as the first.

"There," said D'Artagnan, "this is capital! Now let me try
on the dress of yonder chap. Porthos, I doubt if you can
wear it; but should it be too tight, never mind, you can
wear the breastplate and the hat with the red feathers."

It happened, however, that the second soldier was a Swiss of
gigantic proportions, so, save that some few of the seams
split, his uniform fitted Porthos perfectly.

They then dressed themselves.

"'Tis done!" they both exclaimed at once. "As to you,
comrades," they said to the men, "nothing will happen to you
if you are discreet; but if you stir you are dead men."

The soldiers were complaisant; they had found the grasp of
Porthos pretty powerful and that it was no joke to fight
against it.

"Now," said D'Artagnan, "you wouldn't be sorry to understand
the plot, would you, Porthos?"

"Well, no, not very."

"Well, then, we shall go down into the court."

"Yes."

"We shall take the place of those two fellows."

"Well?"

"We will walk back and forth."

"That's a good idea, for it isn't warm."

"In a moment the valet-de-chambre will call the guard, as he
did yesterday and the day before."

"And we shall answer?"

"No, on the contrary, we shall not answer."

"As you please; I don't insist on answering."

"We will not answer, then; we will simply settle our hats on
our heads and we will escort his eminence."

"Where shall we escort him?"

"Where he is going -- to visit Athos. Do you think Athos
will be sorry to see us?"

"Oh!" cried Porthos, "oh! I understand."

"Wait a little, Porthos, before crying out; for, on my word,
you haven't reached the end," said the Gascon, in a jesting
tone.

"What is to happen?" said Porthos.

"Follow me," replied D'Artagnan. "The man who lives to see
shall see."

And slipping through the aperture, he alighted in the court.
Porthos followed him by the same road, but with more
difficulty and less diligence. They could hear the two
soldiers shivering with fear, as they lay bound in the
chamber.

Scarcely had the two Frenchmen touched the ground when a
door opened and the voice of the valet-de-chambre called
out:

"Make ready!"

At the same moment the guardhouse was opened and a voice
called out:

"La Bruyere and Du Barthois! March!"

It seems that I am named La Bruyere," remarked D'Artagnan.

"And I, Du Barthois," added Porthos.

"Where are you?" asked the valet-de-chambre, whose eyes,
dazzled by the light, could not clearly distinguish our
heroes in the gloom.

"Here we are," said the Gascon.

"What say you to that, Monsieur du Vallon?" he added in a
low tone to Porthos.

"If it but lasts, most capital," responded Porthos.

These two newly enlisted soldiers marched gravely after the
valet-de-chambre, who opened the door of the vestibule, then
another which seemed to be that of a waiting-room, and
showing them two stools:

"Your orders are very simple," he said; "don't allow
anybody, except one person, to enter here. Do you hear --
not a single creature! Obey that person implicitly. On your
return you cannot make a mistake. You have only to wait here
till I release you."

D'Artagnan was known to this valet-de-chambre, who was no
other than Bernouin, and he had during the last six or eight
months introduced the Gascon a dozen times to the cardinal.
The Gascon, therefore, instead of answering, growled out
"Ja! Ja!" in the most German and the least Gascon accent
possible.

As for Porthos, on whom D'Artagnan had impressed the
necessity of absolute silence and who did not even now begin
to comprehend the scheme of his friend, which was to follow
Mazarin in his visit to Athos, he was simply mute. All that
he was allowed to say, in case of emergencies, was the
proverbial Der Teufel!

Bernouin shut the door and went away. When Porthos heard the
key turn in the lock he began to be alarmed, lest they
should only have exchanged one prison for another.

"Porthos, my friend," said D'Artagnan, "don't distrust
Providence! Let me meditate and consider."

"Meditate and consider as much as you like," replied
Porthos, who was now quite out of humor at seeing things
take this turn.

"We have walked eight paces," whispered D'Artagnan, "and
gone up six steps, so hereabouts is the pavilion called the
pavilion of the orangery. The Comte de la Fere cannot be far
off, only the doors are locked."

"That is a slight difficulty," said Porthos, "and a good
push with the shoulders ---- "

"For God's sake, Porthos my friend, reserve your feats of
strength, or they will not have, when needed the honor they
deserve. Have you not heard that some one is coming here?"

"Yes."

"Well, that some one will open the doors."

"But, my dear fellow, if that some one recognizes us, if
that some one cries out, we are lost; for you don't propose,
I imagine, that I shall kill that man of the church. That
might do if we were dealing with Englishmen or Germans."

"Oh, may God keep me from it, and you, too!" said
D'Artagnan. "The young king would, perhaps, show us some
gratitude; but the queen would never forgive us, and it is
she whom we have to consider. And then, besides, the useless
blood! never! no, never! I have my plan; let me carry it out
and we shall laugh."

"So much the better," said Porthos; "I feel some need of
it."

"Hush!" said D'Artagnan; "the some one is coming."

The sound of a light step was heard in the vestibule. The
hinges of the door creaked and a man appeared in the dress
of a cavalier, wrapped in a brown cloak, with a lantern in
one hand and a large beaver hat pulled down over his eyes.

Porthos effaced himself against the wall, but he could not
render himself invisible; and the man in the cloak said to
him, giving him his lantern:

"Light the lamp which hangs from the ceiling."

Then addressing D'Artagnan:

"You know the watchword?" he said.

"Ja!" replied the Gascon, determined to confine himself to
this specimen of the German tongue.

"Tedesco!" answered the cavalier; "va bene."

And advancing toward the door opposite to that by which he
came in, he opened it and disappeared behind it, shutting it
as he went.

"Now," asked Porthos, "what are we to do?"

"Now we shall make use of your shoulder, friend Porthos, if
this door proves to be locked. Everything in its proper
time, and all comes right to those who know how to wait
patiently. But first barricade the first door well; then we
will follow yonder cavalier."

The two friends set to work and crowded the space before the
door with all the furniture in the room, as not only to make
the passage impassable, but so to block the door that by no
means could it open inward.

"There!" said D'Artagnan, "we can't be overtaken. Come!
forward!"



85

The Oubliettes of Cardinal Mazarin.



At first, on arriving at the door through which Mazarin had
passed, D'Artagnan tried in vain to open it, but on the
powerful shoulder of Porthos being applied to one of the
panels, which gave way, D'Artagnan introduced the point of
his sword between the bolt and the staple of the lock. The
bolt gave way and the door opened.

"As I told you, everything can be attained, Porthos women
and doors, by proceeding with gentleness."

"You're a great moralist, and that's the fact," said
Porthos.

They entered; behind a glass window, by the light of the
cardinal's lantern, which had been placed on the floor in
the midst of the gallery, they saw the orange and
pomegranate trees of the Castle of Rueil, in long lines,
forming one great alley and two smaller side alleys.

"No cardinal!" said D'Artagnan, "but only his lantern; where
the devil, then, is he?"

Exploring, however, one of the side wings of the gallery,
after making a sign to Porthos to explore the other, he saw,
all at once, at his left, a tub containing an orange tree,
which had been pushed out of its place and in its place an
open aperture.

Ten men would have found difficulty in moving that tub, but
by some mechanical contrivance it had turned with the
flagstone on which it rested.

D'Artagnan, as we have said, perceived a hole in that place
and in this hole the steps of a winding staircase.

He called Porthos to look at it.

"Were our object money only," he said, "we should be rich
directly."

"How's that?"

"Don't you understand, Porthos? At the bottom of that
staircase lies, probably, the cardinal's treasury of which
folk tell such wonders, and we should only have to descend,
empty a chest, shut the cardinal up in it, double lock it,
go away, carrying off as much gold as we could, put back
this orange-tree over the place, and no one in the world
would ever ask us where our fortune came from -- not even
the cardinal."

"It would be a happy hit for clowns to make, but as it seems
to be unworthy of two gentlemen ---- " said Porthos.

"So I think; and therefore I said, `Were our object money
only;' but we want something else," replied the Gascon.

At the same moment, whilst D'Artagnan was leaning over the
aperture to listen, a metallic sound, as if some one was
moving a bag of gold, struck on his ear; he started;
instantly afterward a door opened and a light played upon
the staircase.

Mazarin had left his lamp in the gallery to make people
believe that he was walking about, but he had with him a
waxlight, to help him to explore his mysterious strong box.

"Faith," he said, in Italian, as he was reascending the
steps and looking at a bag of reals, "faith, there's enough
to pay five councillors of parliament, and two generals in
Paris. I am a great captain -- that I am! but I make war in
my own way."

The two friends were crouching down, meantime, behind a tub
in the side alley.

Mazarin came within three steps of D'Artagnan and pushed a
spring in the wall; the slab turned and the orange tree
resumed its place.

Then the cardinal put out the waxlight, slipped it into his
pocket, and taking up the lantern: "Now," he said, "for
Monsieur de la Fere."

"Very good," thought D'Artagnan, "'tis our road likewise; we
will go together."

All three set off on their walk, Mazarin taking the middle
alley and the friends the side ones.

The cardinal reached a second door without perceiving he was
being followed; the sand with which the alleys were covered
deadened the sound of footsteps.

He then turned to the left, down a corridor which had
escaped the attention of the two friends, but as he opened
the door he paused, as if in thought.

"Ah! Diavolo!" he exclaimed, "I forgot the recommendation of
De Comminges, who advised me to take a guard and place it at
this door, in order not to put myself at the mercy of that
four-headed combination of devils." And with a movement of
impatience he turned to retrace his steps.

"Do not give yourself the trouble, my lord," said
D'Artagnan, with his right foot forward, his beaver in his
hand, a smile on his face, "we have followed your eminence
step by step and here we are."

"Yes -- here we are," said Porthos.

And he made the same friendly salute as D'Artagnan.

Mazarin gazed at each of them with an affrighted stare,
recognized them, and let drop his lantern, uttering a cry of
terror.

D'Artagnan picked it up; by good luck it had not been
extinguished.

"Oh, what imprudence, my lord," said D'Artagnan; "'tis not
good to be about just here without a light. Your eminence
might knock against something, or fall into a hole."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" muttered Mazarin, unable to recover
from his astonishment.

"Yes, my lord, it is I. I have the honor to present to you
Monsieur du Vallon, that excellent friend of mine, in whom
your eminence had the kindness to interest yourself
formerly."

And D'Artagnan held the lamp before the merry face of
Porthos, who now began to comprehend the affair and be very
proud of the whole undertaking.

"You were going to visit Monsieur de la Fere?" said
D'Artagnan. "Don't let us disarrange your eminence. Be so
good as to show us the way and we will follow you.

Mazarin was by degrees recovering his senses.

"Have you been long in the orangery?" he asked in a
trembling voice, remembering the visits he had been paying
to his treasury.

Porthos opened his mouth to reply; D'Artagnan made him a
sign, and his mouth, remaining silent, gradually closed.

"This moment come, my lord," said D'Artagnan.

Mazarin breathed again. His fears were now no longer for his
hoard, but for himself. A sort of smile played on his lips.

"Come," he said, "you have me in a snare, gentlemen. I
confess myself conquered. You wish to ask for liberty, and
-- I give it you."

"Oh, my lord!" answered D'Artagnan, "you are too good; as to
our liberty, we have that; we want to ask something else of
you."

"You have your liberty?" repeated Mazarin, in terror.

"Certainly; and on the other hand, my lord, you have lost
it, and now, in accordance with the law of war, sir, you
must buy it back again."

Mazarin felt a shiver run through him -- a chill even to his
heart's core. His piercing look was fixed in vain on the
satirical face of the Gascon and the unchanging countenance
of Porthos. Both were in shadow and the Sybil of Cuma
herself could not have read them.

"To purchase back my liberty?" said the cardinal.

"Yes, my lord."

"And how much will that cost me, Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Zounds, my lord, I don't know yet. We must ask the Comte de
la Fere the question. Will your eminence deign to open the
door which leads to the count's room, and in ten minutes all
will be settled."

Mazarin started.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "your eminence sees that we wish
to act with all formality and due respect; but I must warn
you that we have no time to lose; open the door then, my
lord, and be so good as to remember, once for all, that on
the slightest attempt to escape or the faintest cry for
help, our position being very critical indeed, you must not
be angry with us if we go to extremities."

"Be assured," answered Mazarin, "that I shall attempt
nothing; I give you my word of honor."

D'Artagnan made a sign to Porthos to redouble his
watchfulness; then turning to Mazarin:

"Now, my lord, let us enter, if you please."



86

Conferences.



Mazarin turned the lock of a double door, on the threshold
of which they found Athos ready to receive his illustrious
guests according to the notice Comminges had given him.

On perceiving Mazarin he bowed.

"Your eminence," he said, "might have dispensed with your
attendants; the honor bestowed on me is too great for me to
be unmindful of it."

"And so, my dear count," said D'Artagnan, "his eminence
didn't actually insist on our attending him; it is Du Vallon
and I who have insisted, and even in a manner somewhat
impolite, perhaps, so great was our longing to see you."

At that voice, that mocking tone, and that familiar gesture,
accenting voice and tone, Athos made a bound of surprise.

"D'Artagnan! Porthos!" he exclaimed.

"My very self, dear friend."

"Me, also!" repeated Porthos.

"What means this?" asked the count.

"It means," replied Mazarin, trying to smile and biting his
lips in the attempt, "that our parts are changed, and that
instead of these gentlemen being my prisoners I am theirs;
but, gentlemen, I warn you, unless you kill me, your victory
will be of very short duration; people will come to the
rescue."

"Ah! my lord!" cried the Gascon, "don't threaten! 'tis a bad
example. We are so good and gentle to your eminence. Come,
let us put aside all rancor and talk pleasantly."

"There's nothing I wish more," replied Mazarin. "But don't
think yourselves in a better position than you are. In
ensnaring me you have fallen into the trap yourselves. How
are you to get away from here? remember the soldiers and
sentinels who guard these doors. Now, I am going to show you
how sincere I am."

"Good," thought D'Artagnan; "we must look about us; he's
going to play us a trick."

"I offered you your liberty," continued the minister; "will
you take it? Before an hour has passed you will be
discovered, arrested, obliged to kill me, which would be a
crime unworthy of loyal gentlemen like you."

"He is right," thought Athos.

And, like every other reflection passing in a mind that
entertained none but noble thoughts, this feeling was
expressed in his eyes.

"And therefore," said D'Artagnan, to clip the hope which
Athos's tacit adhesion had imparted to Mazarin, "we shall
not proceed to that violence save in the last extremity."

"If on the contrary," resumed Mazarin, "you accept your
liberty ---- "

"Why you, my lord, might take it away from us in less than
five minutes afterward; and from my knowledge of you I
believe you will so take it away from us."

"No -- on the faith of a cardinal. You do not believe me?"

"My lord, I never believe cardinals who are not priests."

"Well, on the faith of a minister."

"You are no longer a minister, my lord; you are a prisoner."

"Then, on the honor of a Mazarin, as I am and ever shall be,
I hope," said the cardinal.

"Hem," replied D'Artagnan. "I have heard speak of a Mazarin
who had not much religion when his oaths were in question. I
fear he may have been an ancestor of your eminence."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan, you are a great wit and I am really
sorry to be on bad terms with you."

"My lord, let us come to terms; I ask nothing better."

"Very well," said Mazarin, "if I place you in security, in a
manner evident, palpable ---- "

"Ah! that is another thing," said Porthos.

"Let us see," said Athos.

"Let us see," said D'Artagnan.

"In the first place, do you accept?" asked the cardinal.

"Unfold your plan, my lord, and we will see."

"Take notice that you are shut up -- captured."

"You well know, my lord, that there always remains to us a
last resource."

"What?"

"That of dying together."

Mazarin shuddered.

"Listen," he said; "at the end of yonder corridor is a door,
of which I have the key, it leads into the park. Go, and
take this key with you; you are active, vigorous, and you
have arms. At a hundred steps, on turning to the left, you
will find the wall of the park; get over it, and in three
leaps you will be on the road and free."

"Ah! by Jove, my lord," said D'Artagnan, "you have well
said, but these are only words. Where is the key you speak
of?"

"Here it is."

"Ah, my lord! You will conduct us yourself, then, to that
door?"

"Very willingly, if it be necessary to reassure you,"
answered the minister, and Mazarin, who was delighted to get
off so cheaply, led the way, in high spirits, to the
corridor and opened the door.

It led into the park, as the three fugitives perceived by
the night breeze which rushed into the corridor and blew the
wind into their faces.

"The devil!" exclaimed the Gascon, "'tis a dreadful night,
my lord. We don't know the locality, and shall never find
the wall. Since your eminence has come so far, come a few
steps further; conduct us, my lord, to the wall."

"Be it so," replied the cardinal; and walking in a straight
line he went to the wall, at the foot of which they all four
arrived at the same instant.

"Are you satisfied, gentlemen?" asked Mazarin.

"I think so, indeed; we should be hard to please if we were
not. Deuce take it! three poor gentlemen escorted by a
prince of the church! Ah! apropos, my lord! you remarked
that we were all active, vigorous and armed."

"Yes."

"You are mistaken. Monsieur du Vallon and I are the only two
who are armed. The count is not; and should we meet with one
of your patrol we must defend ourselves."

"'Tis true."

"Where can we find another sword?" asked Porthos.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "will lend his, which is of no
use to him, to the Comte de la Fere."

"Willingly," said the cardinal; "I will even ask the count
to keep it for my sake."

"I promise you, my lord, never to part with it," replied
Athos.

"Well, well," cried D'Artagnan, "this reconciliation is
truly touching; have you not tears in your eyes, Porthos?"

"Yes," said Porthos; "but I do not know if it is feeling or
the wind that makes me weep; I think it is the wind."

"Now climb up, Athos, quickly," said D'Artagnan. Athos,
assisted by Porthos, who lifted him up like a feather,
arrived at the top.

"Now, jump down, Athos."

Athos jumped and disappeared on the other side of the wall.

"Are you on the ground?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"Without accident?"

"Perfectly safe and sound."

"Porthos, whilst I get up, watch the cardinal. No, I don't
want your help, watch the cardinal."

"I am watching," said Porthos. "Well?"

"You are right; it is more difficult than I thought. Lend me
your back -- but don't let the cardinal go."

Porthos lent him his back and D'Artagnan was soon on the
summit of the wall, where he seated himself.

Mazarin pretended to laugh.

"Are you there?" asked Porthos.

"Yes, my friend; and now ---- "

"Now, what?" asked Porthos.

"Now give me the cardinal up here; if he makes any noise
stifle him."

Mazarin wished to call out, but Porthos held him tight and
passed him to D'Artagnan, who seized him by the neck and
made him sit down by him; then in a menacing tone, he said:

"Sir! jump directly down, close to Monsieur de la Fere, or,
on the honor of a gentleman, I'll kill you!"

"Monsieur, monsieur," cried Mazarin, "you are breaking your
word to me!"

"I -- did I promise you anything, my lord?"

Mazarin groaned.

"You are free," he said, "through me; your liberty was my
ransom."

"Agreed; but the ransom of that immense treasure buried
under the gallery, to which one descends on pushing a spring
hidden in the wall, which causes a tub to turn, revealing a
staircase -- must not one speak of that a little, my lord?"

"Diavolo!" cried Mazarin, almost choked, and clasping his
hands; "I am a lost and ruined man!"

But without listening to his protestations of alarm,
D'Artagnan slipped him gently down into the arms of Athos,
who stood immovable at the bottom of the wall.

Porthos next made an effort which shook the solid wall, and
by the aid of his friend's hand gained the summit.

"I didn't understand it all," he said, "but I understand
now; how droll it is!"

"You think so? so much the better; but that it may prove
laughter-worthy even to the end, let us not lose time." And
he jumped off the wall.

Porthos did the same.

"Attend to monsieur le cardinal, gentlemen," said
D'Artagnan; "for myself, I will reconnoitre."

The Gascon then drew his sword and marched as avant guard.

"My lord," he said, "which way do we go? Think well of your
reply, for should your eminence be mistaken, there might
ensue most grave results for all of us."

"Along the wall, sir," said Mazarin, "there will be no
danger of losing yourselves."

The three friends hastened on, but in a short time were
obliged to slacken the pace. The cardinal could not keep up
with them, though with every wish to do so.

Suddenly D'Artagnan touched something warm, which moved.

"Stop! a horse!" he cried; "I have found a horse!"

"And I, likewise," said Athos.

"I, too," said Porthos, who, faithful to the instructions,
still held the cardinal's arm.

"There's luck, my lord! just as you were complaining of
being tired and obliged to walk."

But as he spoke the barrel of a pistol was presented at his
breast and these words were pronounced:

"Touch it not!"

"Grimaud!" he cried; "Grimaud! what art thou about? Why,
thou art posted here by Heaven!"

"No, sir," said the honest servant, "it was Monsieur Aramis
who posted me here to take care of the horses."

"Is Aramis here?"

"Yes, sir; he has been here since yesterday."

"What are you doing?"

"On the watch ---- "

"What! Aramis here?" cried Athos.

"At the lesser gate of the castle; he's posted there."

"Are you a large party?"

"Sixty."

"Let him know."

"This moment, sir."

And believing that no one could execute the commission
better than himself, Grimaud set off at full speed; whilst,
enchanted at being all together again, the friends awaited
his return.

There was no one in the whole group in a bad humor except
Cardinal Mazarin.



87

In which we begin to think that Porthos will be at last a
Baron, and D'Artagnan a Captain.



At the expiration of ten minutes Aramis arrived, accompanied
by Grimaud and eight or ten followers. He was excessively
delighted and threw himself into his friends' arms.

"You are free, my brothers! free without my aid! and I shall
have succeeded in doing nothing for you in spite of all my
efforts."

"Do not be unhappy, dear friend, on that account; if you
have done nothing as yet, you will do something soon,"
replied Athos.

"I had well concerted my plans," pursued Aramis; "the
coadjutor gave me sixty men; twenty guard the walls of the
park, twenty the road from Rueil to Saint Germain, twenty
are dispersed in the woods. Thus I was able, thanks to the
strategic disposition of my forces, to intercept two
couriers from Mazarin to the queen."

Mazarin listened intently.

"But," said D'Artagnan, "I trust that you honorably sent
them back to monsieur le cardinal!"

"Ah, yes!" said Aramis, "toward him I should be very likely
to practice such delicacy of sentiment! In one of the
despatches the cardinal declares to the queen that the
treasury is empty and that her majesty has no more money. In
the other he announces that he is about to transport his
prisoners to Melun, since Rueil seemed to him not
sufficiently secure. You can understand, dear friend, with
what hope I was inspired by that last letter. I placed
myself in ambuscade with my sixty men; I encircled the
castle; the riding horses I entrusted to Grimaud and I
awaited your coming out, which I did not expect till
to-morrow, and I didn't hope to free you without a skirmish.
You are free to-night, without fighting; so much the better!
How did you manage to escape that scoundrel Mazarin? You
must have much reason to complain of him."

"Not very much," said D'Artagnan.

"Really!"

"I might even say that we have some reason to praise him."

"Impossible!"

"Yes, really; it is owing to him that we are free."

"Owing to him?"

"Yes, he had us conducted into the orangery by Monsieur
Bernouin, his valet-de-chambre, and from there we followed
him to visit the Comte de la Fere. Then he offered us our
liberty and we accepted it. He even went so far as to show
us the way out; he led us to the park wall, which we climbed
over without accident, and then we fell in with Grimaud."

"Well!" exclaimed Aramis, "this will reconcile me to him;
but I wish he were here that I might tell him that I did not
believe him capable of so noble an act."

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, no longer able to contain
himself, "allow me to introduce to you the Chevalier
d'Herblay, who wishes -- as you may have heard -- to offer
his congratulations to your eminence."

And he retired, discovering Mazarin, who was in great
confusion, to the astonished gaze of Aramis.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed the latter, "the cardinal! a glorious
prize! Halloo! halloo! friends! to horse! to horse!"

Several horsemen ran quickly to him.

"Zounds!" cried Aramis, "I may have done some good; so, my
lord, deign to receive my most respectful homage! I will lay
a wager that 'twas that Saint Christopher, Porthos, who
performed this feat! Apropos! I forgot ---- " and he gave
some orders in a low voice to one of the horsemen.

"I think it will be wise to set off," said D'Artagnan.

"Yes; but I am expecting some one, a friend of Athos."

"A friend!" exclaimed the count.

"And here he comes, by Jupiter! galloping through the
bushes."

"The count! the count!" cried a young voice that made Athos
start.

"Raoul! Raoul!" he ejaculated.

For one moment the young man forgot his habitual respect --
he threw himself on his father's neck.

"Look, my lord cardinal," said Aramis, "would it not have
been a pity to have separated men who love each other as we
love? Gentlemen," he continued, addressing the cavaliers,
who became more and more numerous every instant; "gentlemen,
encircle his eminence, that you may show him the greater
honor. He will, indeed give us the favor of his company; you
will, I hope, be grateful for it; Porthos, do not lose sight
of his eminence."

Aramis then joined Athos and D'Artagnan, who were consulting
together.

"Come," said D'Artagnan, after a conference of five minutes'
duration, "let us begin our journey."

"Where are we to go?" asked Porthos.

"To your house, dear Porthos, at Pierrefonds; your fine
chateau is worthy of affording its princely hospitality to
his eminence; it is, likewise, well situated -- neither too
near Paris, nor too far from it; we can establish a
communication between it and the capital with great
facility. Come, my lord, you shall be treated like a prince,
as you are."

"A fallen prince!" exclaimed Mazarin, piteously.

"The chances of war," said Athos, "are many, but be assured
we shall take no improper advantage of them."

"No, but we shall make use of them," said D'Artagnan.

The rest of the night was employed by these cavaliers in
traveling with the wonderful rapidity of former days.
Mazarin, still sombre and pensive, permitted himself to be
dragged along in this way; it looked a race of phantoms. At
dawn twelve leagues had been passed without drawing rein;
half the escort were exhausted and several horses fell down.

"Horses, nowadays, are not what they were formerly,"
observed Porthos; "everything degenerates."

"I have sent Grimaud to Dammartin," said Aramis. "He is to
bring us five fresh horses -- one for his eminence, four for
us. We, at least, must keep close to monseigneur; the rest
of the start will rejoin us later. Once beyond Saint Denis
we shall have nothing to fear."

Grimaud, in fact, brought back five horses. The nobleman to
whom he applied, being a friend of Porthos, was very ready,
not to sell them, as was proposed, but to lend them. Ten
minutes later the escort stopped at Ermenonville, but the
four friends went on with well sustained ardor, guarding
Mazarin carefully. At noon they rode into the avenue of
Pierrefonds.

"Ah!" said Musqueton, who had ridden by the side of
D'Artagnan without speaking a word on the journey, "you may
think what you will, sir, but I can breathe now for the
first time since my departure from Pierrefonds;" and he put
his horse to a gallop to announce to the other servants the
arrival of Monsieur du Vallon and his friends.

"We are four of us," said D'Artagnan; "we must relieve each
other in mounting guard over my lord and each of us must
watch three hours at a time. Athos is going to examine the
castle, which it will be necessary to render impregnable in
case of siege; Porthos will see to the provisions and Aramis
to the troops of the garrison. That is to say, Athos will be
chief engineer, Porthos purveyor-in-general, and Aramis
governor of the fortress."

Meanwhile, they gave up to Mazarin the handsomest room in
the chateau.

"Gentlemen," he said, when he was in his room, "you do not
expect, I presume, to keep me here a long time incognito?"

"No, my lord," replied the Gascon; "on the contrary, we
think of announcing very soon that we have you here."

"Then you will be besieged."

"We expect it."

"And what shall you do?"

"Defend ourselves. Were the late Cardinal Richelieu alive he
would tell you a certain story of the Bastion Saint Gervais,
which we four, with our four lackeys and twelve dead men,
held out against a whole army."

"Such feats, sir, are done once -- and never repeated."

"However, nowadays there's no need of so much heroism.
To-morrow the army of Paris will be summoned, the day after
it will be here! The field of battle, instead, therefore, of
being at Saint Denis or at Charenton, will be near Compiegne
or Villars-Cotterets."

"The prince will vanquish you, as he has always done."

"'Tis possible; my lord; but before an engagement ensues we
shall move your eminence to another castle belonging to our
friend Du Vallon, who has three. We will not expose your
eminence to the chances of war."

"Come," answered Mazarin, "I see it will be necessary for me
to capitulate."

"Before a siege?"

"Yes; the conditions will be better than afterward."

"Ah, my lord! as to conditions, you would soon see how
moderate and reasonable we are!"

"Come, now, what are your conditions?"

"Rest yourself first, my lord, and we -- we will reflect."

"I do not need rest, gentlemen; I need to know whether I am
among enemies or friends."

"Friends, my lord! friends!"

"Well, then, tell me at once what you want, that I may see
if any arrangement be possible. Speak, Comte de la Fere!"

"My lord," replied Athos, "for myself I have nothing to
demand. For France, were I to specify my wishes, I should
have too much. I beg you to excuse me and propose to the
chevalier."

And Athos, bowing, retired and remained leaning against the
mantelpiece, a spectator of the scene.

"Speak, then, chevalier!" said the cardinal. "What do you
want? Nothing ambiguous, if you please. Be clear, short and
precise."

"As for me," replied Aramis, "I have in my pocket the very
programme of the conditions which the deputation -- of which
I formed one -- went yesterday to Saint Germain to impose on
you. Let us consider first the ancient rights. The demands
in that programme must be granted."

"We were almost agreed on those," replied Mazarin; "let us
pass on to private and personal stipulations."

"You suppose, then, that there are some?" said Aramis,
smiling.

"I do not suppose that you will all be quite so
disinterested as Monsieur de la Fere," replied the cardinal,
bowing to Athos.

"My lord, you are right, and I am glad to see that you do
justice to the count at last. The count has a mind above
vulgar desires and earthly passions. He is a proud soul --
he is a man by himself! You are right -- he is worth us all,
and we avow it to you!"

"Aramis," said Athos, "are you jesting?"

"No, no, dear friend; I state only what we all know. You are
right; it is not you alone this matter concerns, but my lord
and his unworthy servant, myself."

"Well, then, what do you require besides the general
conditions before recited?"

"I require, my lord, that Normandy should be given to Madame
de Longueville, with five hundred thousand francs and full
absolution. I require that his majesty should deign to be
godfather to the child she has just borne; and that my lord,
after having been present at the christening, should go to
proffer his homage to our Holy Father the Pope."

"That is, you wish me to lay aside my ministerial functions,
to quit France and be an exile."

"I wish his eminence to become pope on the first
opportunity, allowing me then the right of demanding full
indulgences for myself and my friends."

Mazarin made a grimace which was quite indescribable, and
then turned to D'Artagnan.

"And you, sir?" he said.

"I, my lord," answered the Gascon, "I differ from Monsieur
d'Herblay entirely as to the last point, though I agree with
him on the first. Far from wishing my lord to quit Paris, I
hope he will stay there and continue to be prime minister,
as he is a great statesman. I shall try also to help him to
down the Fronde, but on one condition -- that he sometimes
remembers the king's faithful servants and gives the first
vacant company of musketeers to a man that I could name. And
you, Monsieur du Vallon ---- "

"Yes, you, sir! Speak, if you please," said Mazarin.

"As for me," answered Porthos, "I wish my lord cardinal, in
order to do honor to my house, which gives him an asylum,
would in remembrance of this adventure erect my estate into
a barony, with a promise to confer that order on one of my
particular friends, whenever his majesty next creates
peers."

"You know, sir, that before receiving the order one must
submit proofs."

"My friends will submit them. Besides, should it be
necessary, monseigneur will show him how that formality may
be avoided."

Mazarin bit his lips; the blow was direct and he replied
rather dryly:

"All this appears to me to be ill conceived, disjointed,
gentlemen; for if I satisfy some I shall displease others.
If I stay in Paris I cannot go to Rome; if I became pope I
could not continue to be prime minister; and it is only by
continuing prime minister that I can make Monsieur
d'Artagnan a captain and Monsieur du Vallon a baron."

"True"" said Aramis, "so, as I am in a minority, I withdraw
my proposition, so far as it relates to the voyage to Rome
and monseigneur's resignation."

"I am to remain minister, then?" said Mazarin.

"You remain minister; that is understood," said D'Artagnan;
"France needs you."

"And I desist from my pretensions," said Aramis. "His
eminence will continue to be prime minister and her
majesty's favorite, if he will grant to me and my friends
what we demand for France and for ourselves."

"Occupy yourselves with your own affairs, gentlemen, and let
France settle matters as she will with me," resumed Mazarin.

"Ho! ho!" replied Aramis. "The Frondeurs will have a treaty
and your eminence must sign it before us, promising at the
same time to obtain the queen's consent to it."

"I can answer only for myself," said Mazarin. "I cannot
answer for the queen. Suppose her majesty refuses?"

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "monseigneur knows very well that her
majesty refuses him nothing."

"Here, monseigneur," said Aramis, "is the treaty proposed by
the deputation of Frondeurs. Will your eminence please read
and examine?"

"I am acquainted with it."

"Sign it, then."

"Reflect, gentlemen, that a signature given under
circumstances like the present might be regarded as extorted
by violence."

"Monseigneur will be at hand to testify that it was freely
given."

"Suppose I refuse?"

"Then," said D'Artagnan, "your eminence must expect the
consequences of a refusal."

"Would you dare to touch a cardinal?"

"You have dared, my lord, to imprison her majesty's
musketeers."

"The queen will revenge me, gentlemen."

"I do not think so, although inclination might lead her to
do so, but we shall take your eminence to Paris, and the
Parisians will defend us."

"How uneasy they must be at this moment at Rueil and Saint
Germain," said Aramis. "How they must be asking, `Where is
the cardinal?' `What has become of the minister?' `Where has
the favorite gone?' How they must be looking for monseigneur
in all corners! What comments must be made; and if the
Fronde knows that monseigneur has disappeared, how the
Fronde must triumph!"

"It is frightful," murmured Mazarin.

"Sign the treaty, then, monseigneur," said Aramis.

"Suppose the queen should refuse to ratify it?"

"Ah! nonsense!" cried D'Artagnan, "I can manage so that her
majesty will receive me well; I know an excellent method."

"What?"

"I shall take her majesty the letter in which you tell her
that the finances are exhausted."

"And then?" asked Mazarin, turning pale.

"When I see her majesty embarrassed, I shall conduct her to
Rueil, make her enter the orangery and show her a certain
spring which turns a box."

"Enough, sir," muttered the cardinal, "you have said enough;
where is the treaty?"

"Here it is," replied Aramis. "Sign, my lord," and he gave
him a pen.

Mazarin arose, walked some moments, thoughtful, but not
dejected.

"And when I have signed," he said, "what is to be my
guarantee?"

"My word of honor, sir," said Athos.

Mazarin started, turned toward the Comte de la Fere, and
looking for an instant at that grand and honest countenance,
took the pen.

"It is sufficient, count," he said, and signed the treaty.

"And now, Monsieur d'Artagnan," he said, "prepare to set off
for Saint Germain and take a letter from me to the queen."



88

Shows how with Threat and Pen more is effected than by the
Sword.



D'Artagnan knew his part well; he was aware that opportunity
has a forelock only for him who will take it and he was not
a man to let it go by him without seizing it. He soon
arranged a prompt and certain manner of traveling, by
sending relays of horses to Chantilly, so that he might be
in Paris in five or six hours. But before setting out he
reflected that for a lad of intelligence and experience he
was in a singular predicament, since he was proceeding
toward uncertainty and leaving certainty behind him.

"In fact," he said, as he was about to mount and start on
his dangerous mission, "Athos, for generosity, is a hero of
romance; Porthos has an excellent disposition, but is easily
influenced; Aramis has a hieroglyphic countenance, always
illegible. What will come out of those three elements when I
am no longer present to combine them? The deliverance of the
cardinal, perhaps. Now, the deliverance of the cardinal
would be the ruin of our hopes; and our hopes are thus far
the only recompense we have for labors in comparison with
which those of Hercules were pygmean."

He went to find Aramis.

"You, my dear Chevalier d'Herblay," he said, "are the Fronde
incarnate. Mistrust Athos, therefore, who will not prosecute
the affairs of any one, even his own. Mistrust Porthos,
especially, who, to please the count whom he regards as God
on earth, will assist him in contriving Mazarin's escape, if
Mazarin has the wit to weep or play the chivalric."

Aramis smiled; his smile was at once cunning and resolute.

"Fear nothing," he said; "I have my conditions to impose. My
private ambition tends only to the profit of him who has
justice on his side."

"Good!" thought D'Artagnan: "in this direction I am
satisfied." He pressed Aramis's hand and went in search of
Porthos.

"Friend," he said, "you have worked so hard with me toward
building up our fortune, that, at the moment when we are
about to reap the fruits of our labours, it would be a
ridiculous piece of silliness in you to allow yourself to be
controlled by Aramis, whose cunning you know -- a cunning
which, we may say between ourselves, is not always without
egotism; or by Athos, a noble and disinterested man, but
blase, who, desiring nothing further for himself, doesn't
sympathize with the desires of others. What should you say
if either of these two friends proposed to you to let
Mazarin go?"

"Why, I should say that we had too much trouble in taking
him to let him off so easily."

"Bravo, Porthos! and you would be right, my friend; for in
losing him you would lose your barony, which you have in
your grasp, to say nothing of the fact that, were he once
out of this, Mazarin would have you hanged."

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Then I would kill him rather than let him go."

"And you would act rightly. There is no question, you
understand, provided we secure our own interests, of
securing those of the Frondeurs; who, besides, don't
understand political matters as we old soldiers do."

"Never fear, dear friend," said Porthos. "I shall see you
through the window as you mount your horse; I shall follow
you with my eyes as long as you are in sight; then I shall
place myself at the cardinal's door -- a door with glass
windows. I shall see everything, and at the least suspicious
sign I shall begin to exterminate."

"Bravo!" thought D'Artagnan; "on this side I think the
cardinal will be well guarded." He pressed the hand of the
lord of Pierrefonds and went in search of Athos.

"My dear Athos," he said, "I am going away. I have only one
thing to say to you. You know Anne of Austria; the captivity
of Mazarin alone guarantees my life; if you let him go I am
a dead man."

"I needed nothing less than that consideration, my dear
D'Artagnan, to persuade myself to adopt the role of jailer.
I give you my word that you will find the cardinal where you
leave him."

"This reassures me more than all the royal signatures,"
thought D'Artagnan. "Now that I have the word of Athos I can
set out."

D'Artagnan started alone on his journey, without other
escort than his sword, and with a simple passport from
Mazarin to secure his admission to the queen's presence. Six
hours after he left Pierrefonds he was at Saint Germain.

The disappearance of Mazarin was not as yet generally known.
Anne of Austria was informed of it and concealed her
uneasiness from every one. In the chamber of D'Artagnan and
Porthos the two soldiers had been found bound and gagged. On
recovering the use of their limbs and tongues they could, of
course, tell nothing but what they knew -- that they had
been seized, stripped and bound. But as to what had been
done by Porthos and D'Artagnan afterward they were as
ignorant as all the inhabitants of the chateau.

Bernouin alone knew a little more than the others. Bernouin,
seeing that his master did not return and hearing the stroke
of midnight, had made an examination of the orangery. The
first door, barricaded with furniture, had aroused in him
certain suspicions, but without communicating his suspicions
to any one he had patiently worked his way into the midst of
all that confusion. Then he came to the corridor, all the
doors of which he found open; so, too, was the door of
Athos's chamber and that of the park. From the latter point
it was easy to follow tracks on the snow. He saw that these
tracks tended toward the wall; on the other side he found
similar tracks, then footprints of horses and then signs of
a troop of cavalry which had moved away in the direction of
Enghien. He could no longer cherish any doubt that the
cardinal had been carried off by the three prisoners, since
the prisoners had disappeared at the same time; and he had
hastened to Saint Germain to warn the queen of that
disappearance.

Anne had enforced the utmost secrecy and had disclosed the
event to no one except the Prince de Conde, who had sent
five or six hundred horsemen into the environs of Saint
Germain with orders to bring in any suspicious person who
was going away from Rueil, in whatsoever direction it might
be.

Now, since D'Artagnan did not constitute a body of horsemen,
since he was alone, since he was not going away from Rueil
and was going to Saint Germain, no one paid any attention to
him and his journey was not obstructed in any way.

On entering the courtyard of the old chateau the first
person seen by our ambassador was Maitre Bernouin in person,
who, standing on the threshold, awaited news of his vanished
master.

At the sight of D'Artagnan, who entered the courtyard on
horseback, Bernouin rubbed his eyes and thought he must be
mistaken. But D'Artagnan made a friendly sign to him with
his head, dismounted, and throwing his bridle to a lackey
who was passing, he approached the valet-de-chambre with a
smile on his lips.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the latter, like a man who has
the nightmare and talks in his sleep, "Monsieur d'Artagnan!"

"Himself, Monsieur Bernouin."

"And why have you come here?"

"To bring news of Monsieur de Mazarin -- the freshest news
there is."

"What has become of him, then?"

"He is as well as you and I."

"Nothing bad has happened to him, then?"

"Absolutely nothing. He felt the need of making a trip in
the Ile de France, and begged us -- the Comte de la Fere and
Monsieur du Vallon -- to accompany him. We were too devoted
servants to refuse him a request of that sort. We set out
last evening and here we are."

"Here you are."

"His eminence had something to communicate to her majesty,
something secret and private -- a mission that could be
confided only to a sure man -- and so has sent me to Saint
Germain. And therefore, my dear Monsieur Bernouin, if you
wish to do what will be pleasing to your master, announce to
her majesty that I have come, and tell her with what
purpose."

Whether he spoke seriously or in jest, since it was evident
that under existing circumstances D'Artagnan was the only
man who could relieve the queen's uneasiness, Bernouin went
without hesitation to announce to her this strange embassy;
and as he had foreseen, the queen gave orders to introduce
Monsieur d'Artagnan at once.

D'Artagnan approached the sovereign with every mark of
profound respect, and having fallen on his knees presented
to her the cardinal's letter

It was, however, merely a letter of introduction. The queen
read it, recognized the writing, and, since there were no
details in it of what had occurred, asked for particulars.
D'Artagnan related everything with that simple and ingenuous
air which he knew how to assume on occasions. The queen, as
he went on, looked at him with increasing astonishment. She
could not comprehend how a man could conceive such an
enterprise and still less how he could have the audacity to
disclose it to her whose interest and almost duty it was to
punish him.

"How, sir!" she cried, as D'Artagnan finished, "you dare to
tell me the details of your crime -- to give me an account
of your treason!"

"Pardon, madame, but I think that either I have expressed
myself badly or your majesty has imperfectly understood me.
There is here no question of crime or treason. Monsieur de
Mazarin held us in prison, Monsieur du Vallon and myself,
because we could not believe that he had sent us to England
to quietly look on while they cut off the head of Charles
I., brother-in-law of the late king, your husband, the
consort of Madame Henrietta, your sister and your guest, and
because we did all that we could do to save the life of the
royal martyr. We were then convinced, my friend and I, that
there was some error of which we were the victims, and that
an explanation was called for between his eminence and
ourselves. Now, that an explanation may bear fruit, it is
necessary that it should be quietly conducted, far from
noise and interruption. We have therefore taken away
monsieur le cardinal to my friend's chateau and there we
have come to an understanding. Well, madame, it proved to be
as we had supposed; there was a mistake. Monsieur de Mazarin
had thought that we had rendered service to General
Cromwell, instead of King Charles, which would have been a
disgrace, rebounding from us to him, and from him to your
majesty -- a dishonor which would have tainted the royalty
of your illustrious son. We were able to prove the contrary,
and that proof we are ready to give to your majesty, calling
in support of it the august widow weeping in the Louvre,
where your royal munificence has provided for her a home.
That proof satisfied him so completely that, as a sign of
satisfaction, he has sent me, as your majesty may see, to
consider with you what reparation should be made to
gentlemen unjustly treated and wrongfully persecuted."

"I listen to you, and I wonder at you, sir," said the queen.
"In fact, I have rarely seen such excess of impudence."

"Your majesty, on your side," said D'Artagnan, "is as much
mistaken as to our intentions as the Cardinal Mazarin has
always been."

"You are in error, sir," answered the queen. "I am so little
mistaken that in ten minutes you shall be arrested, and in
an hour I shall set off at the head of my army to release my
minister."

"I am sure your majesty will not commit such an act of
imprudence, first, because it would be useless and would
produce the most disastrous results. Before he could be
possibly set free the cardinal would be dead; and indeed, so
convinced is he of this, that he entreated me, should I find
your majesty disposed to act in this way, to do all I could
to induce you to change your resolution."

"Well, then, I will content myself with arresting you!"

"Madame, the possibility of my arrest has been foreseen, and
should I not have returned by to-morrow, at a certain hour
the next day the cardinal will be brought to Paris and
delivered to the parliament."

"It is evident, sir, that your position has kept you out of
relation to men and affairs; otherwise you would know that
since we left Paris monsieur le cardinal has returned
thither five or six times; that he has there met De
Beaufort, De Bouillon, the coadjutor and D'Elbeuf and that
not one of them had any desire to arrest him."

"Your pardon, madame, I know all that. And therefore my
friends will conduct monsieur le cardinal neither to De
Beaufort, nor to De Bouillon, nor to the coadjutor, nor to
D'Elbeuf. These gentlemen wage war on private account, and
in buying them up, by granting them what they wished,
monsieur le cardinal has made a good bargain. He will be
delivered to the parliament, members of which can, of
course, be bought, but even Monsieur de Mazarin is not rich
enough to buy the whole body."

"I think," returned Anne of Austria, fixing upon him a
glance, which in any woman's face would have expressed
disdain, but in a queen's, spread terror to those she looked
upon, "nay, I perceive you dare to threaten the mother of
your sovereign."

"Madame," replied D'Artagnan, "I threaten simply and solely
because I am obliged to do so. Believe me, madame, as true a
thing as it is that a heart beats in this bosom -- a heart
devoted to you -- believe that you have been the idol of our
lives; that we have, as you well know -- good Heaven! --
risked our lives twenty times for your majesty. Have you,
then, madame, no compassion for your servants who for twenty
years have vegetated in obscurity, without betraying in a
single sigh the solemn and sacred secrets they have had the
honor to share with you? Look at me, madame -- at me, whom
you accuse of speaking loud and threateningly. What am I? A
poor officer, without fortune, without protection, without a
future, unless the eye of my queen, which I have sought so
long, rests on me for a moment. Look at the Comte de la
Fere, a type of nobility, a flower of chivalry. He has taken
part against his queen, or rather, against her minister. He
has not been unreasonably exacting, it seems to me. Look at
Monsieur du Vallon, that faithful soul, that arm of steel,
who for twenty years has awaited the word from your lips
which will make him in rank what he is in sentiment and in
courage. Consider, in short, your people who love you and
who yet are famished, who have no other wish than to bless
you, and who, nevertheless -- no, I am wrong, your subjects,
madame, will never curse you; say one word to them and all
will be ended -- peace succeed war, joy tears, and happiness
to misfortune!"

Anne of Austria looked with wonderment on the warlike
countenance of D'Artagnan, which betrayed a singular
expression of deep feeling.

"Why did you not say all this before you took action, sir?"
she said.

"Because, madame, it was necessary to prove to your majesty
one thing of which you doubted ---that is, that we still
possess amongst us some valor and are worthy of some
consideration at your hands."

"And that valor would shrink from no undertaking, according
to what I see."

"It has hesitated at nothing in the past; why, then, should
it be less daring in the future?"

"Then, in case of my refusal, this valor, should a struggle
occur, will even go the length of carrying me off in the
midst of my court, to deliver me into the hands of the
Fronde, as you propose to deliver my minister?"

"We have not thought about it yet, madame," answered
D'Artagnan, with that Gascon effrontery which had in him the
appearance of naivete; but if we four had resolved upon it
we should do it most certainly."

"I ought," muttered Anne to herself, "by this time to
remember that these men are giants."

"Alas, madame!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, "this proves to me
that not till to-day has your majesty had a just idea of
us."

"Perhaps," said Anne; "but that idea, if at last I have it
---- "

"Your majesty will do us justice. In doing us justice you
will no longer treat us as men of vulgar stamp. You will see
in me an ambassador worthy of the high interests he is
authorized to discuss with his sovereign."

"Where is the treaty?"

"Here it is."

Anne of Austria cast her eyes upon the treaty that
D'Artagnan presented to her.

"I do not see here," she said, "anything but general
conditions; the interests of the Prince de Conti or of the
Ducs de Beaufort, de Bouillon and d'Elbeuf and of the
coadjutor, are herein consulted; but with regard to yours?"

"We do ourselves justice, madame, even in assuming the high
position that we have. We do not think ourselves worthy to
stand near such great names."

"But you, I presume, have decided to assert your pretensions
viva voce?"

"I believe you, madame, to be a great and powerful queen,
and that it will be unworthy of your power and greatness if
you do not recompense the arms which will bring back his
eminence to Saint Germain."

"It is my intention so to do; come, let us hear you. Speak."

"He who has negotiated these matters (forgive me if I begin
by speaking of myself, but I must claim that importance
which has been given to me, not assumed by me) he who has
arranged matters for the return of the cardinal, ought, it
appears to me, in order that his reward may not be unworthy
of your majesty, to be made commandant of the guards -- an
appointment something like that of captain of the
musketeers."

"'Tis the appointment Monsieur de Treville held, you ask of
me."

"The place, madame, is vacant, and although 'tis a year
since Monsieur de Treville has left it, it has not been
filled."

"But it is one of the principal military appointments in the
king's household."

"Monsieur de Treville was but a younger son of a simple
Gascon family, like me, madame; he occupied that post for
twenty years."

"You have an answer ready for everything," replied the
queen, and she took from her bureau a document, which she
filled up and signed.

"Undoubtedly, madame," said D'Artagnan, taking the document
and bowing, "this is a noble reward; but everything in the
world is unstable, and the man who happened to fall into
disgrace with your majesty might lose this office
to-morrow."

"What more do you want?" asked the queen, coloring, as she
found that she had to deal with a mind as subtle as her own.

"A hundred thousand francs for this poor captain of
musketeers, to be paid whenever his services shall no longer
be acceptable to your majesty."

Anne hesitated.

"To think of the Parisians," soliloquized D'Artagnan,
"offering only the other day, by an edict of the parliament,
six hundred thousand francs to any man soever who would
deliver up the cardinal to them, dead or alive -- if alive,
in order to hang him; if dead, to deny him the rites of
Christian burial!"

"Come," said Anne, "'tis reasonable, since you only ask from
a queen the sixth of what the parliament has proposed;" and
she signed an order for a hundred thousand francs.

"Now, then," she said, "what next?"

"Madame, my friend Du Vallon is rich and has therefore
nothing in the way of fortune to desire; but I think I
remember that there was a question between him and Monsieur
Mazarin as to making his estate a barony. Nay, it must have
been a promise."

"A country clown," said Anne of Austria, "people will
laugh."

"Let them," answered D'Artagnan. "But I am sure of one thing
-- that those who laugh at him in his presence will never
laugh a second time."

"Here goes the barony." said the queen; she signed a patent.

"Now there remains the chevalier, or the Abbe d'Herblay, as
your majesty pleases."

"Does he wish to be a bishop?"

"No, madame, something easier to grant."

"What?"

"It is that the king should deign to stand godfather to the
son of Madame de Longueville."

The queen smiled.

"Monsieur de Longueville is of royal blood, madame," said
D'Artagnan.

"Yes," said the queen; "but his son?"

"His son, madame, must be, since the husband of the son's
mother is."

"And your friend has nothing more to ask for Madame de
Longueville?"

"No, madame, for I presume that the king, standing godfather
to him, could do no less than present him with five hundred
thousand francs, giving his father, also, the government of
Normandy."

"As to the government of Normandy," replied the queen, "I
think I can promise; but with regard to the present, the
cardinal is always telling me there is no more money in the
royal coffers."

"We shall search for some, madame, and I think we can find a
little, and if your majesty approves, we will seek for some
together."

"What next?"

"What next, madame?"

"Yes."

"That is all."

"Haven't you, then, a fourth companion?"

"Yes, madame, the Comte de la Fere."

"What does he ask?"

"Nothing."

"There is in the world, then, one man who, having the power
to ask, asks -- nothing!"

"There is the Comte de la Fere, madame. The Comte de la Fere
is not a man."

"What is he, then?"

"The Comte de la Fere is a demi-god."

"Has he not a son, a young man, a relative, a nephew, of
whom Comminges spoke to me as being a brave boy, and who,
with Monsieur de Chatillon, brought the standards from
Lens?"

"He has, as your majesty has said, a ward, who is called the
Vicomte de Bragelonne."

"If that young man should be appointed to a regiment what
would his guardian say?"

"Perhaps he would accept."

"Perhaps?"

"Yes, if your majesty herself should beg him to accept."

"He must be indeed a strange man. Well, we will reflect and
perhaps we will beg him. Are you satisfied, sir?"

"There is one thing the queen has not signed -- her assent
to the treaty."

"Of what use to-day? I will sign it to-morrow."

"I can assure her majesty that if she does not sign to-day
she will not have time to sign to-morrow. Consent, then, I
beg you, madame, to write at the bottom of this schedule,
which has been drawn up by Mazarin, as you see:

"`I consent to ratify the treaty proposed by the
Parisians.'"

Anne was caught, she could not draw back -- she signed; but
scarcely had she done so when pride burst forth and she
began to weep.

D'Artagnan started on seeing these tears. Since that period
of history queens have shed tears, like other women.

The Gascon shook his head, these tears from royalty melted
his heart.

"Madame," he said, kneeling, "look upon the unhappy man at
your feet. He begs you to believe that at a gesture of your
majesty everything will be possible to him. He has faith in
himself; he has faith in his friends; he wishes also to have
faith in his queen. And in proof that he fears nothing, that
he counts on nothing, he will restore Monsieur de Mazarin to
your majesty without conditions. Behold, madame! here are
the august signatures of your majesty's hand; if you think
you are right in giving them to me, you shall do so, but
from this very moment you are free from any obligation to
keep them."

And D'Artagnan, full of splendid pride and manly
intrepidity, placed in Anne's hands, in a bundle, the papers
that he had one by one won from her with so much difficulty.

There are moments -- for if everything is not good,
everything in this world is not bad -- in which the most
rigid and the coldest soul is softened by the tears of
strong emotion, heart-arraigning sentiment: one of these
momentary impulses actuated Anne. D'Artagnan, when he gave
way to his own feelings -- which were in accordance with
those of the queen -- had accomplished more than the most
astute diplomacy could have attempted. He was therefore
instantly recompensed, either for his address or for his
sensibility, whichever it might be termed.

"You were right, sir," said Anne. "I misunderstood you.
There are the acts signed; I deliver them to you without
compulsion. Go and bring me back the cardinal as soon as
possible."

"Madame," faltered D'Artagnan, "'tis twenty years ago -- I
have a good memory -- since I had the honor behind a piece
of tapestry in the Hotel de Ville, of kissing one of those
lovely hands."

"There is the other," replied the queen; "and that the left
hand should not be less liberal than the right," she drew
from her finger a diamond similar to the one formerly given
to him, "take and keep this ring in remembrance of me.

"Madame," said D'Artagnan, rising, "I have only one thing
more to wish, which is, that the next thing you ask from me,
shall be -- my life."

And with this conclusion -- a way peculiar to himself -- he
rose and left the room.

"I never rightly understood those men," said the queen, as
she watched him retiring from her presence; "and it is now
too late, for in a year the king will be of age."

In twenty-four hours D'Artagnan and Porthos conducted
Mazarin to the queen; and the one received his commission,
the other his patent of nobility.

On the same day the Treaty of Paris was signed, and it was
everywhere announced that the cardinal had shut himself up
for three days in order to draw it up with the greatest
care.

Here is what each of the parties concerned gained by that
treaty:

Monsieur de Conti received Damvilliers, and having made his
proofs as general, he succeeded in remaining a soldier,
instead of being made cardinal. Moreover, something had been
said of a marriage with Mazarin's niece. The idea was
welcomed by the prince, to whom it was of little importance
whom he married, so long as he married some one.

The Duc de Beaufort made his entrance at court, receiving
ample reparation for the wrongs he had suffered, and all the
honor due to his rank. Full pardon was accorded to those who
had aided in his escape. He received also the office of
admiral, which had been held by his father, the Duc de
Vendome and an indemnity for his houses and castles,
demolished by the Parliament of Bretagne.

The Duc de Bouillon received domains of a value equal to
that of his principality of Sedan, and the title of prince,
granted to him and to those belonging to his house.

The Duc de Longueville gained the government of
Pont-de-l'Arche, five hundred thousand francs for his wife
and the honor of seeing her son held at the baptismal font
by the young king and Henrietta of England.

Aramis stipulated that Bazin should officiate at that
ceremony and that Planchet should furnish the christening
sugar plums.

The Duc d'Elbeuf obtained payment of certain sums due to his
wife, one hundred thousand francs for his eldest son and
twenty-five thousand for each of the three others.

The coadjutor alone obtained nothing. They promised, indeed,
to negotiate with the pope for a cardinal's hat for him; but
he knew how little reliance should be placed on such
promises, made by the queen and Mazarin. Quite contrary to
the lot of Monsieur de Conti, unable to be cardinal, he was
obliged to remain a soldier.

And therefore, when all Paris was rejoicing in the expected
return of the king, appointed for the next day, Gondy alone,
in the midst of the general happiness, was dissatisfied; he
sent for the two men whom he was wont to summon when in
especially bad humor. Those two men were the Count de
Rochefort and the mendicant of Saint Eustache. They came
with their usual promptness, and the coadjutor spent with
them a part of the night.



89

In which it is shown that it is sometimes more difficult for
Kings to return to the Capitals of their Kingdoms, than to
make an Exit.



Whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos were engaged in conducting the
cardinal to Saint Germain, Athos and Aramis returned to
Paris.

Each had his own particular visit to make.

Aramis rushed to the Hotel de Ville, where Madame de
Longueville was sojourning. The duchess loudly lamented the
announcement of peace. War had made her a queen; peace
brought her abdication. She declared that she would never
assent to the treaty and that she wished eternal war.

But when Aramis had presented that peace to her in a true
light -- that is to say, with all its advantages; when he
had pointed out to her, in exchange for the precarious and
contested royalty of Paris, the viceroyalty of
Font-de-l'Arche, in other words, of all Normandy; when he
had rung in her ears the five hundred thousand francs
promised by the cardinal; when he had dazzled her eyes with
the honor bestowed on her by the king in holding her child
at the baptismal font, Madame de Longueville contended no
longer, except as is the custom with pretty women to
contend, and defended herself only to surrender at last.

Aramis made a presence of believing in the reality of her
opposition and was unwilling to deprive himself in his own
view of the credit of her conversion.

"Madame," he said, "you have wished to conquer the prince
your brother -- that is to say, the greatest captain of the
age; and when women of genius wish anything they always
succeed in attaining it. You have succeeded; the prince is
beaten, since he can no longer fight. Now attach him to our
party. Withdraw him gently from the queen, whom he does not
like, from Mazarin, whom he despises. The Fronde is a
comedy, of which the first act only is played. Let us wait
for a denouement -- for the day when the prince, thanks to
you, shall have turned against the court."

Madame de Longueville was persuaded. This Frondist duchess
trusted so confidently to the power of her fine eyes, that
she could not doubt their influence even over Monsieur de
Conde; and the chronicles of the time aver that her
confidence was justified.

Athos, on quitting Aramis, went to Madame de Chevreuse. Here
was another frondeuse to persuade, and she was even less
open to conviction than her younger rival. There had been no
stipulation in her favor. Monsieur de Chevreuse had not been
appointed governor of a province, and if the queen should
consent to be godmother it could be only of her grandson or
granddaughter. At the first announcement of peace Madame de
Chevreuse frowned, and in spite of all the logic of Athos to
show her that a prolonged war would have been impracticable,
contended in favor of hostilities.

"My fair friend," said Athos, "allow me to tell you that
everybody is tired of war. You will get yourself exiled, as
you did in the time of Louis XIII. Believe me, we have
passed the time of success in intrigue, and your fine eyes
are not destined to be eclipsed by regretting Paris, where
there will always be two queens as long as you are there."

"Oh," cried the duchess, "I cannot make war alone, but I can
avenge myself on that ungrateful queen and most ambitious
favorite-on the honor of a duchess, I will avenge myself."

"Madame," replied Athos, "do not injure the Vicomte de
Bragelonne -- do not ruin his prospects. Alas! excuse my
weakness! There are moments when a man grows young again in
his children."

The duchess smiled, half tenderly, half ironically.

"Count," she said, "you are, I fear, gained over to the
court. I suppose you have a blue ribbon in your pocket?"

"Yes, madame; I have that of the Garter, which King Charles
I. gave me some days before he died."

"Come, I am growing an old woman!" said the duchess,
pensively.

Athos took her hand and kissed it. She sighed, as she looked
at him.

"Count," she said, "Bragelonne must be a charming place. You
are a man of taste. You have water -- woods -- flowers
there?"

She sighed again and leaned her charming head, gracefully
reclined, on her hand, still beautiful in form and color.

"Madame!" exclaimed Athos, "what were you saying just now
about growing old? Never have I seen you look so young, so
beautiful!"

The duchess shook her head.

"Does Monsieur de Bragelonne remain in Paris?" she inquired.

"What think you of it?" inquired Athos.

"Leave him with me," replied the duchess.

"No, madame; if you have forgotten the history of Oedipus,
I, at least, remember it."

"Really, sir, you are delightful, and I should like to spend
a month at Bragelonne."

"Are you not afraid of making people envious of me,
duchess?" replied Athos.

"No, I shall go incognito, count, under the name of Marie
Michon."

"You are adorable, madame."

"But do not keep Raoul with you."

"Why not?"

"Because he is in love."

"He! he is quite a child!"

"And 'tis a child he loves."

Athos became thoughtful.

"You are right, duchess. This singular passion for a child
of seven may some day make him very unhappy. There is to be
war in Flanders. He shall go thither."

"And at his return you will send him to me. I will arm him
against love."

"Alas, madame!" exclaimed Athos, "to-day love is like war --
the breastplate is becoming useless."

Raoul entered at this moment; he came to announce that the
solemn entrance of the king, queen, and her ministers was to
take place on the ensuing day.

The next day, in fact, at daybreak, the court made
preparations to quit Saint Germain.

Meanwhile, the queen every hour had been sending for
D'Artagnan.

"I hear," she said, "that Paris is not quiet. I am afraid
for the king's safety; place yourself close to the coach
door on the right."

"Reassure yourself, madame, I will answer for the king's
safety."

As he left the queen's presence Bernouin summoned him to the
cardinal.

"Sir," said Mazarin to him "an emeute is spoken of in Paris.
I shall be on the king's left and as I am the chief person
threatened, remain at the coach door to the left."

"Your eminence may be perfectly easy," replied D'Artagnan;
"they will not touch a hair of your head."

"Deuce take it!" he thought to himself, "how can I take care
of both? Ah! plague on't, I will guard the king and Porthos
shall guard the cardinal."

This arrangement pleased every one. The queen had confidence
in the courage of D'Artagnan, which she knew, and the
cardinal in the strength of Porthos, which he had
experienced.

The royal procession set out for Paris. Guitant and
Comminges, at the head of the guards, marched first; then
came the royal carriage, with D'Artagnan on one side,
Porthos on the other; then the musketeers, for two and
twenty years staunch friends of D'Artagnan. During twenty he
had been lieutenant, their captain since the night before.

The cortege proceeded to Notre Dame, where a Te Deum was
chanted. All Paris were in the streets. The Swiss were drawn
up along the road, but as the road was long, they were
placed at six or eight feet distant from each other and one
deep only. This force was therefore wholly insufficient, and
from time to time the line was broken through by the people
and was formed again with difficulty. Whenever this
occurred, although it proceeded only from goodwill and a
desire to see the king and queen, Anne looked at D'Artagnan
anxiously.

Mazarin, who had dispensed a thousand louis to make the
people cry "Long live Mazarin," and who had accordingly no
confidence in acclamations bought at twenty pistoles each,
kept one eye on Porthos; but that gigantic body-guard
replied to the look with his great bass voice, "Be tranquil,
my lord," and Mazarin became more and more composed.

At the Palais Royal, the crowd, which had flowed in from the
adjacent street was still greater; like an impetuous mob, a
wave of human beings came to meet the carriage and rolled
tumultuously into the Rue Saint Honore.

When the procession reached the palace, loud cries of "Long
live their majesties!" resounded. Mazarin leaned out of the
window. One or two shouts of "Long live the cardinal"
saluted his shadow; but instantly hisses and yells stifled
them remorselessly. Mazarin turned pale and shrank back in
the coach.

"Low-born fellows!" ejaculated Porthos.

D'Artagnan said nothing, but twirled his mustache with a
peculiar gesture which showed that his fine Gascon humor was
awake.

Anne of Austria bent down and whispered in the young king's
ear:

"Say something gracious to Monsieur d'Artagnan, my son."

The young king leaned toward the door.

"I have not said good-morning to you, Monsieur d'Artagnan,"
he said; "nevertheless, I have remarked you. It was you who
were behind my bed-curtains that night the Parisians wished
to see me asleep."

"And if the king permits me," returned the Gascon, "I shall
be near him always when there is danger to be encountered."

"Sir," said Mazarin to Porthos, "what would you do if the
crowd fell upon us?"

"Kill as many as I could, my lord."

"Hem! brave as you are and strong as you are, you could not
kill them all."

"'Tis true," answered Porthos, rising on his saddle, in
order that he might appraise the immense crowd, "there are a
lot of them."

"I think I should like the other fellow better than this
one," said Mazarin to himself, and he threw himself back in
his carriage.

The queen and her minister, more especially the latter, had
reason to feel anxious. The crowd, whilst preserving an
appearance of respect and even of affection for the king and
queen regent, began to be tumultuous. Reports were whispered
about, like certain sounds which announce, as they whistle
from wave to wave, the coming storm -- and when they pass
athwart a multitude, presage an emeute.

D'Artagnan turned toward the musketeers and made a sign
imperceptible to the crowd, but very easily understood by
that chosen regiment, the flower of the army.

The ranks closed firmly in and a kind of majestic tremor ran
from man to man.

At the Barriere des Sergents the procession was obliged to
stop. Comminges left the head of the escort and went to the
queen's carriage. Anne questioned D'Artagnan by a look. He
answered in the same language.

"Proceed," she said.

Comminges returned to his post. An effort was made and the
living barrier was violently broken through.

Some complaints arose from the crowd and were addressed this
time to the king as well as the minister.

"Onward!" cried D'Artagnan, in a loud voice.

"Onward!" cried Porthos.

But as if the multitude had waited only for this
demonstration to burst out, all the sentiments of hostility
that possessed it exploded simultaneously. Cries of "Down
with Mazarin!" "Death to the cardinal!" resounded on all
sides.

At the same time through the streets of Grenelle, Saint
Honore, and Du Coq, a double stream of people broke the
feeble hedge of Swiss guards and came like a whirlwind even
to the very legs of Porthos's horse and that of D'Artagnan.

This new eruption was more dangerous than the others, being
composed of armed men. It was plain that it was not the
chance combination of those who had collected a number of
the malcontents at the same spot, but a concerted organized
attack.

Each of these mobs was led by a chief, one of whom appeared
to belong, not to the people, but to the honorable
corporation of mendicants, and the other, notwithstanding
his affected imitation of the people, might easily be
discerned to be a gentleman. Both were evidently stimulated
by the same impulse.

There was a shock which was perceived even in the royal
carriage. Myriads of hoarse cries, forming one vast uproar,
were heard, mingled with guns firing.

"Ho! Musketeers!" cried D'Artagnan.

The escort divided into two files. One of them passed around
to the right of the carriage, the other to the left. One
went to support D'Artagnan, the other Porthos. Then came a
skirmish, the more terrible because it had no definite
object; the more melancholy, because those engaged in it
knew not for whom they were fighting. Like all popular
movements, the shock given by the rush of this mob was
formidable. The musketeers, few in number, not being able,
in the midst of this crowd, to make their horses wheel
around, began to give way. D'Artagnan offered to lower the
blinds of the royal carriage, but the young king stretched
out his arm, saying:

"No, sir! I wish to see everything."

"If your majesty wishes to look out -- well, then, look!"
replied D'Artagnan. And turning with that fury which made
him so formidable, he rushed toward the chief of the
insurgents, a man who, with a huge sword in his hand, was
trying to hew a passage to the coach door through the
musketeers.

"Make room!" cried D'Artagnan. "Zounds! give way!"

At these words the man with a pistol and sword raised his
head, but it was too late. The blow was sped by D'Artagnan;
the rapier had pierced his bosom.

"Ah! confound it!" cried the Gascon, trying in vain, too
late, to retract the thrust. "What the devil are you doing
here, count?"

"Accomplishing my destiny," replied Rochefort, falling on
one knee. "I have already got up again after three stabs
from you, I shall never rise after this fourth."

"Count!" said D'Artagnan, with some degree of emotion, "I
struck without knowing that it was you. I am sorry, if you
die, that you should die with sentiments of hatred toward
me."

Rochefort extended his hand to D'Artagnan, who took it. The
count wished to speak, but a gush of blood stifled him. He
stiffened in the last convulsions of death and expired.

"Back, people!" cried D'Artagnan, "your leader is dead; you
have no longer any business here."

Indeed, as if De Rochefort had been the very soul of the
attack, the crowd who had followed and obeyed him took to
flight on seeing him fall. D'Artagnan charged, with a party
of musketeers, up the Rue du Coq, and the portion of the mob
he assailed disappeared like smoke, dispersing near the
Place Saint Germain-l'Auxerrois and taking the direction of
the quays.

D'Artagnan returned to help Porthos, if Porthos needed help;
but Porthos, for his part, had done his work as
conscientiously as D'Artagnan. The left of the carriage was
as well cleared as the right, and they drew up the blind of
the window which Mazarin, less heroic than the king, had
taken the precaution to lower.

Porthos looked very melancholy.

"What a devil of a face you have, Porthos! and what a
strange air for a victor!"

"But you," answered Porthos, "seem to me agitated."

"There's a reason! Zounds! I have just killed an old
friend."

"Indeed!" replied Porthos, "who?"

"That poor Count de Rochefort."

"Well! exactly like me! I have just killed a man whose face
is not unknown to me. Unluckily, I hit him on the head and
immediately his face was covered with blood."

"And he said nothing as he died?"

"Yes; he exclaimed, `Oh!'"

"I suppose," answered D'Artagnan, laughing, "if he only said
that, it did not enlighten you much."

"Well, sir!" cried the queen.

"Madame, the passage is quite clear and your majesty can
continue your road."

In fact, the procession arrived, in safety at Notre Dame, at
the front gate of which all the clergy, with the coadjutor
at their head, awaited the king, the queen and the minister,
for whose happy return they chanted a Te Deum.

As the service was drawing to a close a boy entered the
church in great excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed
himself quickly in the choir robes, and cleaving, thanks to
that uniform, the crowd that filled the temple, approached
Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was standing gravely in
his place at the entrance to the choir.

Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth
his eyes, beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized
Friquet.

"Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me
in the exercise of my functions?" asked the beadle.

"Monsieur Bazin," said Friquet, "Monsieur Maillard -- you
know who he is, he gives holy water at Saint Eustache ---- "

"Well, go on."

"Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the
head. That great giant who was there gave it to him."

"In that case," said Bazin, "he must be pretty sick."

"So sick that he is dying, and he wants to confess to the
coadjutor, who, they say, has power to remit great sins."

"And does he imagine that the coadjutor will put himself out
for him?"

"To be sure; the coadjutor has promised."

"Who told you that?"

"Monsieur Maillard himself."

"You have seen him, then?"

"Certainly; I was there when he fell."

"What were you doing there?"

"I was shouting, `Down with Mazarin!' `Death to the
cardinal!' `The Italian to the gallows!' Isn't that what you
would have me shout?"

"Be quiet, you rascal!" said Bazin, looking uneasily around.

"So that he told me, that poor Monsieur Maillard, `Go find
the coadjutor, Friquet, and if you bring him to me you shall
be my heir.' Say, then, Father Bazin -- the heir of Monsieur
Maillard, the giver of holy water at Saint Eustache! Hey! I
shall have nothing to do but to fold my arms! All the same,
I should like to do him that service -- what do you say to
it?"

"I will tell the coadjutor," said Bazin.

In fact, he slowly and respectfully approached the prelate
and spoke to him privately a few words, to which the latter
responded by an affirmative sign. He then returned with the
same slow step and said:

"Go and tell the dying man that he must be patient.
Monseigneur will be with him in an hour."

"Good!" said Friquet, "my fortune is made."

"By the way," said Bazin, "where was he carried?"

"To the tower Saint Jacques la Boucherie;" and delighted
with the success of his embassy, Friquet started off at the
top of his speed.

When the Te Deum was over, the coadjutor, without stopping
to change his priestly dress, took his way toward that old
tower which he knew so well. He arrived in time. Though
sinking from moment to moment, the wounded man was not yet
dead. The door was opened to the coadjutor of the room in
which the mendicant was suffering.

A moment later Friquet went out, carrying in his hand a
large leather bag; he opened it as soon as he was outside
the chamber and to his great astonishment found it full of
gold. The mendicant had kept his word and made Friquet his
heir.

"Ah! Mother Nanette!" cried Friquet, suffocating; "ah!
Mother Nanette!"

He could say no more; but though he hadn't strength to speak
he had enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street,
and like the Greek from Marathon who fell in the square at
Athens, with his laurel in his hand, Friquet reached
Councillor Broussel's threshold, and then fell exhausted,
scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather
bag.

Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she
picked up Friquet.

In the meantime the cortege returned to the Palais Royal.

"That Monsieur d'Artagnan is a very brave man, mother," said
the young king.

"Yes, my son; and he rendered very important services to
your father. Treat him kindly, therefore, in the future."

"Captain," said the young king to D'Artagnan, on descending
from the carriage, "the queen has charged me to invite you
to dinner to-day -- you and your friend the Baron du
Vallon."

That was a great honor for D'Artagnan and for Porthos.
Porthos was delighted; and yet during the entire repast he
seemed to be preoccupied.

"What was the matter with you, baron?" D'Artagnan said to
him as they descended the staircase of the Palais Royal.
"You seemed at dinner to be anxious about something."

"I was trying," said Porthos, "to recall where I had seen
that mendicant whom I must have killed."

"And you couldn't remember?"

"No."

"Well, search, my friend, search; and when you have found,
you will tell me, will you not?"

"Pardieu!" said Porthos.



90

Conclusion.



On going home, the two friends found a letter from Athos,
who desired them to meet him at the Grand Charlemagne on the
following day.

The friends went to bed early, but neither of them slept.
When we arrive at the summit of our wishes, success has
usually the power to drive away sleep on the first night
after the fulfilment of long cherished hopes.

The next day at the appointed hour they went to see Athos
and found him and Aramis in traveling costume.

"What!" cried Porthos, "are we all going away, then? I, so,
have made my preparations this morning."

"Oh, heavens! yes," said Aramis. "There's nothing to do in
Paris now there's no Fronde. The Duchess de Longueville has
invited me to pass a few days in Normandy, and has deputed
me, while her son is being baptized, to go and prepare her
residence at Rouen; after which, if nothing new occurs, I
shall go and bury myself in my convent at Noisy-le-Sec."

"And I," said Athos, "am returning to Bragelonne. You know,
dear D'Artagnan, I am nothing more than a good honest
country gentleman. Raoul has no fortune other than I
possess, poor child! and I must take care of it for him,
since I only lend him my name."

"And Raoul -- what shall you do with him?"

"I leave him with you, my friend. War has broken out in
Flanders. You shall take him with you there. I am afraid
that remaining at Blois would be dangerous to his youthful
mind. Take him and teach him to be as brave and loyal as you
are yourself."

"Then," replied D'Artagnan, "though I shall not have you,
Athos, at all events I shall have that dear fair-haired head
by me; and though he's but a boy, yet, since your soul lives
again in him, dear Athos, I shall always fancy that you are
near me, sustaining and encouraging me."

The four friends embraced with tears in their eyes.

Then they departed, without knowing whether they would ever
see each other again.

D'Artagnan returned to the Rue Tiquetonne with Porthos,
still possessed by the wish to find out who the man was that
he had killed. On arriving at the Hotel de la Chevrette they
found the baron's equipage all really and Musqueton on his
saddle.

"Come, D'Artagnan," said Porthos, "bid adieu to your sword
and go with me to Pierrefonds, to Bracieux, or to Du Vallon.
We will grow old together and talk of our companions."

"No!" replied D'Artagnan, "deuce take it, the campaign is
going to begin; I wish to be there, I expect to get
something by it."

"What do you expect to get?"

"Why, I expect to be made Marechal of France!"

"Ha! ha!" cried Porthos, who was not completely taken in by
D'Artagnan's Gasconades.

"Come my brother, go with me," added D'Artagnan, "and I will
see that you are made a duke!"

"No," answered Porthos, "Mouston has no desire to fight;
besides, they have erected a triumphal arch for me to enter
my barony, which will kill my neighbors with envy."

"To that I can say nothing," returned D'Artagnan, who knew
the vanity of the new baron. "Then, here's to our next merry
meeting!"

"Adieu, dear captain," said Porthos, "I shall always be
happy to welcome you to my barony."

"Yes, yes, when the campaign is over," replied the Gascon.

"His honor's equipage is waiting," said Musqueton.

The two friends, after a cordial pressure of the hands,
separated. D'Artagnan was standing at the door looking after
Porthos with a mournful gaze, when the baron, after walking
scarcely more than twenty paces, returned -- stood still --
struck his forehead with his finger and exclaimed:

"I recollect!"

"What?" inquired D'Artagnan.

"Who the beggar was that I killed."

"Ah! indeed! and who was he?"

"'Twas that low fellow, Bonancieux."

And Porthos, enchanted at having relieved his mind, rejoined
Musqueton and they disappeared around an angle of the
street. D'Artagnan stood for an instant, mute, pensive and
motionless; then, as he went in, he saw the fair Madeleine,
his hostess, standing on the threshold.

"Madeleine," said the Gascon, "give me your apartment on the
first floor; now that I am a captain in the royal musketeers
I must make an appearance; nevertheless, reserve my old room
on the fifth story for me; one never knows what may happen."





End of Project Gutenberg's Etext of Twenty Years After, by Dumas [Pere]