Twenty Years After

LINKED INDEX OF PROJECT GUTENBERG VOLUMES:

CONTENTS

Chapter I.
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 Molé, 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 Condé—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, Molé—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?”

“Tréville’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.

Chapter II.
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 Condé 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 Tréville knows him and esteems him very
highly, and De Tréville, as you know, is one of the queen’s greatest friends.
As a soldier the man ranks well; he did his whole duty and even more, at the
siege of Rochelle—as at Suze and Perpignan.”

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

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

Mazarin shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s my concern; I will make him speak.”

“Ah, my lord, ’tis not easy to make people say what they don’t wish to let
out.”

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

“The Comte de Rochefort.”

“The Comte de Rochefort!”

“Unfortunately he has disappeared these four or five years and I don’t know
where he is.”

“I know, Guitant,” said Mazarin.

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

“You think,” resumed Mazarin, “that Rochefort——”

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

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

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

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

“Come hither,” said Mazarin in his softest voice; “I have an order to give
you.”

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

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

The cardinal folded and sealed his letter.

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

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

Chapter III.
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 abbés 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.

Chapter IV.
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
Condé——”

“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 Condé, 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.”

Chapter V.
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 Abbé 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.

Chapter VI.
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 abbé. 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 abbé, like Aramis. Faith! that would be a far better life
than I lead now; but Monsieur Mazarin is a mean wretch, who won’t dispossess
himself of his diamond in my favor.”

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

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

He asked what was going on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wholly yours,

“Aramis.”

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

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

“Ah! you scoundrel!” cried D’Artagnan, taking the man for a thief and seizing
his sword.

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

“And thou—Planchet!” cried the lieutenant.

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

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

“Sir,” said Planchet, “you must know; but, perhaps you ought not to
know——”

“Tell us what,” returned D’Artagnan, “but first put a napkin against the window
and draw the curtains.”

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

“Perfectly; one of my dearest friends.”

“Ah! so much the better!”

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

“Ah, sir! I must first tell you that Monsieur de Rochefort is——”

Planchet hesitated.

“Egad, I know where he is,” said D’Artagnan. “He’s in the Bastile.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Poor fellow!” said D’Artagnan. “Well, come; set to.”

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

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

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

“No, sir,” replied Planchet.

“The devil thou dost not! Dost know where Porthos is?”

“No—not at all.”

“And Aramis?”

“Not in the least.”

“The devil! the devil! the devil!”

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

“Where is he?”

“At Notre Dame.”

“What has he to do at Notre Dame?”

“He is beadle.”

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

“Without a doubt he must.”

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

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

“True,” said D’Artagnan. “Let’s see. Canst thou speak any patois?”

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

“Where the devil didst thou learn it?”

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

“Which means?”

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

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

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

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

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

“My brother?”

“Wish your sister good-morning, Master Peter.”

“Wilkom, suster,” said Planchet.

“Goeden day, broder,” replied the astonished landlady.

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

“That is to say, I guess your wishes, and that is all that’s necessary,” said
Madeleine.

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

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

Chapter VII.
Touches upon the Strange Effects a Half-pistole may have.

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

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

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

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

Bazin wore his dress, it may be observed, with equal dignity and saintly
propriety. It was not difficult to understand that he had gained the crown of
his ambition and that the silver-mounted wand he brandished was in his eyes as
honorable a distinction as the marshal’s baton which Condé 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 Abbé 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.

Chapter VIII.
D’Artagnan, Going to a Distance to discover Aramis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter IX.
The Abbé 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 abbé. 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 curé,
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 abbé 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 abbé.

“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 Abbé
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
abbé—like all other abbés.”

“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 abbé 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 abbé 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
abbés 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 Tréville,
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 Condé?”

“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.”

Chapter X.
Monsieur Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.

Thanks to what Aramis had told him, D’Artagnan, who knew
already that Porthos called himself Du Vallon, was now aware that he styled
himself, from his estate, De Bracieux; and that he was, on account of this
estate, engaged in a lawsuit with the Bishop of Noyon. It was, then, in the
neighborhood of Noyon that he must seek that estate. His itinerary was promptly
determined: he would go to Dammartin, from which place two roads diverge, one
toward Soissons, the other toward Compiegne; there he would inquire concerning
the Bracieux estate and go to the right or to the left according to the
information obtained.

Planchet, who was still a little concerned for his safety after his recent
escapade, declared that he would follow D’Artagnan even to the end of the
world, either by the road to the right or by that to the left; only he begged
his former master to set out in the evening, for greater security to himself.
D’Artagnan suggested that he should send word to his wife, so that she might
not be anxious about him, but Planchet replied with much sagacity that he was
very sure his wife would not die of anxiety through not knowing where he was,
while he, Planchet, remembering her incontinence of tongue, would die of
anxiety if she did know.

This reasoning seemed to D’Artagnan so satisfactory that he no further
insisted; and about eight o’clock in the evening, the time when the vapors of
night begin to thicken in the streets, he left the Hotel de la Chevrette, and
followed by Planchet set forth from the capital by way of the Saint Denis gate.

At midnight the two travelers were at Dammartin, but it was then too late to
make inquiries—the host of the Cygne de la Croix had gone to bed.

The next morning D’Artagnan summoned the host, one of those sly Normans who say
neither yes nor no and fear to commit themselves by giving a direct answer.
D’Artagnan, however, gathered from his equivocal replies that the road to the
right was the one he ought to take, and on that uncertain information he
resumed his journey. At nine in the morning he reached Nanteuil and stopped for
breakfast. His host here was a good fellow from Picardy, who gave him all the
information he needed. The Bracieux estate was a few leagues from
Villars-Cotterets.

D’Artagnan was acquainted with Villars-Cotterets, having gone thither with the
court on several occasions; for at that time Villars-Cotterets was a royal
residence. He therefore shaped his course toward that place and dismounted at
the Dauphin d’Or. There he ascertained that the Bracieux estate was four
leagues distant, but that Porthos was not at Bracieux. Porthos had, in fact,
been involved in a dispute with the Bishop of Noyon in regard to the
Pierrefonds property, which adjoined his own, and weary at length of a legal
controversy which was beyond his comprehension, he put an end to it by
purchasing Pierrefonds and added that name to his others. He now called himself
Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, and resided on his new estate.

The travelers were therefore obliged to stay at the hotel until the next day;
the horses had done ten leagues that day and needed rest. It is true they might
have taken others, but there was a great forest to pass through and Planchet,
as we have seen, had no liking for forests after dark.

There was another thing that Planchet had no liking for and that was starting
on a journey with a hungry stomach. Accordingly, D’Artagnan, on awaking, found
his breakfast waiting for him. It need not be said that Planchet in resuming
his former functions resumed also his former humility and was not ashamed to
make his breakfast on what was left by D’Artagnan.

It was nearly eight o’clock when they set out again. Their course was clearly
defined: they were to follow the road toward Compiegne and on emerging from the
forest turn to the right.

The morning was beautiful, and in this early springtime the birds sang on the
trees and the sunbeams shone through the misty glades, like curtains of golden
gauze.

In other parts of the forest the light could scarcely penetrate through the
foliage, and the stems of two old oak trees, the refuge of the squirrel,
startled by the travelers, were in deep shadow.

There came up from all nature in the dawn of day a perfume of herbs, flowers
and leaves, which delighted the heart. D’Artagnan, sick of the closeness of
Paris, thought that when a man had three names of his different estates joined
one to another, he ought to be very happy in such a paradise; then he shook his
head, saying, “If I were Porthos and D’Artagnan came to make me such a
proposition as I am going to make to him, I know what I should say to it.”

As to Planchet, he thought of little or nothing, but was happy as a
hunting-hound in his old master’s company.

At the extremity of the wood D’Artagnan perceived the road that had been
described to him, and at the end of the road he saw the towers of an immense
feudal castle.

“Oh! oh!” he said, “I fancied this castle belonged to the ancient branch of
Orleans. Can Porthos have negotiated for it with the Duc de Longueville?”

“Faith!” exclaimed Planchet, “here’s land in good condition; if it belongs to
Monsieur Porthos I wish him joy.”

“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “don’t call him Porthos, nor even Vallon; call him
De Bracieux or De Pierrefonds; thou wilt knell out damnation to my mission
otherwise.”

As he approached the castle which had first attracted his eye, D’Artagnan was
convinced that it could not be there that his friend dwelt; the towers, though
solid and as if built yesterday, were open and broken. One might have fancied
that some giant had cleaved them with blows from a hatchet.

On arriving at the extremity of the castle D’Artagnan found himself overlooking
a beautiful valley, in which, at the foot of a charming little lake, stood
several scattered houses, which, humble in their aspect, and covered, some with
tiles, others with thatch, seemed to acknowledge as their sovereign lord a
pretty chateau, built about the beginning of the reign of Henry IV., and
surmounted by four stately, gilded weather-cocks. D’Artagnan no longer doubted
that this was Porthos’s pleasant dwelling place.

The road led straight up to the chateau which, compared to its ancestor on the
hill, was exactly what a fop of the coterie of the Duc d’Enghein would have
been beside a knight in steel armor in the time of Charles VII. D’Artagnan
spurred his horse on and pursued his road, followed by Planchet at the same
pace.

In ten minutes D’Artagnan reached the end of an alley regularly planted with
fine poplars and terminating in an iron gate, the points and crossed bars of
which were gilt. In the midst of this avenue was a nobleman, dressed in green
and with as much gilding about him as the iron gate, riding on a tall horse. On
his right hand and his left were two footmen, with the seams of their dresses
laced. A considerable number of clowns were assembled and rendered homage to
their lord.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “can this be the Seigneur du Vallon de
Bracieux de Pierrefonds? Well-a-day! how he has shrunk since he gave up the
name of Porthos!”

“This cannot be Monsieur Porthos,” observed Planchet replying, as it were, to
his master’s thoughts. “Monsieur Porthos was six feet high; this man is
scarcely five.”

“Nevertheless,” said D’Artagnan, “the people are bowing very low to this
person.”

As he spoke, he rode toward the tall horse—to the man of importance and
his valets. As he approached he seemed to recognize the features of this
individual.

“Jesu!” cried Planchet, “can it be?”

At this exclamation the man on horseback turned slowly and with a lofty air,
and the two travelers could see, displayed in all their brilliancy, the large
eyes, the vermilion visage, and the eloquent smile of—Mousqueton.

It was indeed Mousqueton—Mousqueton, as fat as a pig, rolling about with
rude health, puffed out with good living, who, recognizing D’Artagnan and
acting very differently from the hypocrite Bazin, slipped off his horse and
approached the officer with his hat off, so that the homage of the assembled
crowd was turned toward this new sun, which eclipsed the former luminary.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan! Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Mousqueton, his fat cheeks
swelling out and his whole frame perspiring with joy; “Monsieur d’Artagnan! oh!
what joy for my lord and master, Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds!”

“Thou good Mousqueton! where is thy master?”

“You stand upon his property!”

“But how handsome thou art—how fat! thou hast prospered and grown stout!”
and D’Artagnan could not restrain his astonishment at the change good fortune
had produced on the once famished one.

“Hey, yes, thank God, I am pretty well,” said Mousqueton.

“But hast thou nothing to say to thy friend Planchet?”

“How, my friend Planchet? Planchet—art thou there?” cried Mousqueton,
with open arms and eyes full of tears.

“My very self,” replied Planchet; “but I wanted first to see if thou wert grown
proud.”

“Proud toward an old friend? never, Planchet! thou wouldst not have thought so
hadst thou known Mousqueton well.”

“So far so well,” answered Planchet, alighting, and extending his arms to
Mousqueton, the two servants embraced with an emotion which touched those who
were present and made them suppose that Planchet was a great lord in disguise,
so highly did they estimate the position of Mousqueton.

“And now, sir,” resumed Mousqueton, when he had rid himself of Planchet, who
had in vain tried to clasp his hands behind his friend’s fat back, “now, sir,
allow me to leave you, for I could not permit my master to hear of your arrival
from any but myself; he would never forgive me for not having preceded you.”

“This dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, carefully avoiding to utter either the
former name borne by Porthos or his new one, “then he has not forgotten me?”

“Forgotten—he!” cried Mousqueton; “there’s not a day, sir, that we don’t
expect to hear that you were made marshal either instead of Monsieur de
Gassion, or of Monsieur de Bassompierre.”

On D’Artagnan’s lips there played one of those rare and melancholy smiles which
seemed to emanate from the depth of his soul—the last trace of youth and
happiness that had survived life’s disillusions.

“And you—fellows,” resumed Mousqueton, “stay near Monsieur le Comte
d’Artagnan and pay him every attention in your power whilst I go to prepare my
lord for his visit.”

And mounting his horse Mousqueton rode off down the avenue on the grass at a
hand gallop.

“Ah, there! there’s something promising,” said D’Artagnan. “No mysteries, no
cloak to hide one’s self in, no cunning policy here; people laugh outright,
they weep for joy here. I see nothing but faces a yard broad; in short, it
seems to me that nature herself wears a holiday garb, and that the trees,
instead of leaves and flowers, are covered with red and green ribbons as on
gala days.”

“As for me,” said Planchet, “I seem to smell, from this place, even, a most
delectable perfume of fine roast meat, and to see the scullions in a row by the
hedge, hailing our approach. Ah! sir, what a cook must Monsieur Pierrefonds
have, when he was so fond of eating and drinking, even whilst he was only
called Monsieur Porthos!”

“Say no more!” cried D’Artagnan. “If the reality corresponds with appearances I
am lost; for a man so well off will never change his happy condition, and I
shall fail with him, as I have already done with Aramis.”

Chapter XI.
Wealth does not necessarily produce Happiness.

D’Artagnan passed through the iron gate and arrived in
front of the chateau. He alighted as he saw a species of giant on the steps.
Let us do justice to D’Artagnan. Independently of every selfish wish, his heart
palpitated with joy when he saw that tall form and martial demeanor, which
recalled to him a good and brave man.

He ran to Porthos and threw himself into his arms; the whole body of servants,
arranged in a semi-circle at a respectful distance, looked on with humble
curiosity. Mousqueton, at the head of them, wiped his eyes. Porthos linked his
arm in that of his friend.

“Ah! how delightful to see you again, dear friend!” he cried, in a voice which
was now changed from a baritone into a bass, “you’ve not then forgotten me?”

“Forget you! oh! dear Du Vallon, does one forget the happiest days of flowery
youth, one’s dearest friends, the dangers we have dared together? On the
contrary, there is not an hour we have passed together that is not present to
my memory.”

“Yes, yes,” said Porthos, trying to give to his mustache a curl which it had
lost whilst he had been alone. “Yes, we did some fine things in our time and we
gave that poor cardinal a few threads to unravel.”

And he heaved a sigh.

“Under any circumstances,” he resumed, “you are welcome, my dear friend; you
will help me to recover my spirits; to-morrow we will hunt the hare on my
plain, which is a superb tract of land, or pursue the deer in my woods, which
are magnificent. I have four harriers which are considered the swiftest in the
county, and a pack of hounds which are unequalled for twenty leagues around.”

And Porthos heaved another sigh.

“But, first,” interposed D’Artagnan, “you must present me to Madame du Vallon.”

A third sigh from Porthos.

“I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago,” he said, “and you find me still in
affliction on that account. That was the reason why I left my Chateau du Vallon
near Corbeil, and came to my estate, Bracieux. Poor Madame du Vallon! her
temper was uncertain, but she came at last to accustom herself to my little
ways and understand my little wishes.”

“So you are free now, and rich?”

“Alas!” groaned Porthos, “I am a widower and have forty thousand francs a year.
Let us go to breakfast.”

“I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me hungry.”

“Yes,” said Porthos; “my air is excellent.”

They went into the chateau; there was nothing but gilding, high and low; the
cornices were gilt, the mouldings were gilt, the legs and arms of the chairs
were gilt. A table, ready set out, awaited them.

“You see,” said Porthos, “this is my usual style.”

“Devil take me!” answered D’Artagnan, “I wish you joy of it. The king has
nothing like it.”

“No,” answered Porthos, “I hear it said that he is very badly fed by the
cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this cutlet, my dear D’Artagnan; ’tis off
one of my sheep.”

“You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it.” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent pasture.”

“Give me another cutlet.”

“No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of my warrens.”

“Zounds! what a flavor!” cried D’Artagnan; “ah! they are fed on thyme only,
your hares.”

“And how do you like my wine?” asked Porthos; “it is pleasant, isn’t it?”

“Capital!”

“It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country.”

“Really?”

“Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill, gives me twenty
hogsheads.”

“Quite a vineyard, hey?”

Porthos sighed for the fifth time—D’Artagnan had counted his sighs. He
became curious to solve the problem.

“Well now,” he said, “it seems, my dear friend, that something vexes you; you
are ill, perhaps? That health, which——”

“Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill an ox with a blow of
my fist.”

“Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?”

“Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care for.”

“But what makes you sigh?”

“My dear fellow,” replied Porthos, “to be candid with you, I am not happy.”

“You are not happy, Porthos? You who have chateau, meadows, mountains,
woods—you who have forty thousand francs a
year—you—are—not—happy?”

“My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit in the midst of
superfluity.”

“Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you could not
associate.”

Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of wine.

“No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who have all some title
or another and pretend to go back as far as Charlemagne, or at least to Hugh
Capet. When I first came here; being the last comer, it was for me to make the
first advances. I made them, but you know, my dear friend, Madame du
Vallon——”

Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down something.

“Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her first
marriage—I don’t think, D’Artagnan, I am telling you anything
new—married a lawyer; they thought that ‘nauseous;’ you can understand
that’s a word bad enough to make one kill thirty thousand men. I have killed
two, which has made people hold their tongues, but has not made me their
friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am sick of it—my mind
preys on itself.”

D’Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was weak, and prepared the
blow.

“But now,” he said, “that you are a widower, your wife’s connection cannot
injure you.”

“Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic fame, like the De
Courcys, who were content to be plain sirs, or the Rohans, who didn’t wish to
be dukes, all these people, who are all either vicomtes or comtes go before me
at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say nothing to them. Ah! If I only
were a——”

“A baron, don’t you mean?” cried D’Artagnan, finishing his friend’s sentence.

“Ah!” cried Porthos; “would I were but a baron!”

“Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title which you wish for so
much.”

Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three bottles fell and were
broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing the noise.

Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to pick up the bottles.

“I am glad to see,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have still that honest lad with
you.”

“He is my steward,” replied Porthos; “he will never leave me. Go away now,
Mouston.”

“So he’s called Mouston,” thought D’Artagnan; “’tis too long a word to
pronounce ‘Mousqueton.’”

“Well,” he said aloud, “let us resume our conversation later, your people may
suspect something; there may be spies about. You can suppose, Porthos, that
what I have to say relates to most important matters.”

“Devil take them; let us walk in the park,” answered Porthos, “for the sake of
digestion.”

“Egad,” said D’Artagnan, “the park is like everything else and there are as
many fish in your pond as rabbits in your warren; you are a happy man, my
friend since you have not only retained your love of the chase, but acquired
that of fishing.”

“My friend,” replied Porthos, “I leave fishing to Mousqueton,—it is a
vulgar pleasure,—but I shoot sometimes; that is to say, when I am dull,
and I sit on one of those marble seats, have my gun brought to me, my favorite
dog, and I shoot rabbits.”

“Really, how very amusing!”

“Yes,” replied Porthos, with a sigh, “it is amusing.”

D’Artagnan now no longer counted the sighs. They were innumerable.

“However, what had you to say to me?” he resumed; “let us return to that
subject.”

“With pleasure,” replied D’Artagnan; “I must, however, first frankly tell you
that you must change your mode of life.”

“How?”

“Go into harness again, gird on your sword, run after adventures, and leave as
in old times a little of your fat on the roadside.”

“Ah! hang it!” said Porthos.

“I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you are corpulent, your arm has no longer
that movement of which the late cardinal’s guards have so many proofs.”

“Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear,” cried Porthos, extending a hand like a
shoulder of mutton.

“So much the better.”

“Are we then to go to war?”

“By my troth, yes.”

“Against whom?”

“Are you a politician, friend?”

“Not in the least.”

“Are you for Mazarin or for the princes?”

“I am for no one.”

“That is to say, you are for us. Well, I tell you that I come to you from the
cardinal.”

This speech was heard by Porthos in the same sense as if it had still been in
the year 1640 and related to the true cardinal.

“Ho! ho! What are the wishes of his eminence?”

“He wishes to have you in his service.”

“And who spoke to him of me?”

“Rochefort—you remember him?”

“Yes, pardieu! It was he who gave us so much trouble and kept us on the road so
much; you gave him three sword-wounds in three separate engagements.”

“But you know he is now our friend?”

“No, I didn’t know that. So he cherishes no resentment?”

“You are mistaken, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan. “It is I who cherish no
resentment.”

Porthos didn’t understand any too clearly; but then we know that understanding
was not his strong point. “You say, then,” he continued, “that the Count de
Rochefort spoke of me to the cardinal?”

“Yes, and the queen, too.”

“The queen, do you say?”

“To inspire us with confidence she has even placed in Mazarin’s hands that
famous diamond—you remember all about it—that I once sold to
Monsieur des Essarts and of which, I don’t know how, she has regained
possession.”

“But it seems to me,” said Porthos, “that she would have done much better if
she had given it back to you.”

“So I think,” replied D’Artagnan; “but kings and queens are strange beings and
have odd fancies; nevertheless, since they are the ones who have riches and
honors, we are devoted to them.”

“Yes, we are devoted to them,” repeated Porthos; “and you—to whom are you
devoted now?”

“To the king, the queen, and to the cardinal; moreover, I have answered for
your devotion also.”

“And you say that you have made certain conditions on my behalf?”

“Magnificent, my dear fellow, magnificent! In the first place you have plenty
of money, haven’t you? forty thousand francs income, I think you said.”

Porthos began to be suspicious. “Eh! my friend,” said he, “one never has too
much money. Madame du Vallon left things in much disorder; I am not much of a
hand at figures, so that I live almost from hand to mouth.”

“He is afraid I have come to borrow money,” thought D’Artagnan. “Ah, my
friend,” said he, “it is all the better if you are in difficulties.”

“How is it all the better?”

“Yes, for his eminence will give you all that you want—land, money, and
titles.”

“Ah! ah! ah!” said Porthos, opening his eyes at that last word.

“Under the other cardinal,” continued D’Artagnan, “we didn’t know enough to
make our profits; this, however, doesn’t concern you, with your forty thousand
francs income, the happiest man in the world, it seems to me.”

Porthos sighed.

“At the same time,” continued D’Artagnan, “notwithstanding your forty thousand
francs a year, and perhaps even for the very reason that you have forty
thousand francs a year, it seems to me that a little coronet would do well on
your carriage, hey?”

“Yes indeed,” said Porthos.

“Well, my dear friend, win it—it is at the point of your sword. We shall
not interfere with each other—your object is a title; mine, money. If I
can get enough to rebuild Artagnan, which my ancestors, impoverished by the
Crusades, allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy thirty acres of land about it,
that is all I wish. I shall retire and die tranquilly—at home.”

“For my part,” said Porthos, “I desire to be made a baron.”

“You shall be one.”

“And have you not seen any of our other friends?”

“Yes, I have seen Aramis.”

“And what does he wish? To be a bishop?”

“Aramis,” answered D’Artagnan, who did not wish to undeceive Porthos, “Aramis,
fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit, and lives like a bear. My offers did not
arouse him,—did not even tempt him.”

“So much the worse! He was a clever man. And Athos?”

“I have not yet seen him. Do you know where I shall find him?”

“Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne. Only imagine, my dear friend. Athos, who
was of as high birth as the emperor and who inherits one estate which gives him
the title of comte, what is he to do with all those dignities—the Comte
de la Fere, Comte de Bragelonne?”

“And he has no children with all these titles?”

“Ah!” said Porthos, “I have heard that he had adopted a young man who resembles
him greatly.”

“What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen him?

“No.”

“Well, I shall see him to-morrow and tell him about you; but I’m afraid, entre
nous, that his liking for wine has aged and degraded him.”

“Yes, he used to drink a great deal,” replied Porthos.

“And then he was older than any of us,” added D’Artagnan.

“Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he was.”

“Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we cannot, we will do
without him. We two are worth a dozen.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his former exploits; “but we
four, altogether, would be equal to thirty-six, more especially as you say the
work will not be child’s play. Will it last long?”

“By’r Lady! two or three years perhaps.”

“So much the better,” cried Porthos. “You have no idea, my friend, how my bones
ache since I came here. Sometimes on a Sunday, I take a ride in the fields and
on the property of my neighbours, in order to pick up a nice little quarrel,
which I am really in want of, but nothing happens. Either they respect or they
fear me, which is more likely, but they let me trample down the clover with my
dogs, insult and obstruct every one, and I come back still more weary and
low-spirited, that’s all. At any rate, tell me: there’s more chance of fighting
in Paris, is there not?”

“In that respect, my dear friend, it’s delightful. No more edicts, no more of
the cardinal’s guards, no more De Jussacs, nor other bloodhounds. I’Gad!
underneath a lamp in an inn, anywhere, they ask ‘Are you one of the Fronde?’
They unsheathe, and that’s all that is said. The Duke de Guise killed Monsieur
de Coligny in the Place Royale and nothing was said of it.”

“Ah, things go on gaily, then,” said Porthos.

“Besides which, in a short time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “We shall have set
battles, cannonades, conflagrations and there will be great variety.”

“Well, then, I decide.”

“I have your word, then?”

“Yes, ’tis given. I shall fight heart and soul for Mazarin; but——”

“But?”

“But he must make me a baron.”

“Zounds!” said D’Artagnan, “that’s settled already; I will be responsible for
the barony.”

On this promise being given, Porthos, who had never doubted his friend’s
assurance, turned back with him toward the castle.

Chapter XII.
Porthos was Discontented with his Condition.

As they returned toward the castle, D’Artagnan thought
of the miseries of poor human nature, always dissatisfied with what it has,
ever desirous of what it has not.

In the position of Porthos, D’Artagnan would have been perfectly happy; and to
make Porthos contented there was wanting—what? five letters to put before
his three names, a tiny coronet to paint upon the panels of his carriage!

“I shall pass all my life,” thought D’Artagnan, “in seeking for a man who is
really contented with his lot.”

Whilst making this reflection, chance seemed, as it were, to give him the lie
direct. When Porthos had left him to give some orders he saw Mousqueton
approaching. The face of the steward, despite one slight shade of care, light
as a summer cloud, seemed a physiognomy of absolute felicity.

“Here is what I am looking for,” thought D’Artagnan; “but alas! the poor fellow
does not know the purpose for which I am here.”

He then made a sign for Mousqueton to come to him.

“Sir,” said the servant, “I have a favour to ask you.”

“Speak out, my friend.”

“I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that prosperity has spoiled
me?”

“Art thou happy, friend?” asked D’Artagnan.

“As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you may make me even happier than I am.”

“Well, speak, if it depends on me.”

“Oh, sir! it depends on you only.”

“I listen—I am waiting to hear.”

“Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is, not to call me ‘Mousqueton’ but
‘Mouston.’ Since I have had the honor of being my lord’s steward I have taken
the last name as more dignified and calculated to make my inferiors respect me.
You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in any large establishment of
servants.”

D’Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names, Mousqueton to cut
his short.

“Well, my dear Mouston,” he said, “rest satisfied. I will call thee Mouston;
and if it makes thee happy I will not ‘tutoyer’ you any longer.”

“Oh!” cried Mousqueton, reddening with joy; “if you do me, sir, such honor, I
shall be grateful all my life; it is too much to ask.”

“Alas!” thought D’Artagnan, “it is very little to offset the unexpected
tribulations I am bringing to this poor devil who has so warmly welcomed me.”

“Will monsieur remain long with us?” asked Mousqueton, with a serene and
glowing countenance.

“I go to-morrow, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan.

“Ah, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “then you have come here only to awaken our
regrets.”

“I fear that is true,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone.

D’Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at inducing Porthos to enter
into schemes in which his life and fortune would be in jeopardy, for Porthos,
in the title of baron, had his object and reward; but poor Mousqueton, whose
only wish was to be called Mouston—was it not cruel to snatch him from
the delightful state of peace and plenty in which he was?

He was thinking of these matters when Porthos summoned him to dinner.

“What! to dinner?” said D’Artagnan. “What time is it, then?”

“Eh! why, it is after one o’clock.”

“Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one takes no note of time. I follow you,
though I am not hungry.”

“Come, if one can’t always eat, one can always drink—a maxim of poor
Athos, the truth of which I have discovered since I began to be lonely.”

D’Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was inclined to sobriety, seemed not so sure as
his friend of the truth of Athos’s maxim, but he did his best to keep up with
his host. Meanwhile his misgivings in regard to Mousqueton recurred to his mind
and with greater force because Mousqueton, though he did not himself wait on
the table, which would have been beneath him in his new position, appeared at
the door from time to time and evinced his gratitude to D’Artagnan by the
quality of the wine he directed to be served. Therefore, when, at dessert, upon
a sign from D’Artagnan, Porthos had sent away his servants and the two friends
were alone:

“Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “who will attend you in your campaigns?”

“Why,” replied Porthos, “Mouston, of course.”

This was a blow to D’Artagnan. He could already see the intendant’s beaming
smile change to a contortion of grief. “But,” he said, “Mouston is not so young
as he was, my dear fellow; besides, he has grown fat and perhaps has lost his
fitness for active service.”

“That may be true,” replied Porthos; “but I am used to him, and besides, he
wouldn’t be willing to let me go without him, he loves me so much.”

“Oh, blind self-love!” thought D’Artagnan.

“And you,” asked Porthos, “haven’t you still in your service your old lackey,
that good, that brave, that intelligent—-what, then, is his name?”

“Planchet—yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey no longer.”

“What is he, then?”

“With his sixteen hundred francs—you remember, the sixteen hundred francs
he earned at the siege of La Rochelle by carrying a letter to Lord de
Winter—he has set up a little shop in the Rue des Lombards and is now a
confectioner.”

“Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does it happen, then,
that he is in your service?”

“He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be disturbed.” And
the musketeer narrated to his friend Planchet’s adventure.

“Well,” said Porthos, “if any one had told you in the old times that the day
would come when Planchet would rescue Rochefort and that you would protect him
in it——”

“I should not have believed him; but men are changed by events.”

“There is nothing truer than that,” said Porthos; “but what does not change, or
changes for the better, is wine. Taste of this; it is a Spanish wine which our
friend Athos thought much of.”

At that moment the steward came in to consult his master upon the proceedings
of the next day and also with regard to the shooting party which had been
proposed.

“Tell me, Mouston,” said Porthos, “are my arms in good condition?”

“Your arms, my lord—what arms?”

“Zounds! my weapons.”

“What weapons?”

“My military weapons.”

“Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so.”

“Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished up. Which is my best
cavalry horse?”

“Vulcan.”

“And the best hack?”

“Bayard.”

“What horse dost thou choose for thyself?”

“I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit me.”

“Strong, thinkest thou?”

“Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day.”

“That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make some one else
polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee and a hunting-knife.”

“Are we then going to travel, my lord?” asked Mousqueton, rather uneasy.

“Something better still, Mouston.”

“An expedition, sir?” asked the steward, whose roses began to change into
lilies.

“We are going to return to the service, Mouston,” replied Porthos, still trying
to restore his mustache to the military curl it had long lost.

“Into the service—the king’s service?” Mousqueton trembled; even his fat,
smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and he looked at D’Artagnan with an air of
reproach; he staggered, and his voice was almost choked.

“Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all sorts of
adventures—return, in short, to our former life.”

These last words fell on Mousqueton like a thunderbolt. It was those very
terrible old days that made the present so excessively delightful, and the blow
was so great he rushed out, overcome, and forgot to shut the door.

The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to build castles in
the air. The good wine which Mousqueton had placed before them traced out in
glowing drops to D’Artagnan a fine perspective, shining with quadruples and
pistoles, and showed to Porthos a blue ribbon and a ducal mantle; they were, in
fact, asleep on the table when the servants came to light them to their bed.

Mousqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D’Artagnan, who the next day told
him that in all probability war would always be carried on in the heart of
Paris and within reach of the Chateau du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or
Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds, which was between Compiegne
and Villars-Cotterets.

“But—formerly—it appears,” began Mousqueton timidly.

“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “we don’t now make war as we did formerly. To-day it’s a
sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask Planchet.”

Mousqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his old friend, who
confirmed the statement of D’Artagnan. “But,” he added, “in this war prisoners
stand a chance of being hung.”

“The deuce they do!” said Mousqueton; “I think I should like the siege of
Rochelle better than this war, then!”

Porthos, meantime, asked D’Artagnan to give him his instructions how to proceed
on his journey.

“Four days,” replied his friend, “are necessary to reach Blois; one day to rest
there; three or four days to return to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week,
with your suite, and go to the Hotel de la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and there
await me.”

“That’s agreed,” said Porthos.

“As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I don’t think his aid
worth much, one must with one’s friends observe all due politeness,” said
D’Artagnan.

The friends then took leave of each other on the very border of the estate of
Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his friend.

“At least,” D’Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road to
Villars-Cotterets, “at least I shall not be alone in my undertaking. That
devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious strength; still, if Athos joins us,
well, we shall be three of us to laugh at Aramis, that little coxcomb with his
too good luck.”

At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:

“My Lord,—I have already one man to offer to your eminence, and he is
well worth twenty men. I am just setting out for Blois. The Comte de la Fere
inhabits the Castle of Bragelonne, in the environs of that city.”

Chapter XIII.
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.

Chapter XIV.
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.

Chapter XV.
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 Tréville 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.

Chapter XVI.
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.

Chapter XVII.
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 IV. and Gabrielle d’Estrees—as
good-natured, as brave, as proud, and above all, as Gascon as his ancestor, but
less elaborately educated. After having been for some time after the death of
Louis XIII. the favorite, the confidant, the first man, in short, at the court,
he had been obliged to yield his place to Mazarin and so became the second in
influence and favor; and eventually, as he was stupid enough to be vexed at
this change of position, the queen had had him arrested and sent to Vincennes
in charge of Guitant, who made his appearance in these pages in the beginning
of this history and whom we shall see again. It is understood, of course, that
when we say “the queen,” Mazarin is meant.

During the five years of this seclusion, which would have improved and matured
the intellect of any other man, M. de Beaufort, had he not affected to brave
the cardinal, despise princes, and walk alone without adherents or disciples,
would either have regained his liberty or made partisans. But these
considerations never occurred to the duke and every day the cardinal received
fresh accounts of him which were as unpleasant as possible to the minister.

After having failed in poetry, Monsieur de Beaufort tried drawing. He drew
portraits, with a piece of coal, of the cardinal; and as his talents did not
enable him to produce a very good likeness, he wrote under the picture that
there might be little doubt regarding the original: “Portrait of the
Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin.” Monsieur de Chavigny, the governor of Vincennes,
waited upon the duke to request that he would amuse himself in some other way,
or that at all events, if he drew likenesses, he would not put mottoes
underneath them. The next day the prisoner’s room was full of pictures and
mottoes. Monsieur de Beaufort, in common with many other prisoners, was bent
upon doing things that were prohibited; and the only resource the governor had
was, one day when the duke was playing at tennis, to efface all these drawings,
consisting chiefly of profiles. M. de Beaufort did not venture to draw the
cardinal’s fat face.

The duke thanked Monsieur de Chavigny for having, as he said, cleaned his
drawing-paper for him; he then divided the walls of his room into compartments
and dedicated each of these compartments to some incident in Mazarin’s life. In
one was depicted the “Illustrious Coxcomb” receiving a shower of blows from
Cardinal Bentivoglio, whose servant he had been; another, the “Illustrious
Mazarin” acting the part of Ignatius Loyola in a tragedy of that name; a third,
the “Illustrious Mazarin” stealing the portfolio of prime minister from
Monsieur de Chavigny, who had expected to have it; a fourth, the “Illustrious
Coxcomb Mazarin” refusing to give Laporte, the young king’s valet, clean
sheets, and saving that “it was quite enough for the king of France to have
clean sheets every three months.”

The governor, of course, thought proper to threaten his prisoner that if he did
not give up drawing such pictures he should be obliged to deprive him of all
the means of amusing himself in that manner. To this Monsieur de Beaufort
replied that since every opportunity of distinguishing himself in arms was
taken from him, he wished to make himself celebrated in the arts; since he
could not be a Bayard, he would become a Raphael or a Michael Angelo.
Nevertheless, one day when Monsieur de Beaufort was walking in the meadow his
fire was put out, his charcoal all removed, taken away; and thus his means of
drawing utterly destroyed.

The poor duke swore, fell into a rage, yelled, and declared that they wished to
starve him to death as they had starved the Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior
of Vendome; but he refused to promise that he would not make any more drawings
and remained without any fire in the room all the winter.

His next act was to purchase a dog from one of his keepers. With this animal,
which he called Pistache, he was often shut up for hours alone, superintending,
as every one supposed, its education. At last, when Pistache was sufficiently
well trained, Monsieur de Beaufort invited the governor and officers of
Vincennes to attend a representation which he was going to have in his
apartment.

The party assembled, the room was lighted with waxlights, and the prisoner,
with a bit of plaster he had taken out of the wall of his room, had traced a
long white line, representing a cord, on the floor. Pistache, on a signal from
his master, placed himself on this line, raised himself on his hind paws, and
holding in his front paws a wand with which clothes used to be beaten, he began
to dance upon the line with as many contortions as a rope-dancer. Having been
several times up and down it, he gave the wand back to his master and began
without hesitation to perform the same evolutions over again.

The intelligent creature was received with loud applause.

The first part of the entertainment being concluded Pistache was desired to say
what o’clock it was; he was shown Monsieur de Chavigny’s watch; it was then
half-past six; the dog raised and dropped his paw six times; the seventh he let
it remain upraised. Nothing could be better done; a sun-dial could not have
shown the hour with greater precision.

Then the question was put to him who was the best jailer in all the prisons in
France.

The dog performed three evolutions around the circle and laid himself, with the
deepest respect, at the feet of Monsieur de Chavigny, who at first seemed
inclined to like the joke and laughed long and loud, but a frown succeeded, and
he bit his lips with vexation.

Then the duke put to Pistache this difficult question, who was the greatest
thief in the world?

Pistache went again around the circle, but stopped at no one, and at last went
to the door and began to scratch and bark.

“See, gentlemen,” said M. de Beaufort, “this wonderful animal, not finding here
what I ask for, seeks it out of doors; you shall, however, have his answer.
Pistache, my friend, come here. Is not the greatest thief in the world,
Monsieur (the king’s secretary) Le Camus, who came to Paris with twenty francs
in his pocket and who now possesses ten millions?”

The dog shook his head.

“Then is it not,” resumed the duke, “the Superintendent Emery, who gave his
son, when he was married, three hundred thousand francs and a house, compared
to which the Tuileries are a heap of ruins and the Louvre a paltry building?”

The dog again shook his head as if to say “no.”

“Then,” said the prisoner, “let’s think who it can be. Can it be, can it
possibly be, the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de Piscina,’ hey?”

Pistache made violent signs that it was, by raising and lowering his head eight
or ten times successively.

“Gentlemen, you see,” said the duke to those present, who dared not even smile,
“that it is the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb’ who is the greatest thief in the world;
at least, according to Pistache.”

“Let us go on to another of his exercises.”

“Gentlemen!”—there was a profound silence in the room when the duke again
addressed them—“do you not remember that the Duc de Guise taught all the
dogs in Paris to jump for Mademoiselle de Pons, whom he styled ‘the fairest of
the fair?’ Pistache is going to show you how superior he is to all other dogs.
Monsieur de Chavigny, be so good as to lend me your cane.”

Monsieur de Chavigny handed his cane to Monsieur de Beaufort. Monsieur de
Beaufort placed it horizontally at the height of one foot.

“Now, Pistache, my good dog, jump the height of this cane for Madame de
Montbazon.”

“But,” interposed Monsieur de Chavigny, “it seems to me that Pistache is only
doing what other dogs have done when they jumped for Mademoiselle de Pons.”

“Stop,” said the duke, “Pistache, jump for the queen.” And he raised his cane
six inches higher.

The dog sprang, and in spite of the height jumped lightly over it.

“And now,” said the duke, raising it still six inches higher, “jump for the
king.”

The dog obeyed and jumped quickly over the cane.

“Now, then,” said the duke, and as he spoke, lowered the cane almost level with
the ground; “Pistache, my friend, jump for the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de
Piscina.’”

The dog turned his back to the cane.

“What,” asked the duke, “what do you mean?” and he gave him the cane again,
first making a semicircle from the head to the tail of Pistache. “Jump then,
Monsieur Pistache.”

But Pistache, as at first, turned round on his legs and stood with his back to
the cane.

Monsieur de Beaufort made the experiment a third time, but by this time
Pistache’s patience was exhausted; he threw himself furiously upon the cane,
wrested it from the hands of the prince and broke it with his teeth.

Monsieur de Beaufort took the pieces out of his mouth and presented them with
great formality to Monsieur de Chavigny, saying that for that evening the
entertainment was ended, but in three months it should be repeated, when
Pistache would have learned a few new tricks.

Three days afterward Pistache was found dead—poisoned.

Then the duke said openly that his dog had been killed by a drug with which
they meant to poison him; and one day after dinner he went to bed, calling out
that he had pains in his stomach and that Mazarin had poisoned him.

This fresh impertinence reached the ears of the cardinal and alarmed him
greatly. The donjon of Vincennes was considered very unhealthy and Madame de
Rambouillet had said that the room in which the Marechal Ornano and the Grand
Prior de Vendome had died was worth its weight in arsenic—a bon mot which
had great success. So it was ordered the prisoner was henceforth to eat nothing
that had not previously been tasted, and La Ramee was in consequence placed
near him as taster.

Every kind of revenge was practiced upon the duke by the governor in return for
the insults of the innocent Pistache. De Chavigny, who, according to report,
was a son of Richelieu’s, and had been a creature of the late cardinal’s,
understood tyranny. He took from the duke all the steel knives and silver forks
and replaced them with silver knives and wooden forks, pretending that as he
had been informed that the duke was to pass all his life at Vincennes, he was
afraid of his prisoner attempting suicide. A fortnight afterward the duke,
going to the tennis court, found two rows of trees about the size of his little
finger planted by the roadside; he asked what they were for and was told that
they were to shade him from the sun on some future day. One morning the
gardener went to him and told him, as if to please him, that he was going to
plant a bed of asparagus for his especial use. Now, since, as every one knows,
asparagus takes four years in coming to perfection, this civility infuriated
Monsieur de Beaufort.

At last his patience was exhausted. He assembled his keepers, and
notwithstanding his well-known difficulty of utterance, addressed them as
follows:

“Gentlemen! will you permit a grandson of Henry IV. to be overwhelmed with
insults and ignominy?

“Odds fish! as my grandfather used to say, I once reigned in Paris! do you know
that? I had the king and Monsieur the whole of one day in my care. The queen at
that time liked me and called me the most honest man in the kingdom. Gentlemen
and citizens, set me free; I shall go to the Louvre and strangle Mazarin. You
shall be my body-guard. I will make you all captains, with good pensions! Odds
fish! On! march forward!”

But eloquent as he might be, the eloquence of the grandson of Henry IV. did not
touch those hearts of stone; not one man stirred, so Monsieur de Beaufort was
obliged to be satisfied with calling them all kinds of rascals underneath the
sun.

Sometimes, when Monsieur de Chavigny paid him a visit, the duke used to ask him
what he should think if he saw an army of Parisians, all fully armed, appear at
Vincennes to deliver him from prison.

“My lord,” answered De Chavigny, with a low bow, “I have on the ramparts twenty
pieces of artillery and in my casemates thirty thousand guns. I should bombard
the troops till not one grain of gunpowder was unexploded.”

“Yes, but after you had fired off your thirty thousand guns they would take the
donjon; the donjon being taken, I should be obliged to let them hang
you—at which I should be most unhappy, certainly.”

And in his turn the duke bowed low to Monsieur de Chavigny.

“For myself, on the other hand, my lord,” returned the governor, “when the
first rebel should pass the threshold of my postern doors I should be obliged
to kill you with my own hand, since you were confided peculiarly to my care and
as I am obliged to give you up, dead or alive.”

And once more he bowed low before his highness.

These bitter-sweet pleasantries lasted ten minutes, sometimes longer, but
always finished thus:

Monsieur de Chavigny, turning toward the door, used to call out: “Halloo! La
Ramee!”

La Ramee came into the room.

“La Ramee, I recommend Monsieur le Duc to you, particularly; treat him as a man
of his rank and family ought to be treated; that is, never leave him alone an
instant.”

La Ramee became, therefore, the duke’s dinner guest by compulsion—an
eternal keeper, the shadow of his person; but La Ramee—gay, frank,
convivial, fond of play, a great hand at tennis, had one defect in the duke’s
eyes—his incorruptibility.

Now, although La Ramee appreciated, as of a certain value, the honor of being
shut up with a prisoner of so great importance, still the pleasure of living in
intimacy with the grandson of Henry IV. hardly compensated for the loss of that
which he had experienced in going from time to time to visit his family.

One may be a jailer or a keeper and at the same time a good father and husband.
La Ramee adored his wife and children, whom now he could only catch a glimpse
of from the top of the wall, when in order to please him they used to walk on
the opposite side of the moat. ’Twas too brief an enjoyment, and La Ramee felt
that the gayety of heart he had regarded as the cause of health (of which it
was perhaps rather the result) would not long survive such a mode of life.

He accepted, therefore, with delight, an offer made to him by his friend the
steward of the Duc de Grammont, to give him a substitute; he also spoke of it
to Monsieur de Chavigny, who promised that he would not oppose it in any
way—that is, if he approved of the person proposed.

We consider it useless to draw a physical or moral portrait of Grimaud; if, as
we hope, our readers have not wholly forgotten the first part of this work,
they must have preserved a clear idea of that estimable individual, who is
wholly unchanged, except that he is twenty years older, an advance in life that
has made him only more silent; although, since the change that had been working
in himself, Athos had given Grimaud permission to speak.

But Grimaud had for twelve or fifteen years preserved habitual silence, and a
habit of fifteen or twenty years’ duration becomes second nature.

Chapter XVIII.
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.

Chapter XIX.
Pâtés made by the Successor of Father Marteau are described.

In half an hour La Ramee returned, full of glee, like
most men who have eaten, and more especially drank to their heart’s content.
The pates were excellent, the wine delicious.

The weather was fine and the game at tennis took place in the open air.

At two o’clock the tennis balls began, according to Grimaud’s directions, to
take the direction of the moat, much to the joy of La Ramee, who marked fifteen
whenever the duke sent a ball into the moat; and very soon balls were wanting,
so many had gone over. La Ramee then proposed to send some one to pick them up,
but the duke remarked that it would be losing time; and going near the rampart
himself and looking over, he saw a man working in one of the numerous little
gardens cleared out by the peasants on the opposite side of the moat.

“Hey, friend!” cried the duke.

The man raised his head and the duke was about to utter a cry of surprise. The
peasant, the gardener, was Rochefort, whom he believed to be in the Bastile.

“Well? Who’s up there?” said the man.

“Be so good as to collect and throw us back our balls,” said the duke.

The gardener nodded and began to fling up the balls, which were picked up by La
Ramee and the guard. One, however, fell at the duke’s feet, and seeing that it
was intended for him, he put it into his pocket.

La Ramee was in ecstasies at having beaten a prince of the blood.

The duke went indoors and retired to bed, where he spent, indeed, the greater
part of every day, as they had taken his books away. La Ramee carried off all
his clothes, in order to be certain that the duke would not stir. However, the
duke contrived to hide the ball under his bolster and as soon as the door was
closed he tore off the cover of the ball with his teeth and found underneath
the following letter:

My Lord,—Your friends are watching over you and the hour of your
deliverance is at hand. Ask day after to-morrow to have a pie supplied you by
the new confectioner opposite the castle, and who is no other than Noirmont,
your former maitre d’hotel. Do not open the pie till you are alone. I hope you
will be satisfied with its contents.

“Your highness’s most devoted servant,

“In the Bastile, as elsewhere,

“Comte de Rochefort.”

The duke, who had latterly been allowed a fire, burned the letter, but kept the
ball, and went to bed, hiding the ball under his bolster. La Ramee entered; he
smiled kindly on the prisoner, for he was an excellent man and had taken a
great liking for the captive prince. He endeavored to cheer him up in his
solitude.

“Ah, my friend!” cried the duke, “you are so good; if I could but do as you do,
and eat pates and drink Burgundy at the house of Father Marteau’s successor.”

“’Tis true, my lord,” answered La Ramee, “that his pates are famous and his
wine magnificent.”

“In any case,” said the duke, “his cellar and kitchen might easily excel those
of Monsieur de Chavigny.”

“Well, my lord,” said La Ramee, falling into the trap, “what is there to
prevent your trying them? Besides, I have promised him your patronage.”

“You are right,” said the duke. “If I am to remain here permanently, as
Monsieur Mazarin has kindly given me to understand, I must provide myself with
a diversion for my old age, I must turn gourmand.”

“My lord,” said La Ramee, “if you will take a bit of good advice, don’t put
that off till you are old.”

“Good!” said the Duc de Beaufort to himself, “every man in order that he may
lose his heart and soul, must receive from celestial bounty one of the seven
capital sins, perhaps two; it seems that Master La Ramee’s is gluttony. Let us
then take advantage of it.” Then, aloud:

“Well, my dear La Ramee! the day after to-morrow is a holiday.”

“Yes, my lord—Pentecost.”

“Will you give me a lesson the day after to-morrow?”

“In what?”

“In gastronomy?”

“Willingly, my lord.”

“But tete-a-tete. Send the guards to take their meal in the canteen of Monsieur
de Chavigny; we’ll have a supper here under your direction.”

“Hum!” said La Ramee.

The proposal was seductive, but La Ramee was an old stager, acquainted with all
the traps a prisoner was likely to set. Monsieur de Beaufort had said that he
had forty ways of getting out of prison. Did this proposed breakfast cover some
stratagem? He reflected, but he remembered that he himself would have charge of
the food and the wine and therefore that no powder could be mixed with the
food, no drug with the wine. As to getting him drunk, the duke couldn’t hope to
do that, and he laughed at the mere thought of it. Then an idea came to him
which harmonized everything.

The duke had followed with anxiety La Ramee’s unspoken soliloquy, reading it
from point to point upon his face. But presently the exempt’s face suddenly
brightened.

“Well,” he asked, “that will do, will it not?”

“Yes, my lord, on one condition.”

“What?”

“That Grimaud shall wait on us at table.”

Nothing could be more agreeable to the duke, however, he had presence of mind
enough to exclaim:

“To the devil with your Grimaud! He will spoil the feast.”

“I will direct him to stand behind your chair, and since he doesn’t speak, your
highness will neither see nor hear him and with a little effort can imagine him
a hundred miles away.”

“Do you know, my friend, I find one thing very evident in all this, you
distrust me.”

“My lord, the day after to-morrow is Pentecost.”

“Well, what is Pentecost to me? Are you afraid that the Holy Spirit will come
as a tongue of fire to open the doors of my prison?”

“No, my lord; but I have already told you what that damned magician predicted.”

“And what was it?”

“That the day of Pentecost would not pass without your highness being out of
Vincennes.”

“You believe in sorcerers, then, you fool?”

“I—-I mind them no more than that——” and he snapped his
fingers; “but it is my Lord Giulio who cares about them; as an Italian he is
superstitious.”

The duke shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, then,” with well acted good-humor, “I allow Grimaud, but no one else;
you must manage it all. Order whatever you like for supper—the only thing
I specify is one of those pies; and tell the confectioner that I will promise
him my custom if he excels this time in his pies—not only now, but when I
leave my prison.”

“Then you think you will some day leave it?” said La Ramee.

“The devil!” replied the prince; “surely, at the death of Mazarin. I am fifteen
years younger than he is. At Vincennes, ’tis true, one lives
faster——”

“My lord,” replied La Ramee, “my lord——”

“Or dies sooner, for it comes to the same thing.”

La Ramee was going out. He stopped, however, at the door for an instant.

“Whom does your highness wish me to send to you?”

“Any one, except Grimaud.”

“The officer of the guard, then, with his chessboard?”

“Yes.”

Five minutes afterward the officer entered and the duke seemed to be immersed
in the sublime combinations of chess.

A strange thing is the mind, and it is wonderful what revolutions may be
wrought in it by a sign, a word, a hope. The duke had been five years in
prison, and now to him, looking back upon them, those five years, which had
passed so slowly, seemed not so long a time as were the two days, the
forty-eight hours, which still parted him from the time fixed for his escape.
Besides, there was one thing that engaged his most anxious thought—in
what way was the escape to be effected? They had told him to hope for it, but
had not told him what was to be hidden in the mysterious pate. And what friends
awaited him without? He had friends, then, after five years in prison? If that
were so he was indeed a highly favored prince. He forgot that besides his
friends of his own sex, a woman, strange to say, had remembered him. It is true
that she had not, perhaps, been scrupulously faithful to him, but she had
remembered him; that was something.

So the duke had more than enough to think about; accordingly he fared at chess
as he had fared at tennis; he made blunder upon blunder and the officer with
whom he played found him easy game.

But his successive defeats did service to the duke in one way—they killed
time for him till eight o’clock in the evening; then would come night, and with
night, sleep. So, at least, the duke believed; but sleep is a capricious fairy,
and it is precisely when one invokes her presence that she is most likely to
keep him waiting. The duke waited until midnight, turning on his mattress like
St. Laurence on his gridiron. Finally he slept.

But at daybreak he awoke. Wild dreams had disturbed his repose. He dreamed that
he was endowed with wings—he wished to fly away. For a time these wings
supported him, but when he reached a certain height this new aid failed him.
His wings were broken and he seemed to sink into a bottomless abyss, whence he
awoke, bathed in perspiration and nearly as much overcome as if he had really
fallen. He fell asleep again and another vision appeared. He was in a
subterranean passage by which he was to leave Vincennes. Grimaud was walking
before him with a lantern. By degrees the passage narrowed, yet the duke
continued his course. At last it became so narrow that the fugitive tried in
vain to proceed. The sides of the walls seem to close in, even to press against
him. He made fruitless efforts to go on; it was impossible. Nevertheless, he
still saw Grimaud with his lantern in front, advancing. He wished to call out
to him but could not utter a word. Then at the other extremity he heard the
footsteps of those who were pursuing him. These steps came on, came fast. He
was discovered; all hope of flight was gone. Still the walls seemed to be
closing on him; they appeared to be in concert with his enemies. At last he
heard the voice of La Ramee. La Ramee took his hand and laughed aloud. He was
captured again, and conducted to the low and vaulted chamber, in which Ornano,
Puylaurens, and his uncle had died. Their three graves were there, rising above
the ground, and a fourth was also there, yawning for its ghastly tenant.

The duke was obliged to make as many efforts to awake as he had done to go to
sleep; and La Ramee found him so pale and fatigued that he inquired whether he
was ill.

“In fact,” said one of the guards who had remained in the chamber and had been
kept awake by a toothache, brought on by the dampness of the atmosphere, “my
lord has had a very restless night and two or three times, while dreaming, he
called for help.”

“What is the matter with your highness?” asked La Ramee.

“’Tis your fault, you simpleton,” answered the duke. “With your idle nonsense
yesterday about escaping, you worried me so that I dreamed that I was trying to
escape and broke my neck in doing so.”

La Ramee laughed.

“Come,” he said, “’tis a warning from Heaven. Never commit such an imprudence
as to try to escape, except in your dreams.”

“And you are right, my dear La Ramee,” said the duke, wiping away the sweat
that stood on his brow, wide awake though he was; “after this I will think of
nothing but eating and drinking.”

“Hush!” said La Ramee; and one by one he sent away the guards, on various
pretexts.

“Well?” asked the duke when they were alone.

“Well!” replied La Ramee, “your supper is ordered.”

“Ah! and what is it to be? Monsieur, my majordomo, will there be a pie?”

“I should think so, indeed—almost as high as a tower.”

“You told him it was for me?”

“Yes, and he said he would do his best to please your highness.”

“Good!” exclaimed the duke, rubbing his hands.

“Devil take it, my lord! what a gourmand you are growing; I haven’t seen you
with so cheerful a face these five years.”

The duke saw that he had not controlled himself as he ought, but at that
moment, as if he had listened at the door and comprehended the urgent need of
diverting La Ramee’s ideas, Grimaud entered and made a sign to La Ramee that he
had something to say to him.

La Ramee drew near to Grimaud, who spoke to him in a low voice.

The duke meanwhile recovered his self-control.

“I have already forbidden that man,” he said, “to come in here without my
permission.”

“You must pardon him, my lord,” said La Ramee, “for I directed him to come.”

“And why did you so direct when you know that he displeases me?”

“My lord will remember that it was agreed between us that he should wait upon
us at that famous supper. My lord has forgotten the supper.”

“No, but I have forgotten Monsieur Grimaud.”

“My lord understands that there can be no supper unless he is allowed to be
present.”

“Go on, then; have it your own way.”

“Come here, my lad,” said La Ramee, “and hear what I have to say.”

Grimaud approached, with a very sullen expression on his face.

La Ramee continued: “My lord has done me the honor to invite me to a supper
to-morrow en tete-a-tete.”

Grimaud made a sign which meant that he didn’t see what that had to do with
him.

“Yes, yes,” said La Ramee, “the matter concerns you, for you will have the
honor to serve us; and besides, however good an appetite we may have and
however great our thirst, there will be something left on the plates and in the
bottles, and that something will be yours.”

Grimaud bowed in thanks.

“And now,” said La Ramee, “I must ask your highness’s pardon, but it seems that
Monsieur de Chavigny is to be away for a few days and he has sent me word that
he has certain directions to give me before his departure.”

The duke tried to exchange a glance with Grimaud, but there was no glance in
Grimaud’s eyes.

“Go, then,” said the duke, “and return as soon as possible.”

“Does your highness wish to take revenge for the game of tennis yesterday?”

Grimaud intimated by a scarcely perceptible nod that he should consent.

“Yes,” said the duke, “but take care, my dear La Ramee, for I propose to beat
you badly.”

La Ramee went out. Grimaud looked after him, and when the door was closed he
drew out of his pocket a pencil and a sheet of paper.

“Write, my lord,” he said.

“And what?”

Grimaud dictated.

“All is ready for to-morrow evening. Keep watch from seven to nine. Have two
riding horses ready. We shall descend by the first window in the gallery.”

“What next?”

“Sign your name, my lord.”

The duke signed.

“Now, my lord, give me, if you have not lost it, the ball—that which
contained the letter.”

The duke took it from under his pillow and gave it to Grimaud. Grimaud gave a
grim smile.

“Well?” asked the duke.

“Well, my lord, I sew up the paper in the ball and you, in your game of tennis,
will send the ball into the ditch.”

“But will it not be lost?”

“Oh no; there will be some one at hand to pick it up.”

“A gardener?”

Grimaud nodded.

“The same as yesterday?”

Another nod on the part of Grimaud.

“The Count de Rochefort?”

Grimaud nodded the third time.

“Come, now,” said the duke, “give some particulars of the plan for our escape.”

“That is forbidden me,” said Grimaud, “until the last moment.”

“Who will be waiting for me beyond the ditch?”

“I know nothing about it, my lord.”

“But at least, if you don’t want to see me turn crazy, tell what that famous
pate will contain.”

“Two poniards, a knotted rope and a poire d’angoisse.” *

* This poire d’angoisse was a famous gag, in the form of a pear, which, being
thrust into the mouth, by the aid of a spring, dilated, so as to distend the
jaws to their greatest width.

“Yes, I understand.”

“My lord observes that there will be enough to go around.”

“We shall take to ourselves the poniards and the rope,” replied the duke.

“And make La Ramee eat the pear,” answered Grimaud.

“My dear Grimaud, thou speakest seldom, but when thou dost, one must do thee
justice—thy words are words of gold.”

Chapter XX.
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 abbé.”

“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
curé, 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 abbé.”

“Count,” said the duchess, “upon my word, you frighten me.”

“Alas!” continued Athos, “the poor abbé 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 curé, 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 abbé and not from the good abbé
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 curé 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 abbé?” 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 Abbé 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.

Chapter XXI.
The Abbé 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 Abbé Scarron.

In the home of the witty abbé 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 Abbé Scarron, who, however, was an abbé 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 abbé’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 Abbé 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 Abbé 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 Abbé 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, abbé?”

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’abbé 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 Abbé d’Herblay; “I return to my convent.”

“Adieu, abbé,” 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.

Chapter XXII.
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.

Chapter XXIII.
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!”

Chapter XXIV.
The timely Arrival of D’Artagnan in Paris.

At Blois, D’Artagnan received the money paid to him by
Mazarin for any future service he might render the cardinal.

From Blois to Paris was a journey of four days for ordinary travelers, but
D’Artagnan arrived on the third day at the Barriere Saint Denis. In turning the
corner of the Rue Montmartre, in order to reach the Rue Tiquetonne and the
Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had appointed Porthos to meet him, he saw at
one of the windows of the hotel, that friend himself dressed in a sky-blue
waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and gaping, till he showed every one of his
white teeth; whilst the people passing by admiringly gazed at this gentleman,
so handsome and so rich, who seemed to weary of his riches and his greatness.

D’Artagnan and Planchet had hardly turned the corner when Porthos recognized
them.

“Eh! D’Artagnan!” he cried. “Thank God you have come!”

“Eh! good-day, dear friend!” replied D’Artagnan.

Porthos came down at once to the threshold of the hotel.

“Ah, my dear friend!” he cried, “what bad stabling for my horses here.”

“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan; “I am most unhappy to hear it, on account of those
fine animals.”

“And I, also—I was also wretchedly off,” he answered, moving backward and
forward as he spoke; “and had it not been for the hostess,” he added, with his
air of vulgar self-complacency, “who is very agreeable and understands a joke,
I should have got a lodging elsewhere.”

The pretty Madeleine, who had approached during this colloquy, stepped back and
turned pale as death on hearing Porthos’s words, for she thought the scene with
the Swiss was about to be repeated. But to her great surprise D’Artagnan
remained perfectly calm, and instead of being angry he laughed, and said to
Porthos:

“Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue Tiquetonne is not like that of
Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I will soon conduct you to one much better.”

“When will you do that?”

“Immediately, I hope.”

“Ah! so much the better!”

To that exclamation of Porthos’s succeeded a groaning, low and profound, which
seemed to come from behind a door. D’Artagnan, who had just dismounted, then
saw, outlined against the wall, the enormous stomach of Mousqueton, whose
down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of distress.

“And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, are out of place in this poor hotel,
are you not?” asked D’Artagnan, in that rallying tone which may indicate either
compassion or mockery.

“He finds the cooking detestable,” replied Porthos.

“Why, then, doesn’t he attend to it himself, as at Chantilly?”

“Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had there, the ponds of monsieur le
prince, where I could catch those beautiful carp, nor the forests of his
highness to provide me with partridges. As for the cellar, I have searched
every part and poor stuff I found.”

“Monsieur Mouston,” said D’Artagnan, “I should indeed condole with you had I
not at this moment something very pressing to attend to.”

Then taking Porthos aside:

“My dear Du Vallon,” he said, “here you are in full dress most fortunately, for
I am going to take you to the cardinal’s.”

“Gracious me! really!” exclaimed Porthos, opening his great wondering eyes.

“Yes, my friend.”

“A presentation? indeed!”

“Does that alarm you?”

“No, but it agitates me.”

“Oh! don’t be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal of another kind.
This one will not oppress you by his dignity.”

“’Tis the same thing—you understand me, D’Artagnan—a court.”

“There’s no court now. Alas!”

“The queen!”

“I was going to say, there’s no longer a queen. The queen! Rest assured, we
shall not see her.”

“And you say that we are going from here to the Palais Royal?”

“Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall borrow one of your
horses.”

“Certainly; all the four are at your service.”

“Oh, I need only one of them for the time being.”

“Shall we take our valets?”

“Yes, you may as well take Mousqueton. As to Planchet, he has certain reasons
for not going to court.”

“And what are they?”

“Oh, he doesn’t stand well with his eminence.”

“Mouston,” said Porthos, “saddle Vulcan and Bayard.”

“And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?”

“No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus or Superbe; we are going with some
ceremony.”

“Ah,” said Mousqueton, breathing more freely, “you are only going, then, to
make a visit?”

“Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the pistols
in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already loaded.”

Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn’t understand visits of ceremony made under
arms.

“Indeed,” said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he went away,
“you are right, D’Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a very fine
appearance.”

D’Artagnan smiled.

“But you, my friend—are you not going to change your dress?”

“No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the cardinal
my haste to obey his commands.”

They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Mousqueton on Phoebus, and
arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The streets were
crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at
these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox, the other
so covered with dust that he looked as if he had but just come off a field of
battle.

Mousqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote was then
the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having lost one master,
had found two.

On reaching the palace, D’Artagnan sent to his eminence the letter in which he
had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered to the presence
of the cardinal.

“Courage!” he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. “Do not be intimidated.
Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We have only the vulture to
deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St.
Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might give him a poor
idea of you.”

“Good!” answered Porthos. “Good!”

Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices, of which
he was trying to reduce the number. He saw D’Artagnan and Porthos enter with
internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his countenance.

“Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very prompt. ’Tis well.
Welcome to ye.”

“Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence’s service, as well as Monsieur du
Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his nobility under the name
of Porthos.”

Porthos bowed to the cardinal.

“A magnificent cavalier,” remarked Mazarin.

Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself up with
a movement full of dignity.

“The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord,” said D’Artagnan.

Porthos bowed to his friend.

Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of Prussia
used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye
of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration and
of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He remembered that the old
association of musketeers was composed of four persons.

“And your two other friends?” he asked.

Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a word in
his turn; D’Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of his eye.

“They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later.”

Mazarin coughed a little.

“And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?” he
asked.

“Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de Bracieux is
rich.”

“Rich!” said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a great
respect.

“Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos.

These were the first words he had spoken.

“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure zeal and
devotion then?”

“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said D’Artagnan.

“Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his
desk and his chin on his hands.

“I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s baptism, for
instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name; every one is
naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of
one’s devotion something to gain.”

“And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his
devotion?”

“Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of Vallon, at
Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the
Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected
into a barony.”

“Only that?” said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that he could
pay for Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse; “only that? That can be
managed.”

“I shall be baron!” explained Porthos, stepping forward.

“I told you so,” said D’Artagnan, checking him with his hand; “and now his
eminence confirms it.”

“And you, Monsieur D’Artagnan, what do you want?”

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “it is twenty years since Cardinal de Richelieu
made me lieutenant.”

“Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you captain.”

D’Artagnan bowed.

“Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we will see. Now,
Monsieur de Vallon,” said Mazarin, “what service do you prefer, in the town or
in the country?”

Porthos opened his mouth to reply.

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers service
extraordinary—that is to say, enterprises that are considered mad and
impossible.”

That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into meditation.

“And yet,” he said, “I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to quiet
service; I have certain apprehensions—well, what is the meaning of that?”

In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time the door
of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust, rushed into it,
exclaiming:

“My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!”

Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew back,
pushing his chair on the castors. D’Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to plant
themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed Mazarin, “what’s the matter? and why do you rush in
here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?”

“My lord,” replied the messenger, “I wish to speak to your eminence in secret.
I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at the donjon of
Vincennes.”

Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the messenger that he had
something of importance to say, made a sign that D’Artagnan and Porthos should
give place.

D’Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.

“Speak, monsieur, speak at once!” said Mazarin “What is the matter?”

“The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has contrived to escape from
the Chateau of Vincennes.”

Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had brought the news.
He fell back, almost fainting, in his chair.

“Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?”

“My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace.”

“And you did not fire on him?”

“He was out of range.”

“Monsieur de Chavigny—where was he?”

“Absent.”

“And La Ramee?”

“Was found locked up in the prisoner’s room, a gag in his mouth and a poniard
near him.”

“But the man who was under him?”

“Was an accomplice of the duke’s and escaped along with him.”

Mazarin groaned.

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal, “it seems to me that
your eminence is losing precious time. It may still be possible to overtake the
prisoner. France is large; the nearest frontier is sixty leagues distant.”

“And who is to pursue him?” cried Mazarin.

“I, pardieu!”

“And you would arrest him?”

“Why not?”

“You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?”

“If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I would seize him by the
horns and would bring him in.”

“So would I,” said Porthos.

“So would you!” said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at those two men. “But
the duke will not yield himself without a furious battle.”

“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, his eyes aflame, “battle! It is a long time since
we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?”

“Battle!” cried Porthos.

“And you think you can catch him?”

“Yes, if we are better mounted than he.”

“Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him.”

“You command us, my lord, to do so?”

“And I sign my orders,” said Mazarin, taking a piece of paper and writing some
lines; “Monsieur du Vallon, your barony is on the back of the Duc de Beaufort’s
horse; you have nothing to do but to overtake it. As for you, my dear
lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring him back to me, dead or
alive, you may ask all you wish.”

“To horse, Porthos!” said D’Artagnan, taking his friend by the hand.

“Here I am,” smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.

They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the guards they found
on their road, and crying out, “To arms! To arms!” and immediately put spur to
horse, which set off along the Rue Saint Honore with the speed of the
whirlwind.

“Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!” said the Gascon.

“Yes, my captain.”

As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and the street dogs
followed the cavaliers, barking. At the corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean,
D’Artagnan upset a man; it was too insignificant an occurrence to delay people
so eager to get on. The troop continued its course as though their steeds had
wings.

Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we shall see that this
apparently slight incident came near endangering the monarchy.

Chapter XXV.
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; Mousqueton 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, Mousqueton’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 Mousqueton, 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 Mousqueton; “and five hundred feet from here is a small
hunting-house.”

“Mousqueton, 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, Mousqueton.”

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, Mousqueton?”

“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 Mousqueton, “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 Mousqueton, “’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.

Chapter XXVI.
The Rencontre.

They rode on in this way for ten minutes. Suddenly two
dark forms seemed to separate from the mass, advanced, grew in size, and as
they loomed up larger and larger, assumed the appearance of two horsemen.

“Aha!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’re coming toward us.”

“So much the worse for them,” said Porthos.

“Who goes there?” cried a hoarse voice.

The three horsemen made no reply, stopped not, and all that was heard was the
noise of swords drawn from the scabbards and the cocking of the pistols with
which the two phantoms were armed.

“Bridle in mouth!” said D’Artagnan.

Porthos understood him and he and the lieutenant each drew with the left hand a
pistol from their bolsters and cocked it in their turn.

“Who goes there?” was asked a second time. “Not a step forward, or you’re dead
men.”

“Stuff!” cried Porthos, almost choked with dust and chewing his bridle as a
horse chews his bit. “Stuff and nonsense; we have seen plenty of dead men in
our time.”

Hearing these words, the two shadows blockaded the road and by the light of the
stars might be seen the shining of their arms.

“Back!” shouted D’Artagnan, “or you are dead!”

Two shots were the reply to this threat; but the assailants attacked their foes
with such velocity that in a moment they were upon them; a third pistol-shot
was heard, aimed by D’Artagnan, and one of his adversaries fell. As for
Porthos, he assaulted the foe with such violence that, although his sword was
thrust aside, the enemy was thrown off his horse and fell about ten steps from
it.

“Finish, Mouston, finish the work!” cried Porthos. And he darted on beside his
friend, who had already begun a fresh pursuit.

“Well?” said Porthos.

“I’ve broken my man’s skull,” cried D’Artagnan. “And you——”

“I’ve only thrown the fellow down, but hark!”

Another shot of a carbine was heard. It was Mousqueton, who was obeying his
master’s command.

“On! on!” cried D’Artagnan; “all goes well! we have the first throw.”

“Ha! ha!” answered Porthos, “behold, other players appear.”

And in fact, two other cavaliers made their appearance, detached, as it seemed,
from the principal group; they again disputed the road.

This time the lieutenant did not wait for the opposite party to speak.

“Stand aside!” he cried; “stand off the road!”

“What do you want?” asked a voice.

“The duke!” Porthos and D’Artagnan roared out both at once.

A burst of laughter was the answer, but finished with a groan. D’Artagnan had,
with his sword, cut in two the poor wretch who had laughed.

At the same time Porthos and his adversary fired on each other and D’Artagnan
turned to him.

“Bravo! you’ve killed him, I think.”

“No, wounded his horse only.”

“What would you have, my dear fellow? One doesn’t hit the bull’s-eye every
time; it is something to hit inside the ring. Ho! parbleau! what is the matter
with my horse?”

“Your horse is falling,” said Porthos, reining in his own.

In truth, the lieutenant’s horse stumbled and fell on his knees; then a
rattling in his throat was heard and he lay down to die. He had received in the
chest the bullet of D’Artagnan’s first adversary. D’Artagnan swore loud enough
to be heard in the skies.

“Does your honor want a horse?” asked Mousqueton.

“Zounds! want one!” cried the Gascon.

“Here’s one, your honor——”

“How the devil hast thou two horses?” asked D’Artagnan, jumping on one of them.

“Their masters are dead! I thought they might be useful, so I took them.”

Meantime Porthos had reloaded his pistols.

“Be on the qui vive!” cried D’Artagnan. “Here are two other cavaliers.”

As he spoke, two horsemen advanced at full speed.

“Ho! your honor!” cried Mousqueton, “the man you upset is getting up.”

“Why didn’t thou do as thou didst to the first man?” said Porthos.

“I held the horses, my hands were full, your honor.”

A shot was fired that moment; Mousqueton shrieked with pain.

“Ah, sir! I’m hit in the other side! exactly opposite the other! This hurt is
just the fellow of the one I had on the road to Amiens.”

Porthos turned around like a lion, plunged on the dismounted cavalier, who
tried to draw his sword; but before it was out of the scabbard, Porthos, with
the hilt of his had struck him such a terrible blow on the head that he fell
like an ox beneath the butcher’s knife.

Mousqueton, groaning, slipped from his horse, his wound not allowing him to
keep the saddle.

On perceiving the cavaliers, D’Artagnan had stopped and charged his pistol
afresh; besides, his horse, he found, had a carbine on the bow of the saddle.

“Here I am!” exclaimed Porthos. “Shall we wait, or shall we charge?”

“Let us charge them,” answered the Gascon.

“Charge!” cried Porthos.

They spurred on their horses; the other cavaliers were only twenty steps from
them.

“For the king!” cried D’Artagnan.

“The king has no authority here!” answered a deep voice, which seemed to
proceed from a cloud, so enveloped was the cavalier in a whirlwind of dust.

“’Tis well, we will see if the king’s name is not a passport everywhere,”
replied the Gascon.

“See!” answered the voice.

Two shots were fired at once, one by D’Artagnan, the other by the adversary of
Porthos. D’Artagnan’s ball took off his enemy’s hat. The ball fired by
Porthos’s foe went through the throat of his horse, which fell, groaning.

“For the last time, where are you going?”

“To the devil!” answered D’Artagnan.

“Good! you may be easy, then—you’ll get there.”

D’Artagnan then saw a musket-barrel leveled at him; he had no time to draw from
his holsters. He recalled a bit of advice which Athos had once given him, and
made his horse rear.

The ball struck the animal full in front. D’Artagnan felt his horse giving way
under him and with his wonderful agility threw himself to one side.

“Ah! this,” cried the voice, the tone of which was at once polished and
jeering, “this is nothing but a butchery of horses and not a combat between
men. To the sword, sir! the sword!”

And he jumped off his horse.

“To the swords! be it so!” replied D’Artagnan; “that is exactly what I want.”

D’Artagnan, in two steps, was engaged with the foe, whom, according to custom,
he attacked impetuously, but he met this time with a skill and a strength of
arm that gave him pause. Twice he was obliged to step back; his opponent
stirred not one inch. D’Artagnan returned and again attacked him.

Twice or thrice thrusts were attempted on both sides, without effect; sparks
were emitted from the swords like water spouting forth.

At last D’Artagnan thought it was time to try one of his favorite feints in
fencing. He brought it to bear, skillfully executed it with the rapidity of
lightning, and struck the blow with a force which he fancied would prove
irresistible.

The blow was parried.

“‘Sdeath!” he cried, with his Gascon accent.

At this exclamation his adversary bounded back and, bending his bare head,
tried to distinguish in the gloom the features of the lieutenant.

As to D’Artagnan, afraid of some feint, he still stood on the defensive.

“Have a care,” cried Porthos to his opponent; “I’ve still two pistols charged.”

“The more reason you should fire the first!” cried his foe.

Porthos fired; the flash threw a gleam of light over the field of battle.

As the light shone on them a cry was heard from the other two combatants.

“Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“D’Artagnan!” ejaculated Athos.

Athos raised his sword; D’Artagnan lowered his.

“Aramis!” cried Athos, “don’t fire!”

“Ah! ha! is it you, Aramis?” said Porthos.

And he threw away his pistol.

Aramis pushed his back into his saddle-bags and sheathed his sword.

“My son!” exclaimed Athos, extending his hand to D’Artagnan.

This was the name which he gave him in former days, in their moments of tender
intimacy.

“Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, wringing his hands. “So you defend him! And I, who
have sworn to take him dead or alive, I am dishonored—and by you!”

“Kill me!” replied Athos, uncovering his breast, “if your honor requires my
death.”

“Oh! woe is me! woe is me!” cried the lieutenant; “there’s only one man in the
world who could stay my hand; by a fatality that very man bars my way. What
shall I say to the cardinal?”

“You can tell him, sir,” answered a voice which was the voice of high command
in the battle-field, “that he sent against me the only two men capable of
getting the better of four men; of fighting man to man, without discomfiture,
against the Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d’Herblay, and of surrendering
only to fifty men!

“The prince!” exclaimed at the same moment Athos and Aramis, unmasking as they
addressed the Duc de Beaufort, whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos stepped backward.

“Fifty cavaliers!” cried the Gascon and Porthos.

“Look around you, gentlemen, if you doubt the fact,” said the duke.

The two friends looked to the right, to the left; they were encompassed by a
troop of horsemen.

“Hearing the noise of the fight,” resumed the duke, “I fancied you had about
twenty men with you, so I came back with those around me, tired of always
running away, and wishing to draw my sword in my own cause; but you are only
two.”

“Yes, my lord; but, as you have said, two that are a match for twenty,” said
Athos.

“Come, gentlemen, your swords,” said the duke.

“Our swords!” cried D’Artagnan, raising his head and regaining his
self-possession. “Never!”

“Never!” added Porthos.

Some of the men moved toward them.

“One moment, my lord,” whispered Athos, and he said something in a low voice.

“As you will,” replied the duke. “I am too much indebted to you to refuse your
first request. Gentlemen,” he said to his escort, “withdraw. Monsieur
d’Artagnan, Monsieur du Vallon, you are free.”

The order was obeyed; D’Artagnan and Porthos then found themselves in the
centre of a large circle.

“Now, D’Herblay,” said Athos, “dismount and come here.”

Aramis dismounted and went to Porthos, whilst Athos approached D’Artagnan.

All four once more together.

“Friends!” said Athos, “do you regret you have not shed our blood?”

“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “I regret to see that we, hitherto united, are
opposed to each other. Ah! nothing will ever go well with us hereafter!”

“Oh, Heaven! No, all is over!” said Porthos.

“Well, be on our side now,” resumed Aramis.

“Silence, D’Herblay!” cried Athos; “such proposals are not to be made to
gentlemen such as these. ’Tis a matter of conscience with them, as with us.”

“Meantime, here we are, enemies!” said Porthos. “Gramercy! who would ever have
thought it?”

D’Artagnan only sighed.

Athos looked at them both and took their hands in his.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a serious business and my heart bleeds as if you
had pierced it through and through. Yes, we are severed; there is the great,
the distressing truth! But we have not as yet declared war; perhaps we shall
have to make certain conditions, therefore a solemn conference is
indispensable.”

“For my own part, I demand it,” said Aramis.

“I accept it,” interposed D’Artagnan, proudly.

Porthos bowed, as if in assent.

“Let us choose a place of rendezvous,” continued Athos, “and in a last
interview arrange our mutual position and the conduct we are to maintain toward
each other.”

“Good!” the other three exclaimed.

“Well, then, the place?”

“Will the Place Royale suit you?” asked D’Artagnan.

“In Paris?”

“Yes.”

Athos and Aramis looked at each other.

“The Place Royale—be it so!” replied Athos.

“When?”

“To-morrow evening, if you like!”

“At what hour?”

“At ten in the evening, if that suits you; by that time we shall have
returned.”

“Good.”

“There,” continued Athos, “either peace or war will be decided; honor, at all
events, will be maintained!”

“Alas!” murmured D’Artagnan, “our honor as soldiers is lost to us forever!”

“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, gravely, “I assure you that you do me wrong in
dwelling so upon that. What I think of is, that we have crossed swords as
enemies. Yes,” he continued, sadly shaking his head, “Yes, it is as you said,
misfortune, indeed, has overtaken us. Come, Aramis.”

“And we, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “will return, carrying our shame to the
cardinal.”

“And tell him,” cried a voice, “that I am not too old yet for a man of action.”

D’Artagnan recognized the voice of De Rochefort.

“Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?” asked the duke.

“Bear witness that we have done all that we could.”

“That shall be testified to, rest assured. Adieu! we shall meet soon, I trust,
in Paris, where you shall have your revenge.” The duke, as he spoke, kissed his
hand, spurred his horse into a gallop and disappeared, followed by his troop,
who were soon lost in distance and darkness.

D’Artagnan and Porthos were now alone with a man who held by the bridles two
horses; they thought it was Mousqueton and went up to him.

“What do I see?” cried the lieutenant. “Grimaud, is it thou?”

Grimaud signified that he was not mistaken.

“And whose horses are these?” cried D’Artagnan.

“Who has given them to us?” said Porthos.

“The Comte de la Fere.”

“Athos! Athos!” muttered D’Artagnan; “you think of every one; you are indeed a
nobleman! Whither art thou going, Grimaud?”

“To join the Vicomte de Bragelonne in Flanders, your honor.”

They were taking the road toward Paris, when groans, which seemed to proceed
from a ditch, attracted their attention.

“What is that?” asked D’Artagnan.

“It is I—Mousqueton,” said a mournful voice, whilst a sort of shadow
arose out of the side of the road.

Porthos ran to him. “Art thou dangerously wounded, my dear Mousqueton?” he
said.

“No, sir, but I am severely.”

“What can we do?” said D’Artagnan; “we must return to Paris.”

“I will take care of Mousqueton,” said Grimaud; and he gave his arm to his old
comrade, whose eyes were full of tears, nor could Grimaud tell whether the
tears were caused by wounds or by the pleasure of seeing him again.

D’Artagnan and Porthos went on, meantime, to Paris. They were passed by a sort
of courier, covered with dust, the bearer of a letter from the duke to the
cardinal, giving testimony to the valor of D’Artagnan and Porthos.

Mazarin had passed a very bad night when this letter was brought to him,
announcing that the duke was free and that he would henceforth raise up mortal
strife against him.

“What consoles me,” said the cardinal after reading the letter, “is that, at
least, in this chase, D’Artagnan has done me one good turn—he has
destroyed Broussel. This Gascon is a precious fellow; even his misadventures
are of use.”

The cardinal referred to that man whom D’Artagnan upset at the corner of the
Cimetiere Saint Jean in Paris, and who was no other than the Councillor
Broussel.

Chapter XXVII.
The four old Friends prepare to meet again.

Well,” said Porthos, seated in the courtyard of the
Hotel de la Chevrette, to D’Artagnan, who, with a long and melancholy face, had
returned from the Palais Royal; “did he receive you ungraciously, my dear
friend?”

“I’faith, yes! a brute, that cardinal. What are you eating there, Porthos?”

“I am dipping a biscuit in a glass of Spanish wine; do the same.”

“You are right. Gimblou, a glass of wine.”

“Well, how has all gone off?”

“Zounds! you know there’s only one way of saying things, so I went in and said,
‘My lord, we were not the strongest party.’

“‘Yes, I know that,’ he said, ‘but give me the particulars.’

“You know, Porthos, I could not give him the particulars without naming our
friends; to name them would be to commit them to ruin, so I merely said they
were fifty and we were two.

“‘There was firing, nevertheless, I heard,’ he said; ‘and your
swords—they saw the light of day, I presume?’

“‘That is, the night, my lord,’ I answered.

“‘Ah!’ cried the cardinal, ‘I thought you were a Gascon, my friend?’

“‘I am a Gascon,’ said I, ‘only when I succeed.’ The answer pleased him and he
laughed.

“‘That will teach me,’ he said, ‘to have my guards provided with better horses;
for if they had been able to keep up with you and if each one of them had done
as much as you and your friend, you would have kept your word and would have
brought him back to me dead or alive.’”

“Well, there’s nothing bad in that, it seems to me,” said Porthos.

“Oh, mon Dieu! no, nothing at all. It was the way in which he spoke. It is
incredible how these biscuit soak up wine! They are veritable sponges! Gimblou,
another bottle.”

The bottle was brought with a promptness which showed the degree of
consideration D’Artagnan enjoyed in the establishment. He continued:

“So I was going away, but he called me back.

“‘You have had three horses foundered or killed?’ he asked me.

“‘Yes, my lord.’

“‘How much were they worth?’”

“Why,” said Porthos, “that was very good of him, it seems to me.”

“‘A thousand pistoles,’ I said.”

“A thousand pistoles!” Porthos exclaimed. “Oh! oh! that is a large sum. If he
knew anything about horses he would dispute the price.”

“Faith! he was very much inclined to do so, the contemptible fellow. He made a
great start and looked at me. I also looked at him; then he understood, and
putting his hand into a drawer, he took from it a quantity of notes on a bank
in Lyons.”

“For a thousand pistoles?”

“For a thousand pistoles—just that amount, the beggar; not one too many.”

“And you have them?”

“They are here.”

“Upon my word, I think he acted very generously.”

“Generously! to men who had risked their lives for him, and besides had done
him a great service?”

“A great service—what was that?”

“Why, it seems that I crushed for him a parliament councillor.”

“What! that little man in black that you upset at the corner of Saint Jean
Cemetery?”

“That’s the man, my dear fellow; he was an annoyance to the cardinal.
Unfortunately, I didn’t crush him flat. It seems that he came to himself and
that he will continue to be an annoyance.”

“See that, now!” said Porthos; “and I turned my horse aside from going plump on
to him! That will be for another time.”

“He owed me for the councillor, the pettifogger!”

“But,” said Porthos, “if he was not crushed completely——”

“Ah! Monsieur de Richelieu would have said, ‘Five hundred crowns for the
councillor.’ Well, let’s say no more about it. How much were your animals
worth, Porthos?”

“Ah, if poor Mousqueton were here he could tell you to a fraction.”

“No matter; you can tell within ten crowns.”

“Why, Vulcan and Bayard cost me each about two hundred pistoles, and putting
Phoebus at a hundred and fifty, we should be pretty near the amount.”

“There will remain, then, four hundred and fifty pistoles,” said D’Artagnan,
contentedly.

“Yes,” said Porthos, “but there are the equipments.”

“That is very true. Well, how much for the equipments?”

“If we say one hundred pistoles for the three——”

“Good for the hundred pistoles; there remains, then, three hundred and fifty.”

Porthos made a sign of assent.

“We will give the fifty pistoles to the hostess for our expenses,” said
D’Artagnan, “and share the three hundred.”

“We will share,” said Porthos.

“A paltry piece of business!” murmured D’Artagnan crumpling his note.

“Pooh!” said Porthos, “it is always that. But tell me——”

“What?”

“Didn’t he speak of me in any way?”

“Ah! yes, indeed!” cried D’Artagnan, who was afraid of disheartening his friend
by telling him that the cardinal had not breathed a word about him; “yes,
surely, he said——”

“He said?” resumed Porthos.

“Stop, I want to remember his exact words. He said, ‘As to your friend, tell
him he may sleep in peace.’”

“Good, very good,” said Porthos; “that signified as clear as daylight that he
still intends to make me a baron.”

At this moment nine o’clock struck. D’Artagnan started.

“Ah, yes,” said Porthos, “there is nine o’clock. We have a rendezvous, you
remember, at the Place Royale.”

“Ah! stop! hold your peace, Porthos, don’t remind me of it; ’tis that which has
made me so cross since yesterday. I shall not go.”

“Why?” asked Porthos.

“Because it is a grievous thing for me to meet again those two men who caused
the failure of our enterprise.”

“And yet,” said Porthos, “neither of them had any advantage over us. I still
had a loaded pistol and you were in full fight, sword in hand.”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan; “but what if this rendezvous had some hidden purpose?”

“Oh!” said Porthos, “you can’t think that, D’Artagnan!”

D’Artagnan did not believe Athos to be capable of a deception, but he sought an
excuse for not going to the rendezvous.

“We must go,” said the superb lord of Bracieux, “lest they should say we were
afraid. We who have faced fifty foes on the high road can well meet two in the
Place Royale.”

“Yes, yes, but they took part with the princes without apprising us of it.
Athos and Aramis have played a game with me which alarms me. We discovered
yesterday the truth; what is the use of going to-day to learn something else?”

“You really have some distrust, then?” said Porthos.

“Of Aramis, yes, since he has become an abbé. You can’t imagine, my dear
fellow, the sort of man he is. He sees us on the road which leads him to a
bishopric, and perhaps will not be sorry to get us out of his way.”

“Ah, as regards Aramis, that is another thing,” said Porthos, “and it wouldn’t
surprise me at all.”

“Perhaps Monsieur de Beaufort will try, in his turn, to lay hands on us.”

“Nonsense! He had us in his power and he let us go. Besides we can be on our
guard; let us take arms, let Planchet post himself behind us with his carbine.”

“Planchet is a Frondeur,” answered D’Artagnan.

“Devil take these civil wars! one can no more now reckon on one’s friends than
on one’s footmen,” said Porthos. “Ah! if Mousqueton were here! there’s a fellow
who will never desert me!”

“So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend! ’tis not civil war that disunites us.
It is that we are each of us twenty years older; it is that the honest emotions
of youth have given place to suggestions of interest, whispers of ambition,
counsels of selfishness. Yes, you are right; let us go, Porthos, but let us go
well armed; were we not to keep the rendezvous, they would declare we were
afraid. Halloo! Planchet! here! saddle our horses, take your carbine.”

“Whom are we going to attack, sir?”

“No one; a mere matter of precaution,” answered the Gascon.

“You know, sir, that they wished to murder that good councillor, Broussel, the
father of the people?”

“Really, did they?” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes, but he has been avenged. He was carried home in the arms of the people.
His house has been full ever since. He has received visits from the coadjutor,
from Madame de Longueville, and the Prince de Conti; Madame de Chevreuse and
Madame de Vendome have left their names at his door. And now, whenever he
wishes——”

“Well, whenever he wishes?”

Planchet began to sing:

“Un vent de fronde S’est leve ce matin; Je crois qu’il gronde Contre le
Mazarin. Un vent de fronde S’est leve ce matin.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone to Porthos, “that
Mazarin would have been much better satisfied had I crushed the life out of his
councillor.”

“You understand, then, monsieur,” resumed Planchet, “that if it were for some
enterprise like that undertaken against Monsieur Broussel that you should ask
me to take my carbine——”

“No, don’t be alarmed; but where did you get all these details?”

“From a good source, sir; I heard it from Friquet.”

“From Friquet? I know that name——”

“A son of Monsieur de Broussel’s servant, and a lad that, I promise you, in a
revolt will not give away his share to the dogs.”

“Is he not a singing boy at Notre Dame?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Yes, that is the very boy; he’s patronized by Bazin.”

“Ah, yes, I know.”

“Of what importance is this little reptile to you?” asked Porthos.

“Gad!” replied D’Artagnan; “he has already given me good information and he may
do the same again.”

Whilst all this was going on, Athos and Aramis were entering Paris by the
Faubourg St. Antoine. They had taken some refreshment on the road and hastened
on, that they might not fail at the appointed place. Bazin was their only
attendant, for Grimaud had stayed behind to take care of Mousqueton. As they
were passing onward, Athos proposed that they should lay aside their arms and
military costume, and assume a dress more suited to the city.

“Oh, no, dear count!” cried Aramis, “is it not a warlike encounter that we are
going to?”

“What do you mean, Aramis?”

“That the Place Royale is the termination to the main road to Vendomois, and
nothing else.”

“What! our friends?”

“Are become our most dangerous enemies, Athos. Let us be on our guard.”

“Oh! my dear D’Herblay!”

“Who can say whether D’Artagnan may not have betrayed us to the cardinal? who
can tell whether Mazarin may not take advantage of this rendezvous to seize
us?”

“What! Aramis, you think that D’Artagnan, that Porthos, would lend their hands
to such an infamy?”

“Among friends, my dear Athos, no, you are right; but among enemies it would be
only a stratagem.”

Athos crossed his arms and bowed his noble head.

“What can you expect, Athos? Men are so made; and we are not always twenty
years old. We have cruelly wounded, as you know, that personal pride by which
D’Artagnan is blindly governed. He has been beaten. Did you not observe his
despair on the journey? As to Porthos, his barony was perhaps dependent on that
affair. Well, he found us on his road and will not be baron this time. Perhaps
that famous barony will have something to do with our interview this evening.
Let us take our precautions, Athos.”

“But suppose they come unarmed? What a disgrace to us.”

“Oh, never fear! besides, if they do, we can easily make an excuse; we came
straight off a journey and are insurgents, too.”

“An excuse for us! to meet D’Artagnan with a false excuse! to have to make a
false excuse to Porthos! Oh, Aramis!” continued Athos, shaking his head
mournfully, “upon my soul, you make me the most miserable of men; you
disenchant a heart not wholly dead to friendship. Go in whatever guise you
choose; for my part, I shall go unarmed.”

“No, for I will not allow you to do so. ’Tis not one man, not Athos only, not
the Comte de la Fere whom you will ruin by this amiable weakness, but a whole
party to whom you belong and who depend upon you.”

“Be it so then,” replied Athos, sorrowfully.

And they pursued their road in mournful silence.

Scarcely had they reached by the Rue de la Mule the iron gate of the Place
Royale, when they perceived three cavaliers, D’Artagnan, Porthos, and Planchet,
the two former wrapped up in their military cloaks under which their swords
were hidden, and Planchet, his musket by his side. They were waiting at the
entrance of the Rue Sainte Catharine, and their horses were fastened to the
rings of the arcade. Athos, therefore, commanded Bazin to fasten up his horse
and that of Aramis in the same manner.

They then advanced two and two, and saluted each other politely.

“Now where will it be agreeable to you that we hold our conference?” inquired
Aramis, perceiving that people were stopping to look at them, supposing that
they were going to engage in one of those far-famed duels still extant in the
memory of the Parisians, and especially the inhabitants of the Place Royale.

“The gate is shut,” said Aramis, “but if these gentlemen like a cool retreat
under the trees, and perfect seclusion, I will get the key from the Hotel de
Rohan and we shall be well suited.”

D’Artagnan darted a look into the obscurity of the Place. Porthos ventured to
put his head between the railings, to try if his glance could penetrate the
gloom.

“If you prefer any other place,” said Athos, in his persuasive voice, “choose
for yourselves.”

“This place, if Monsieur d’Herblay can procure the key, is the best that we can
have,” was the answer.

Aramis went off at once, begging Athos not to remain alone within reach of
D’Artagnan and Porthos; a piece of advice which was received with a
contemptuous smile.

Aramis returned soon with a man from the Hotel de Rohan, who was saying to him:

“You swear, sir, that it is not so?”

“Stop,” and Aramis gave him a louis d’or.

“Ah! you will not swear, my master,” said the concierge, shaking his head.

“Well, one can never say what may happen; at present we and these gentlemen are
excellent friends.”

“Yes, certainly,” added Athos and the other two.

D’Artagnan had heard the conversation and had understood it.

“You see?” he said to Porthos.

“What do I see?”

“That he wouldn’t swear.”

“Swear what?”

“That man wanted Aramis to swear that we are not going to the Place Royale to
fight.”

“And Aramis wouldn’t swear?”

“No.”

“Attention, then!”

Athos did not lose sight of the two speakers. Aramis opened the gate and faced
around in order that D’Artagnan and Porthos might enter. In passing through the
gate, the hilt of the lieutenant’s sword was caught in the grating and he was
obliged to pull off his cloak; in doing so he showed the butt end of his
pistols and a ray of the moon was reflected on the shining metal.

“Do you see?” whispered Aramis to Athos, touching his shoulder with one hand
and pointing with the other to the arms which the Gascon wore under his belt.

“Alas! I do!” replied Athos, with a deep sigh.

He entered third, and Aramis, who shut the gate after him, last. The two
serving-men waited without; but as if they likewise mistrusted each other, they
kept their respective distances.

Chapter XXVIII.
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 abbés and abbés 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.”

Chapter XXIX.
The Ferry across the Oise.