


Twenty Years After

by Alexandre Dumas




1

The Shade of Cardinal Richelieu.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Black Musketeers, my lord."

"What company?"

"Treville's company."

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

"Lieutenant d'Artagnan."

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

"Yes, my lord."

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

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

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

"Send hither Monsieur d'Artagnan."

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

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

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

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

D'Artagnan advanced a few steps into the
apartment.

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

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

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

"You are Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"I am that individual," replied the
officer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you witness the injury sustained by
Comminges?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my lord."

"Well, let us set out."

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

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

"As many as my lord wishes."

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

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



2

A Nightly Patrol.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what is a Fronde?" inquired
Mazarin.

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

"And what is the origin of this name?"

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

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



"A tempest from the Fronde

Did blow to-day:

I think 'twill blow

Sieur Mazarin away."



"Insolent wretch!" cried Guitant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You, my lord?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Villequier," said Guitant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



* "The Three Musketeers."



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

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

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

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

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

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

"How?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mazarin shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Comte de Rochefort."

"The Comte de Rochefort!"

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

"I know, Guitant," said Mazarin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cardinal folded and sealed his
letter.

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

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



3

Dead Animosities.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bell resounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"D'Artagnan!" cried Rochefort.

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

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

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

"Do you wish me to speak the truth?"

"Yes."

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

"Have you any suspicion of me,
Rochefort?"

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

"What reason?" asked D'Artagnan.

"For stealing."

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

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

"I admit it."

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

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

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

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

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

"To the cardinal."

"What does he want with me?"

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

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

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

"Nevertheless, you come as one in
authority."

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

"Then no misfortune has happened to
you?"

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

"Then Mazarin is still Mazarin?"

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

"Married?"

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

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

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

"Like women, not like queens."

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

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

"Yes. Why?"

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" cried Rochefort.

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

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

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

"How miserable not to be free!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall say it, and you?"

"I shall do the same."

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

"Almost."

"What has become of them?"

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

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

"Planchet!"

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing?" asked Rochefort.

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

"You are right. Adieu."

"Au revoir. Remember your promise."

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

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

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

"Speak out," answered D'Artagnan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think you were."

"I am certain of it."

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

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

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

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

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

Rochefort smiled contemptuously.

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

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

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

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

Rochefort bit his lips in order to
prevent a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pray, what does that mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is it?"

"It is Monsieur d'Artagnan."

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

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

"Really?"

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

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

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

"Then he will tell it me himself."

"I doubt it, my lord."

"Why do you doubt it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed!"

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

"It is magnificent!" said Mazarin,
thoughtfully.

"Well, I know of ten such men."

Mazarin made no reply; he reflected.

Five or six minutes elapsed.

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

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

"He led the enterprise."

"And who were the others?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bernouin came into the room.

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

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

"Adieu, Monsieur de Rochefort," he said.

Rochefort bent low.

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

"You are sagacious."

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

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

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

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

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



4

Anne of Austria at the Age of Forty-six.



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

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

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

Bernouin took up a candlestick and led
the way.

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



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



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

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

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

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

Anne colored slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cardinal smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cardinal!"

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

"And what was he saying?"

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

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Oh, madame! you are the queen!"

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

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

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

"I! persons whom I do not like!"

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

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

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

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

"Who ordered Monsieur de Beaufort to be
arrested?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Nothing else than I say -- search."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is be at liberty?" asked the queen.

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

Anne of Austria received the blow with a
beating heart.

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

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

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

The queen looked at him, surprised.

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

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

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

The queen spoke with some impatience.

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

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

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

"Continue," said the queen.

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

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

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

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

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

Anne blushed and buried her face in her
hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah! you confess it!" exclaimed Mazarin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are these things?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mazarin bent low before her.

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

"Yes, to-morrow."

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

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

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

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



5

The Gascon and the Italian.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Follow me, monsieur," said Mazarin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

D'Artagnan pretended astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which of my friends, my lord?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where can you find them, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, if my friends agree."

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

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

"Go, then, and find them."

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

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

"What shall I promise?"

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

"But what are we to do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my lord."

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

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

The cardinal smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile the cardinal was rubbing his
hands in great satisfaction.

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

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

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

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



6

D'Artagnan in his Fortieth Year.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So you refuse my request?"

"To be sure I do -- furiously!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alone?" asked D'Artagnan.

"With monsieur."

"Monsieur has returned, then?"

"Of course," naively replied the
servant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is that man?" he asked.

The hostess replied only by gasps.

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

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

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

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

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

"And since?" asked the Swiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He asked what was going on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

"Wholly yours,

"Aramis."



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perfectly; one of my dearest friends."

"Ah! so much the better!"

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

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

Planchet hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, sir," replied Planchet.

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

"No -- not at all."

"And Aramis?"

"Not in the least."

"The devil! the devil! the devil!"

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

"Where is he?"

"At Notre Dame."

"What has he to do at Notre Dame?"

"He is beadle."

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

"Without a doubt he must."

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

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

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

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

"Where the devil didst thou learn it?"

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

"Which means?"

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

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

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

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

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

"My brother?"

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

"Wilkom, suster," said Planchet.

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

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

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

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

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



7

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



*A sacerdotal officer.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To seek my friends."

"What friends?"

"Those that you asked about yesterday."

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

"Yes."

"On honor?"

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

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

"You are in no doubt on that score."

"That is true."

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

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

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

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

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

"And when do you set out?"

"I am now on my road."

"Good luck to you."

"And to you -- a good journey."

"Perhaps we shall meet on our road."

"That is not probable."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Forsooth, I don't know."

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

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

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

"I shall ask him."

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

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

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

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

Before ten minutes had elapsed the child
returned.

"Well!" said D'Artagnan.

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

"Where is he gone?"

"The half-pistole is for me?"

"Doubtless, answer me."

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

"There it is."

The child put the piece of money into
his pocket.

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

"He is gone to Noisy."

"How dost thou know?"

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

"Dost thou know Noisy well?"

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

"Is there a convent at Noisy?"

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

"What is thy name?"

"Friquet."

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

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

"Perhaps," replied D'Artagnan.

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



8

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Always cautious, Planchet."

"'Tis instinct, your honor."

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

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

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

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

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

"`Yes, my prince.'"

"My prince!" interrupted D'Artagnan.

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

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

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

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

"`We have.'

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

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

"`Besides, I shall be there.'

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

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

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

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

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

"We? Why?"

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

"Well?"

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

"What else?"

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

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

"Is your honor sure?"

"I can answer for it they do not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In about five minutes Planchet returned.

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

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

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

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

"Do you hear nothing?" whispered
Planchet.

"What is that noise?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The chieftain of the party drew near.

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

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

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

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

"Enough! enough! what is your name?"

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

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

"I am."

"Then you came here to defend him?"

"Him? whom?"

"The man we are seeking."

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

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

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

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

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

"Rascal!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But to whom, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



9

The Abbe D'Herblay.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, it is Bazin."

"Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bazin bowed low, sighed, and left the
room.

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

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

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

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

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

Aramis burst into a fit of laughter.

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

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

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

"No, sing it, please."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, she is still beautiful."

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

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

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

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

"Oh, this time," returned Aramis, "I
haven't seen her; she is much changed."

"In that respect unlike you, my dear
Aramis, for you are still the same; you
have still your beautiful dark hair,
still your elegant figure, still your
feminine hands, which are admirably
suited to a prelate."

"Yes," replied Aramis, "I am extremely
careful of my appearance. Do you know
that I am growing old? I am nearly
thirty-seven."

"Mind, Aramis" -- D'Artagnan smiled as
he spoke -- "since we are together
again, let us agree on one point: what
age shall we be in future?"

"How?"

"Formerly I was your junior by two or
three years, and if I am not mistaken I
am turned forty years old."

"Indeed! Then 'tis I who am mistaken,
for you have always been a good
chronologist. By your reckoning I must
be forty-three at least. The devil I am!
Don't let it out at the Hotel
Rambouillet; it would ruin me," replied
the abbe.

"Don't be afraid," said D'Artagnan. "I
never go there."

"Why, what in the world," cried Aramis,
"is that animal Bazin doing? Bazin!
Hurry up there, you rascal; we are mad
with hunger and thirst!"

Bazin entered at that moment carrying a
bottle in each hand.

"At last," said Aramis, "we are ready,
are we?

"Yes, monsieur, quite ready," said
Bazin; "but it took me some time to
bring up all the ---- "

"Because you always think you have on
your shoulders your beadle's robe, and
spend all your time reading your
breviary. But I give you warning that if
in polishing your chapel utensils you
forget how to brighten up my sword, I
will make a great fire of your blessed
images and will see that you are roasted
on it."

Bazin, scandalized, made a sign of the
cross with the bottle in his hand.
D'Artagnan, more surprised than ever at
the tone and manners of the Abbe
d'Herblay, which contrasted so strongly
with those of the Musketeer Aramis,
remained staring with wide-open eyes at
the face of his friend.

Bazin quickly covered the table with a
damask cloth and arranged upon it so
many things, gilded, perfumed,
appetizing, that D'Artagnan was quite
overcome.

"But you expected some one then?" asked
the officer.

"Oh," said Aramis, "I always try to be
prepared; and then I knew you were
seeking me."

"From whom?"

"From Master Bazin, to be sure; he took
you for the devil, my dear fellow, and
hastened to warn me of the danger that
threatened my soul if I should meet
again a companion so wicked as an
officer of musketeers."

"Oh, monsieur!" said Bazin, clasping his
hands supplicatingly.

"Come, no hypocrisy! you know that I
don't like it. You will do much better
to open the window and let down some
bread, a chicken and a bottle of wine to
your friend Planchet, who has been this
last hour killing himself clapping his
hands."

Planchet, in fact, had bedded and fed
his horses, and then coming back under
the window had repeated two or three
times the signal agreed upon.

Bazin obeyed, fastened to the end of a
cord the three articles designated and
let them down to Planchet, who then went
satisfied to his shed.

"Now to supper," said Aramis.

The two friends sat down and Aramis
began to cut up fowls, partridges and
hams with admirable skill.

"The deuce!" cried D'Artagnan; "do you
live in this way always?"

"Yes, pretty well. The coadjutor has
given me dispensations from fasting on
the jours maigres, on account of my
health; then I have engaged as my cook
the cook who lived with Lafollone -- you
know the man I mean? -- the friend of
the cardinal, and the famous epicure
whose grace after dinner used to be,
`Good Lord, do me the favor to cause me
to digest what I have eaten.'"

"Nevertheless he died of indigestion, in
spite of his grace," said D'Artagnan.

"What can you expect?" replied Aramis,
in a tone of resignation. "Every man
that's born must fulfil his destiny."

"If it be not an indelicate question,"
resumed D'Artagnan, "have you grown
rich?"

"Oh, Heaven! no. I make about twelve
thousand francs a year, without counting
a little benefice of a thousand crowns
the prince gave me."

"And how do you make your twelve
thousand francs? By your poems?"

"No, I have given up poetry, except now
and then to write a drinking song, some
gay sonnet or some innocent epigram; I
compose sermons, my friend."

"What! sermons? Do you preach them?"

"No; I sell them to those of my cloth
who wish to become great orators."

"Ah, indeed! and you have not been
tempted by the hopes of reputation
yourself?"

"I should, my dear D'Artagnan, have been
so, but nature said `No.' When I am in
the pulpit, if by chance a pretty woman
looks at me, I look at her again: if she
smiles, I smile too. Then I speak at
random; instead of preaching about the
torments of hell I talk of the joys of
Paradise. An event took place in the
Church of St. Louis au Marais. A
gentleman laughed in my face. I stopped
short to tell him that he was a fool;
the congregation went out to get stones
to stone me with, but whilst they were
away I found means to conciliate the
priests who were present, so that my foe
was pelted instead of me. 'Tis true that
he came the next morning to my house,
thinking that he had to do with an
abbe -- like all other abbes."

"And what was the end of the affair?"

"We met in the Place Royale -- Egad! you
know about it."

"Was I not your second?" cried
D'Artagnan.

"You were; you know how I settled the
matter."

"Did he die?"

"I don't know. But, at all events, I
gave him absolution in articulo mortis.
'Tis enough to kill the body, without
killing the soul."

Bazin made a despairing sign which meant
that while perhaps he approved the moral
he altogether disapproved the tone in
which it was uttered.

"Bazin, my friend," said Aramis, "you
don't seem to be aware that I can see
you in that mirror, and you forget that
once for all I have forbidden all signs
of approbation or disapprobation. You
will do me the favor to bring us some
Spanish wine and then to withdraw.
Besides, my friend D'Artagnan has
something to say to me privately, have
you not, D'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan nodded his head and Bazin
retired, after placing on the table the
Spanish wine.

The two friends, left alone, remained
silent, face to face. Aramis seemed to
await a comfortable digestion;
D'Artagnan, to be preparing his
exordium. Each of them, when the other
was not looking, hazarded a sly glance.
It was Aramis who broke the silence.

"What are you thinking of, D'Artagnan?"
he began.

"I was thinking, my dear old friend,
that when you were a musketeer you
turned your thoughts incessantly to the
church, and now that you are an abbe you
are perpetually longing to be once more
a musketeer."

"'Tis true; man, as you know," said
Aramis, "is a strange animal, made up of
contradictions. Since I became an abbe I
dream of nothing but battles."

"That is apparent in your surroundings;
you have rapiers here of every form and
to suit the most exacting taste. Do you
still fence well?"

"I -- I fence as well as you did in the
old time -- better still, perhaps; I do
nothing else all day."

"And with whom?"

"With an excellent master-at-arms that
we have here."

"What! here?"

Yes, here, in this convent, my dear
fellow. There is everything in a Jesuit
convent."

"Then you would have killed Monsieur de
Marsillac if he had come alone to attack
you, instead of at the head of twenty
men?"

"Undoubtedly," said Aramis, "and even at
the head of his twenty men, if I could
have drawn without being recognized."

"God pardon me!" said D'Artagnan to
himself, "I believe he has become more
Gascon than I am!" Then aloud: "Well, my
dear Aramis, do you ask me why I came to
seek you?"

"No, I have not asked you that," said
Aramis, with his subtle manner; "but I
have expected you to tell me."

"Well, I sought you for the single
purpose of offering you a chance to kill
Monsieur de Marsillac whenever you
please, prince though he is."

"Hold on! wait!" said Aramis; "that is
an idea!"

"Of which I invite you to take
advantage, my friend. Let us see; with
your thousand crowns from the abbey and
the twelve thousand francs you make by
selling sermons, are you rich? Answer
frankly."

"I? I am as poor as Job, and were you to
search my pockets and my boxes I don't
believe you would find a hundred
pistoles."

"Peste! a hundred pistoles!" said
D'Artagnan to himself; "he calls that
being as poor as Job! If I had them I
should think myself as rich as Croesus."
Then aloud: "Are you ambitious?"

"As Enceladus."

"Well, my friend, I bring you the means
of becoming rich, powerful, and free to
do whatever you wish."

The shadow of a cloud passed over
Aramis's face as quickly as that which
in August passes over the field of
grain; but quick as it was, it did not
escape D'Artagnan's observation.

"Speak on," said Aramis.

"One question first. Do you take any
interest in politics?"

A gleam of light shone in Aramis's eyes,
as brief as the shadow that had passed
over his face, but not so brief but that
it was seen by D'Artagnan.

"No," Aramis replied.

"Then proposals from any quarter will be
agreeable to you, since for the moment
you have no master but God?"

"It is possible."

"Have you, my dear Aramis, thought
sometimes of those happy, happy, happy
days of youth we passed laughing,
drinking, and fighting each other for
play?"

"Certainly, and more than once regretted
them; it was indeed a glorious time."

"Well, those splendidly wild days may
chance to come again; I am commissioned
to find out my companions and I began by
you, who were the very soul of our
society."

Aramis bowed, rather with respect than
pleasure at the compliment.

"To meddle in politics," he exclaimed,
in a languid voice, leaning back in his
easy-chair. "Ah! dear D'Artagnan! see
how regularly I live and how easy I am
here. We have experienced the
ingratitude of `the great,' as you well
know."

"'Tis true," replied D'Artagnan. "Yet
the great sometimes repent of their
ingratitude."

"In that case it would be quite another
thing. Come! let's be merciful to every
sinner! Besides, you are right in
another respect, which is in thinking
that if we were to meddle in politics
there could not be a better time than
the present."

"How can you know that? You who never
interest yourself in politics?"

"Ah! without caring about them myself, I
live among those who are much occupied
in them. Poet as I am, I am intimate
with Sarazin, who is devoted to the
Prince de Conti, and with Monsieur de
Bois-Robert, who, since the death of
Cardinal Richelieu, is of all parties or
any party; so that political discussions
have not altogether been uninteresting
to me."

"I have no doubt of it," said
D'Artagnan.

"Now, my dear friend, look upon all I
tell you as merely the statement of a
monk -- of a man who resembles an
echo -- repeating simply what he hears.
I understand that Mazarin is at this
very moment extremely uneasy as to the
state of affairs; that his orders are
not respected like those of our former
bugbear, the deceased cardinal, whose
portrait as you see hangs yonder -- for
whatever may be thought of him, it must
be allowed that Richelieu was great."

"I will not contradict you there," said
D'Artagnan.

"My first impressions were favorable to
the minister; I said to myself that a
minister is never loved, but that with
the genius this one was said to have he
would eventually triumph over his
enemies and would make himself feared,
which in my opinion is much more to be
desired than to be loved ---- "

D'Artagnan made a sign with his head
which indicated that he entirely
approved that doubtful maxim.

"This, then," continued Aramis, "was my
first opinion; but as I am very ignorant
in matters of this kind and as the
humility which I profess obliges me not
to rest on my own judgment, but to ask
the opinion of others, I have
inquired -- Eh! -- my friend ---- "

Aramis paused.

"Well? what?" asked his friend.

"Well, I must mortify myself. I must
confess that I was mistaken. Monsieur de
Mazarin is not a man of genius, as I
thought, he is a man of no origin --
once a servant of Cardinal Bentivoglio,
and he got on by intrigue. He is an
upstart, a man of no name, who will only
be the tool of a party in France. He
will amass wealth, he will injure the
king's revenue and pay to himself the
pensions which Richelieu paid to others.
He is neither a gentleman in manner nor
in feeling, but a sort of buffoon, a
punchinello, a pantaloon. Do you know
him? I do not."

"Hem!" said D'Artagnan, "there is some
truth in what you say."

"Ah! it fills me with pride to find
that, thanks to a common sort of
penetration with which I am endowed, I
am approved by a man like you, fresh
from the court."

"But you speak of him, not of his party,
his resources."

"It is true -- the queen is for him."

"Something in his favor."

"But he will never have the king."

"A mere child."

"A child who will be of age in four
years. Then he has neither the
parliament nor the people with him --
they represent the wealth of the
country; nor the nobles nor the princes,
who are the military power of France."

D'Artagnan scratched his ear. He was
forced to confess to himself that this
reasoning was not only comprehensive,
but just.

"You see, my poor friend, that I am
sometimes bereft of my ordinary
thoughtfulness; perhaps I am wrong in
speaking thus to you, who have evidently
a leaning to Mazarin."

"I!" cried D'Artagnan, "not in the
least."

"You spoke of a mission."

"Did I? I was wrong then, no, I said
what you say -- there is a crisis at
hand. Well! let's fly the feather before
the wind; let us join with that side to
which the wind will carry it and resume
our adventurous life. We were once four
valiant knights -- four hearts fondly
united; let us unite again, not our
hearts, which have never been severed,
but our courage and our fortunes. Here's
a good opportunity for getting something
better than a diamond."

"You are right, D'Artagnan; I held a
similar project, but as I had not nor
ever shall have your fruitful, vigorous
imagination, the idea was suggested to
me. Every one nowadays wants
auxiliaries; propositions have been made
to me and I confess to you frankly that
the coadjutor has made me speak out."

"Monsieur de Gondy! the cardinal's
enemy?"

"No; the king's friend," said Aramis;
"the king's friend, you understand.
Well, it is a question of serving the
king, the gentleman's duty."

"But the king is with Mazarin."

"He is, but not willingly; in
appearance, not heart; and that is
exactly the snare the king's enemies are
preparing for the poor child."

"Ah! but this is, indeed, civil war
which you propose to me, dear Aramis."

"War for the king."

"Yet the king will be at the head of the
army on Mazarin's side."

"But his heart will be in the army
commanded by the Duc de Beaufort."

"Monsieur de Beaufort? He is at
Vincennes."

"Did I say Monsieur de Beaufort?
Monsieur de Beaufort or another.
Monsieur de Beaufort or Monsieur le
Prince."

"But Monsieur le Prince is to set out
for the army; he is entirely devoted to
the cardinal."

"Oh oh!" said Aramis, "there are
questions between them at this very
moment. And besides, if it is not the
prince, then Monsieur de Gondy ---- "

"But Monsieur de Gondy is to be made a
cardinal; they are soliciting the hat
for him."

"And are there no cardinals that can
fight? Come now, recall the four
cardinals that at the head of armies
have equalled Monsieur de Guebriant and
Monsieur de Gassion."

"But a humpbacked general!

"Under the cuirass the hump will not be
seen. Besides, remember that Alexander
was lame and Hannibal had but one eye."

"Do you see any great advantage in
adhering to this party?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"I foresee in it the aid of powerful
princes."

"With the enmity of the government."

"Counteracted by parliament and
insurrections."

"That may be done if they can separate
the king from his mother."

"That may be done," said Aramis.

"Never!" cried D'Artagnan. "You, Aramis,
know Anne of Austria better than I do.
Do you think she will ever forget that
her son is her safeguard, her shield,
the pledge for her dignity, for her
fortune and her life? Should she forsake
Mazarin she must join her son and go
over to the princes' side; but you know
better than I do that there are certain
reasons why she can never abandon
Mazarin."

"Perhaps you are right," said Aramis,
thoughtfully; "therefore I shall not
pledge myself."

"To them or to us, do you mean, Aramis?"

"To no one. I am a priest," resumed
Aramis. "What have I to do with
politics? I am not obliged to read any
breviary. I have a jolly little circle
of witty abbes and pretty women;
everything goes on smoothly, so
certainly, dear friend, I shall not
meddle in politics."

"Well, listen, my dear Aramis," said
D'Artagnan; "your philosophy convinces
me, on my honor. I don't know what devil
of an insect stung me and made me
ambitious. I have a post by which I
live; at the death of Monsieur de
Treville, who is old, I may be a
captain, which is a very snug berth for
a once penniless Gascon. Instead of
running after adventures I shall accept
an invitation from Porthos; I shall go
and shoot on his estate. You know he has
estates -- Porthos?"

"I should think so, indeed. Ten leagues
of wood, of marsh land and valleys; he
is lord of the hill and the plain and is
now carrying on a suit for his feudal
rights against the Bishop of Noyon!"

"Good," said D'Artagnan to himself.
"That's what I wanted to know. Porthos
is in Picardy."

Then aloud:

"And he has taken his ancient name of
Vallon?"

"To which he adds that of Bracieux, an
estate which has been a barony, by my
troth."

"So that Porthos will be a baron."

"I don't doubt it. The 'Baroness
Porthos' will sound particularly
charming."

And the two friends began to laugh.

"So," D'Artagnan resumed, "you will not
become a partisan of Mazarin's?"

"Nor you of the Prince de Conde?"

"No, let us belong to no party, but
remain friends; let us be neither
Cardinalists nor Frondists."

"Adieu, then." And D'Artagnan poured out
a glass of wine.

"To old times," he said.

"Yes," returned Aramis. "Unhappily,
those times are past."

"Nonsense! They will return," said
D'Artagnan. "At all events, if you want
me, remember the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel
de la Chevrette."

"And I shall be at the convent of
Jesuits; from six in the morning to
eight at night come by the door. From
eight in the evening until six in the
morning come in by the window."

"Adieu, dear friend."

"Oh, I can't let you go so! I will go
with you." And he took his sword and
cloak.

"He wants to be sure that I go away,"
said D'Artagnan to himself.

Aramis whistled for Bazin, but Bazin was
asleep in the ante-chamber, and Aramis
was obliged to shake him by the ear to
awake him.

Bazin stretched his arms, rubbed his
eyes, and tried to go to sleep again.

"Come, come, sleepy head; quick, the
ladder!"

"But," said Bazin, yawning portentously,
"the ladder is still at the window."

"The other one, the gardener's. Didn't
you see that Monsieur d'Artagnan mounted
with difficulty? It will be even more
difficult to descend."

D'Artagnan was about to assure Aramis
that he could descend easily, when an
idea came into his head which silenced
him.

Bazin uttered a profound sigh and went
out to look for the ladder. Presently a
good, solid, wooden ladder was placed
against the window.

"Now then," said D'Artagnan, "this is
something like; this is a means of
communication. A woman could go up a
ladder like that."

Aramis's searching look seemed to seek
his friend's thought even at the bottom
of his heart, but D'Artagnan sustained
the inquisition with an air of admirable
simplicity. Besides, at that moment he
put his foot on the first step of the
ladder and began his descent. In a
moment he was on the ground. Bazin
remained at the window.

"Stay there," said Aramis; "I shall
return immediately."

The two friends went toward the shed. At
their approach Planchet came out leading
the two horses.

"That is good to see," said Aramis.
"There is a servant active and vigilant,
not like that lazy fellow Bazin, who is
no longer good for anything since he
became connected with the church. Follow
us, Planchet; we shall continue our
conversation to the end of the village."

They traversed the width of the village,
talking of indifferent things, then as
they reached the last houses:

"Go, then, dear friend," said Aramis,
"follow your own career. Fortune
lavishes her smiles upon you; do not let
her flee from your embrace. As for me, I
remain in my humility and indolence.
Adieu!"

"Thus 'tis quite decided," said
D'Artagnan, "that what I have to offer
to you does not tempt you?"

"On the contrary, it would tempt me were
I any other man," rejoined Aramis; "but
I repeat, I am made up of
contradictions. What I hate to-day I
adore to-morrow, and vice versa. You see
that I cannot, like you, for instance,
settle on any fixed plan."

"Thou liest, subtile one," said
D'Artagnan to himself. "Thou alone, on
the contrary, knowest how to choose thy
object and to gain it stealthily."

The friends embraced. They descended
into the plain by the ladder. Planchet
met them hard by the shed. D'Artagnan
jumped into the saddle, then the old
companions in arms again shook hands.
D'Artagnan and Planchet spurred their
steeds and took the road to Paris.

But after he had gone about two hundred
steps D'Artagnan stopped short,
alighted, threw the bridle of his horse
over the arm of Planchet and took the
pistols from his saddle-bow to fasten
them to his girdle.

"What's the matter?" asked Planchet.

"This is the matter: be he ever so
cunning he shall never say I was his
dupe. Stand here, don't stir, turn your
back to the road and wait for me."

Having thus spoken, D'Artagnan cleared
the ditch by the roadside and crossed
the plain so as to wind around the
village. He had observed between the
house that Madame de Longueville
inhabited and the convent of the
Jesuits, an open space surrounded by a
hedge.

The moon had now risen and he could see
well enough to retrace his road.

He reached the hedge and hid himself
behind it; in passing by the house where
the scene which we have related took
place, he remarked that the window was
again lighted up and he was convinced
that Aramis had not yet returned to his
own apartment and that when he did it
would not be alone.

In truth, in a few minutes he heard
steps approaching and low whispers.

Close to the hedge the steps stopped.

D'Artagnan knelt down near the thickest
part of the hedge.

Two men, to the astonishment of
D'Artagnan, appeared shortly; soon,
however, his surprise vanished, for he
heard the murmurs of a soft, harmonious
voice; one of these two men was a woman
disguised as a cavalier.

"Calm yourself, dear Rene," said the
soft voice, "the same thing will never
happen again. I have discovered a sort
of subterranean passage which runs
beneath the street and we shall only
have to raise one of the marble slabs
before the door to open you an entrance
and an outlet."

"Oh!" answered another voice, which
D'Artagnan instantly recognized as that
of Aramis. "I swear to you, princess,
that if your reputation did not depend
on precautions and if my life alone were
jeopardized ---- "

"Yes, yes! I know you are as brave and
venturesome as any man in the world, but
you do not belong to me alone; you
belong to all our party. Be prudent!
sensible!"

"I always obey, madame, when I am
commanded by so gentle a voice."

He kissed her hand tenderly.

"Ah!" exclaimed the cavalier with a soft
voice.

"What's the matter?" asked Aramis.

"Do you not see that the wind has blown
off my hat?"

Aramis rushed after the fugitive hat.
D'Artagnan took advantage of the
circumstance to find a place in the
hedge not so thick, where his glance
could penetrate to the supposed
cavalier. At that instant, the moon,
inquisitive, perhaps, like D'Artagnan,
came from behind a cloud and by her
light D'Artagnan recognized the large
blue eyes, the golden hair and the
classic head of the Duchess de
Longueville.

Aramis returned, laughing, one hat on
his head and the other in his hand; and
he and his companion resumed their walk
toward the convent.

"Good!" said D'Artagnan, rising and
brushing his knees; "now I have thee --
thou art a Frondeur and the lover of
Madame de Longueville."



10

Monsieur Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux
de Pierrefonds.



Thanks to what Aramis had told him,
D'Artagnan, who knew already that
Porthos called himself Du Vallon, was
now aware that he styled himself, from
his estate, De Bracieux; and that he
was, on account of this estate, engaged
in a lawsuit with the Bishop of Noyon.
It was, then, in the neighborhood of
Noyon that he must seek that estate. His
itinerary was promptly determined: he
would go to Dammartin, from which place
two roads diverge, one toward Soissons,
the other toward Compiegne; there he
would inquire concerning the Bracieux
estate and go to the right or to the
left according to the information
obtained.

Planchet, who was still a little
concerned for his safety after his
recent escapade, declared that he would
follow D'Artagnan even to the end of the
world, either by the road to the right
or by that to the left; only he begged
his former master to set out in the
evening, for greater security to
himself. D'Artagnan suggested that he
should send word to his wife, so that
she might not be anxious about him, but
Planchet replied with much sagacity that
he was very sure his wife would not die
of anxiety through not knowing where he
was, while he, Planchet, remembering her
incontinence of tongue, would die of
anxiety if she did know.

This reasoning seemed to D'Artagnan so
satisfactory that he no further
insisted; and about eight o'clock in the
evening, the time when the vapors of
night begin to thicken in the streets,
he left the Hotel de la Chevrette, and
followed by Planchet set forth from the
capital by way of the Saint Denis gate.

At midnight the two travelers were at
Dammartin, but it was then too late to
make inquiries -- the host of the Cygne
de la Croix had gone to bed.

The next morning D'Artagnan summoned the
host, one of those sly Normans who say
neither yes nor no and fear to commit
themselves by giving a direct answer.
D'Artagnan, however, gathered from his
equivocal replies that the road to the
right was the one he ought to take, and
on that uncertain information he resumed
his journey. At nine in the morning he
reached Nanteuil and stopped for
breakfast. His host here was a good
fellow from Picardy, who gave him all
the information he needed. The Bracieux
estate was a few leagues from
Villars-Cotterets.

D'Artagnan was acquainted with
Villars-Cotterets having gone thither
with the court on several occasions; for
at that time Villars-Cotterets was a
royal residence. He therefore shaped his
course toward that place and dismounted
at the Dauphin d'Or. There he
ascertained that the Bracieux estate was
four leagues distant, but that Porthos
was not at Bracieux. Porthos had, in
fact, been involved in a dispute with
the Bishop of Noyon in regard to the
Pierrefonds property, which adjoined his
own, and weary at length of a legal
controversy which was beyond his
comprehension, he put an end to it by
purchasing Pierrefonds and added that
name to his others. He now called
himself Du Vallon de Bracieux de
Pierrefonds, and resided on his new
estate.

The travelers were therefore obliged to
stay at the hotel until the next day;
the horses had done ten leagues that day
and needed rest. It is true they might
have taken others, but there was a great
forest to pass through and Planchet, as
we have seen, had no liking for forests
after dark.

There was another thing that Planchet
had no liking for and that was starting
on a journey with a hungry stomach.
Accordingly, D'Artagnan, on awaking,
found his breakfast waiting for him. It
need not be said that Planchet in
resuming his former functions resumed
also his former humility and was not
ashamed to make his breakfast on what
was left by D'Artagnan.

It was nearly eight o'clock when they
set out again. Their course was clearly
defined: they were to follow the road
toward Compiegne and on emerging from
the forest turn to the right.

The morning was beautiful, and in this
early springtime the birds sang on the
trees and the sunbeams shone through the
misty glades, like curtains of golden
gauze.

In other parts of the forest the light
could scarcely penetrate through the
foliage, and the stems of two old oak
trees, the refuge of the squirrel,
startled by the travelers, were in deep
shadow.

There came up from all nature in the
dawn of day a perfume of herbs, flowers
and leaves, which delighted the heart.
D'Artagnan, sick of the closeness of
Paris, thought that when a man had three
names of his different estates joined
one to another, he ought to be very
happy in such a paradise; then he shook
his head, saying, "If I were Porthos and
D'Artagnan came to make me such a
proposition as I am going to make to
him, I know what I should say to it."

As to Planchet, he thought of little or
nothing, but was happy as a
hunting-hound in his old master's
company.

At the extremity of the wood D'Artagnan
perceived the road that had been
described to him, and at the end of the
road he saw the towers of an immense
feudal castle.

"Oh! oh!" he said, "I fancied this
castle belonged to the ancient branch of
Orleans. Can Porthos have negotiated for
it with the Duc de Longueville?"

"Faith!" exclaimed Planchet, "here's
land in good condition; if it belongs to
Monsieur Porthos I wish him joy."

"Zounds!" cried D'Artagnan, "don't call
him Porthos, nor even Vallon; call him
De Bracieux or De Pierrefonds; thou wilt
knell out damnation to my mission
otherwise."

As he approached the castle which had
first attracted his eye, D'Artagnan was
convinced that it could not be there
that his friend dwelt; the towers,
though solid and as if built yesterday,
were open and broken. One might have
fancied that some giant had cleaved them
with blows from a hatchet.

On arriving at the extremity of the
castle D'Artagnan found himself
overlooking a beautiful valley, in
which, at the foot of a charming little
lake, stood several scattered houses,
which, humble in their aspect, and
covered, some with tiles, others with
thatch, seemed to acknowledge as their
sovereign lord a pretty chateau, built
about the beginning of the reign of
Henry IV., and surmounted by four
stately, gilded weather-cocks.
D'Artagnan no longer doubted that this
was Porthos's pleasant dwelling place.

The road led straight up to the chateau
which, compared to its ancestor on the
hill, was exactly what a fop of the
coterie of the Duc d'Enghein would have
been beside a knight in steel armor in
the time of Charles VII. D'Artagnan
spurred his horse on and pursued his
road, followed by Planchet at the same
pace.

In ten minutes D'Artagnan reached the
end of an alley regularly planted with
fine poplars and terminating in an iron
gate, the points and crossed bars of
which were gilt. In the midst of this
avenue was a nobleman, dressed in green
and with as much gilding about him as
the iron gate, riding on a tall horse.
On his right hand and his left were two
footmen, with the seams of their dresses
laced. A considerable number of clowns
were assembled and rendered homage to
their lord.

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan to himself, "can
this be the Seigneur du Vallon de
Bracieux de Pierrefonds? Well-a-day! how
he has shrunk since he gave up the name
of Porthos!"

"This cannot be Monsieur Porthos,"
observed Planchet replying, as it were,
to his master's thoughts. "Monsieur
Porthos was six feet high; this man is
scarcely five."

"Nevertheless," said D'Artagnan, "the
people are bowing very low to this
person."

As he spoke, he rode toward the tall
horse -- to the man of importance and
his valets. As he approached he seemed
to recognize the features of this
individual.

"Jesu!" cried Planchet, "can it be?"

At this exclamation the man on horseback
turned slowly and with a lofty air, and
the two travelers could see, displayed
in all their brilliancy, the large eyes,
the vermilion visage, and the eloquent
smile of -- Mousqueton.

It was indeed Mousqueton -- Mousqueton,
as fat as a pig, rolling about with rude
health, puffed out with good living,
who, recognizing D'Artagnan and acting
very differently from the hypocrite
Bazin, slipped off his horse and
approached the officer with his hat off,
so that the homage of the assembled
crowd was turned toward this new sun,
which eclipsed the former luminary.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan! Monsieur
d'Artagnan!" cried Mousqueton, his fat
cheeks swelling out and his whole frame
perspiring with joy; "Monsieur
d'Artagnan! oh! what joy for my lord and
master, Du Vallon de Bracieux de
Pierrefonds!"

"Thou good Mousqueton! where is thy
master?"

"You stand upon his property!"

"But how handsome thou art -- how fat!
thou hast prospered and grown stout!"
and D'Artagnan could not restrain his
astonishment at the change good fortune
had produced on the once famished one.

"Hey, yes, thank God, I am pretty well,"
said Mousqueton.

"But hast thou nothing to say to thy
friend Planchet?"

"How, my friend Planchet? Planchet --
art thou there?" cried Mousqueton, with
open arms and eyes full of tears.

"My very self," replied Planchet; "but I
wanted first to see if thou wert grown
proud."

"Proud toward an old friend? never,
Planchet! thou wouldst not have thought
so hadst thou known Mousqueton well."

"So far so well," answered Planchet,
alighting, and extending his arms to
Mousqueton, the two servants embraced
with an emotion which touched those who
were present and made them suppose that
Planchet was a great lord in disguise,
so highly did they estimate the position
of Mousqueton.

"And now, sir," resumed Mousqueton, when
he had rid himself of Planchet, who had
in vain tried to clasp his hands behind
his friend's fat back, "now, sir, allow
me to leave you, for I could not permit
my master to hear of your arrival from
any but myself; he would never forgive
me for not having preceded you."

"This dear friend," said D'Artagnan,
carefully avoiding to utter either the
former name borne by Porthos or his new
one, "then he has not forgotten me?"

"Forgotten -- he!" cried Mousqueton;
"there's not a day, sir, that we don't
expect to hear that you were made
marshal either instead of Monsieur de
Gassion, or of Monsieur de
Bassompierre."

On D'Artagnan's lips there played one of
those rare and melancholy smiles which
seemed to emanate from the depth of his
soul -- the last trace of youth and
happiness that had survived life's
disillusions.

"And you -- fellows," resumed
Mousqueton, "stay near Monsieur le Comte
d'Artagnan and pay him every attention
in your power whilst I go to prepare my
lord for his visit."

And mounting his horse Mousqueton rode
off down the avenue on the grass at a
hand gallop.

"Ah, there! there's something
promising," said D'Artagnan. "No
mysteries, no cloak to hide one's self
in, no cunning policy here; people laugh
outright, they weep for joy here. I see
nothing but faces a yard broad; in
short, it seems to me that nature
herself wears a holiday garb, and that
the trees, instead of leaves and
flowers, are covered with red and green
ribbons as on gala days."

"As for me," said Planchet, "I seem to
smell, from this place, even, a most
delectable perfume of fine roast meat,
and to see the scullions in a row by the
hedge, hailing our approach. Ah! sir,
what a cook must Monsieur Pierrefonds
have, when he was so fond of eating and
drinking, even whilst he was only called
Monsieur Porthos!"

"Say no more!" cried D'Artagnan. "If the
reality corresponds with appearances I
am lost; for a man so well off will
never change his happy condition, and I
shall fail with him, as I have already
done with Aramis."



11

How D'Artagnan, in discovering the
Retreat of Porthos, perceives that
Wealth does not necessarily produce
Happiness.



D'Artagnan passed through the iron gate
and arrived in front of the chateau. He
alighted as he saw a species of giant on
the steps. Let us do justice to
D'Artagnan. Independently of every
selfish wish, his heart palpitated with
joy when he saw that tall form and
martial demeanor, which recalled to him
a good and brave man.

He ran to Porthos and threw himself into
his arms; the whole body of servants,
arranged in a semi-circle at a
respectful distance, looked on with
humble curiosity. Mousqueton, at the
head of them, wiped his eyes. Porthos
linked his arm in that of his friend.

"Ah! how delightful to see you again,
dear friend!" he cried, in a voice which
was now changed from a baritone into a
bass, "you've not then forgotten me?"

"Forget you! oh! dear Du Vallon, does
one forget the happiest days of flowery
youth, one's dearest friends, the
dangers we have dared together? On the
contrary, there is not an hour we have
passed together that is not present to
my memory."

"Yes, yes," said Porthos, trying to give
to his mustache a curl which it had lost
whilst he had been alone. "Yes, we did
some fine things in our time and we gave
that poor cardinal a few threads to
unravel."

And he heaved a sigh.

"Under any circumstances," he resumed,
"you are welcome, my dear friend; you
will help me to recover my spirits;
to-morrow we will hunt the hare on my
plain, which is a superb tract of land,
or pursue the deer in my woods, which
are magnificent. I have four harriers
which are considered the swiftest in the
county, and a pack of hounds which are
unequalled for twenty leagues around."

And Porthos heaved another sigh.

"But, first," interposed D'Artagnan,
"you must present me to Madame du
Vallon."

A third sigh from Porthos.

"I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago,"
he said, "and you find me still in
affliction on that account. That was the
reason why I left my Chateau du Vallon
near Corbeil, and came to my estate,
Bracieux. Poor Madame du Vallon! her
temper was uncertain, but she came at
last to accustom herself to my little
ways and understand my little wishes."

"So you are free now, and rich?"

"Alas!" groaned Porthos, "I am a widower
and have forty thousand francs a year.
Let us go to breakfast."

"I shall be happy to do so; the morning
air has made me hungry."

"Yes," said Porthos; "my air is
excellent."

They went into the chateau; there was
nothing but gilding, high and low; the
cornices were gilt, the mouldings were
gilt, the legs and arms of the chairs
were gilt. A table, ready set out,
awaited them.

"You see," said Porthos, "this is my
usual style."

"Devil take me!" answered D'Artagnan, "I
wish you joy of it. The king has nothing
like it."

"No," answered Porthos, "I hear it said
that he is very badly fed by the
cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste
this cutlet, my dear D'Artagnan; 'tis
off one of my sheep."

"You have very tender mutton and I wish
you joy of it." said D'Artagnan.

"Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows,
which are excellent pasture."

"Give me another cutlet."

"No, try this hare, which I had killed
yesterday in one of my warrens."

"Zounds! what a flavor!" cried
D'Artagnan; "ah! they are fed on thyme
only, your hares."

"And how do you like my wine?" asked
Porthos; "it is pleasant, isn't it?"

"Capital!"

"It is nothing, however, but a wine of
the country."

"Really?"

"Yes, a small declivity to the south,
yonder on my hill, gives me twenty
hogsheads."

"Quite a vineyard, hey?"

Porthos sighed for the fifth time --
D'Artagnan had counted his sighs. He
became curious to solve the problem.

"Well now," he said, "it seems, my dear
friend, that something vexes you; you
are ill, perhaps? That health,
which ---- "

"Excellent, my dear friend; better than
ever. I could kill an ox with a blow of
my fist."

"Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?"

"Family! I have, happily, only myself in
the world to care for."

"But what makes you sigh?"

"My dear fellow," replied Porthos, "to
be candid with you, I am not happy."

"You are not happy, Porthos? You who
have chateau, meadows, mountains,
woods -- you who have forty thousand
francs a year -- you -- are -- not --
happy?"

"My dear friend, all those things I
have, but I am a hermit in the midst of
superfluity."

"Surrounded, I suppose, only by
clodhoppers, with whom you could not
associate."

Porthos turned rather pale and drank off
a large glass of wine.

"No; but just think, there are paltry
country squires who have all some title
or another and pretend to go back as far
as Charlemagne, or at least to Hugh
Capet. When I first came here; being the
last comer, it was for me to make the
first advances. I made them, but you
know, my dear friend, Madame du
Vallon ---- "

Porthos, in pronouncing these words,
seemed to gulp down something.

"Madame du Vallon was of doubtful
gentility. She had, in her first
marriage -- I don't think, D'Artagnan, I
am telling you anything new -- married a
lawyer; they thought that `nauseous;'
you can understand that's a word bad
enough to make one kill thirty thousand
men. I have killed two, which has made
people hold their tongues, but has not
made me their friend. So that I have no
society; I live alone; I am sick of
it -- my mind preys on itself."

D'Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the
breastplate was weak, and prepared the
blow.

"But now," he said, "that you are a
widower, your wife's connection cannot
injure you."

"Yes, but understand me; not being of a
race of historic fame, like the De
Courcys, who were content to be plain
sirs, or the Rohans, who didn't wish to
be dukes, all these people, who are all
either vicomtes or comtes go before me
at church in all the ceremonies, and I
can say nothing to them. Ah! If I only
were a ---- "

"A baron, don't you mean?" cried
D'Artagnan, finishing his friend's
sentence.

"Ah!" cried Porthos; "would I were but a
baron!"

"Well, my friend, I am come to give you
this very title which you wish for so
much."

Porthos gave a start that shook the
room; two or three bottles fell and were
broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing
the noise.

Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to
pick up the bottles.

"I am glad to see," said D'Artagnan,
"that you have still that honest lad
with you."

"He is my steward," replied Porthos; "he
will never leave me. Go away now,
Mouston."

"So he's called Mouston," thought
D'Artagnan; "'tis too long a word to
pronounce `Mousqueton.'"

"Well," he said aloud, "let us resume
our conversation later, your people may
suspect something; there may be spies
about. You can suppose, Porthos, that
what I have to say relates to most
important matters."

"Devil take them; let us walk in the
park," answered Porthos, "for the sake
of digestion."

"Egad," said D'Artagnan, "the park is
like everything else and there are as
many fish in your pond as rabbits in
your warren; you are a happy man, my
friend since you have not only retained
your love of the chase, but acquired
that of fishing."

"My friend," replied Porthos, "I leave
fishing to Mousqueton, -- it is a vulgar
pleasure, -- but I shoot sometimes; that
is to say, when I am dull, and I sit on
one of those marble seats, have my gun
brought to me, my favorite dog, and I
shoot rabbits."

"Really, how very amusing!"

"Yes," replied Porthos, with a sigh, "it
is amusing."

D'Artagnan now no longer counted the
sighs. They were innumerable.

"However, what had you to say to me?" he
resumed; "let us return to that
subject."

"With pleasure," replied D'Artagnan; "I
must, however, first frankly tell you
that you must change your mode of life."

"How?"

"Go into harness again, gird on your
sword, run after adventures, and leave
as in old times a little of your fat on
the roadside."

"Ah! hang it!" said Porthos.

"I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you
are corpulent, your arm has no longer
that movement of which the late
cardinal's guards have so many proofs."

"Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear,"
cried Porthos, extending a hand like a
shoulder of mutton.

"So much the better."

"Are we then to go to war?"

"By my troth, yes."

"Against whom?"

"Are you a politician, friend?"

"Not in the least."

"Are you for Mazarin or for the
princes?"

"I am for no one."

"That is to say, you are for us. Well, I
tell you that I come to you from the
cardinal."

This speech was heard by Porthos in the
same sense as if it had still been in
the year 1640 and related to the true
cardinal.

"Ho! ho! What are the wishes of his
eminence?"

"He wishes to have you in his service."

"And who spoke to him of me?"

"Rochefort -- you remember him?"

"Yes, pardieu! It was he who gave us so
much trouble and kept us on the road so
much; you gave him three sword-wounds in
three separate engagements."

"But you know he is now our friend?"

"No, I didn't know that. So he cherishes
no resentment?"

"You are mistaken, Porthos," said
D'Artagnan. "It is I who cherish no
resentment."

Porthos didn't understand any too
clearly; but then we know that
understanding was not his strong point.
"You say, then," he continued, "that the
Count de Rochefort spoke of me to the
cardinal?"

"Yes, and the queen, too."

"The queen, do you say?"

"To inspire us with confidence she has
even placed in Mazarin's hands that
famous diamond -- you remember all about
it -- that I once sold to Monsieur des
Essarts and of which, I don't know how,
she has regained possession."

"But it seems to me," said Porthos,
"that she would have done much better if
she had given it back to you."

"So I think," replied D'Artagnan; "but
kings and queens are strange beings and
have odd fancies; nevertheless, since
they are the ones who have riches and
honors, we are devoted to them."

"Yes, we are devoted to them," repeated
Porthos; "and you -- to whom are you
devoted now?"

"To the king, the queen, and to the
cardinal; moreover, I have answered for
your devotion also."

"And you say that you have made certain
conditions on my behalf?"

"Magnificent, my dear fellow,
magnificent! In the first place you have
plenty of money, haven't you? forty
thousand francs income, I think you
said."

Porthos began to be suspicious. "Eh! my
friend," said he, "one never has too
much money. Madame du Vallon left things
in much disorder; I am not much of a
hand at figures, so that I live almost
from hand to mouth."

"He is afraid I have come to borrow
money," thought D'Artagnan. "Ah, my
friend," said he, "it is all the better
if you are in difficulties."

"How is it all the better?"

"Yes, for his eminence will give you all
that you want -- land, money, and
titles."

"Ah! ah! ah!" said Porthos, opening his
eyes at that last word.

"Under the other cardinal," continued
D'Artagnan, "we didn't know enough to
make our profits; this, however, doesn't
concern you, with your forty thousand
francs income, the happiest man in the
world, it seems to me."

Porthos sighed.

"At the same time," continued
D'Artagnan, "notwithstanding your forty
thousand francs a year, and perhaps even
for the very reason that you have forty
thousand francs a year, it seems to me
that a little coronet would do well on
your carriage, hey?"

"Yes indeed," said Porthos.

"Well, my dear friend, win it -- it is
at the point of your sword. We shall not
interfere with each other -- your object
is a title; mine, money. If I can get
enough to rebuild Artagnan, which my
ancestors, impoverished by the Crusades,
allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy
thirty acres of land about it, that is
all I wish. I shall retire and die
tranquilly -- at home."

"For my part," said Porthos, "I desire
to be made a baron."

"You shall be one."

"And have you not seen any of our other
friends?"

"Yes, I have seen Aramis."

"And what does he wish? To be a bishop?"

"Aramis," answered D'Artagnan, who did
not wish to undeceive Porthos, "Aramis,
fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit,
and lives like a bear. My offers did not
arouse him, -- did not even tempt him."

"So much the worse! He was a clever man.
And Athos?"

"I have not yet seen him. Do you know
where I shall find him?"

"Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne.
Only imagine, my dear friend. Athos, who
was of as high birth as the emperor and
who inherits one estate which gives him
the title of comte, what is he to do
with all those dignities -- the Comte de
la Fere, Comte de Bragelonne?"

"And he has no children with all these
titles?"

"Ah!" said Porthos, "I have heard that
he had adopted a young man who resembles
him greatly."

"What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as
virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen him?

"No."

"Well, I shall see him to-morrow and
tell him about you; but I'm afraid,
entre nous, that his liking for wine has
aged and degraded him."

"Yes, he used to drink a great deal,"
replied Porthos.

"And then he was older than any of us,"
added D'Artagnan.

"Some years only. His gravity made him
look older than he was."

"Well then, if we can get Athos, all
will be well. If we cannot, we will do
without him. We two are worth a dozen."

"Yes," said Porthos, smiling at the
remembrance of his former exploits; "but
we four, altogether, would be equal to
thirty-six, more especially as you say
the work will not be child's play. Will
it last long?"

"By'r Lady! two or three years perhaps."

"So much the better," cried Porthos.
"You have no idea, my friend, how my
bones ache since I came here. Sometimes
on a Sunday, I take a ride in the fields
and on the property of my neighbours, in
order to pick up a nice little quarrel,
which I am really in want of, but
nothing happens. Either they respect or
they fear me, which is more likely, but
they let me trample down the clover with
my dogs, insult and obstruct every one,
and I come back still more weary and
low-spirited, that's all. At any rate,
tell me: there's more chance of fighting
in Paris, is there not?"

"In that respect, my dear friend, it's
delightful. No more edicts, no more of
the cardinal's guards, no more De
Jussacs, nor other bloodhounds. I'Gad!
underneath a lamp in an inn, anywhere,
they ask `Are you one of the Fronde?'
They unsheathe, and that's all that is
said. The Duke de Guise killed Monsieur
de Coligny in the Place Royale and
nothing was said of it."

"Ah, things go on gaily, then," said
Porthos.

"Besides which, in a short time,"
resumed D'Artagnan, "We shall have set
battles, cannonades, conflagrations and
there will be great variety."

"Well, then, I decide."

"I have your word, then?"

"Yes, 'tis given. I shall fight heart
and soul for Mazarin; but ---- "

"But?"

"But he must make me a baron."

"Zounds!" said D'Artagnan, "that's
settled already; I will be responsible
for the barony."

On this promise being given, Porthos,
who had never doubted his friend's
assurance, turned back with him toward
the castle.



12

In which it is shown that if Porthos was
discontented with his Condition,
Mousqueton was completely satisfied with
his.



As they returned toward the castle,
D'Artagnan thought of the miseries of
poor human nature, always dissatisfied
with what it has, ever desirous of what
it has not.

In the position of Porthos, D'Artagnan
would have been perfectly happy; and to
make Porthos contented there was
wanting -- what? five letters to put
before his three names, a tiny coronet
to paint upon the panels of his
carriage!

"I shall pass all my life," thought
D'Artagnan, "in seeking for a man who is
really contented with his lot."

Whilst making this reflection, chance
seemed, as it were, to give him the lie
direct. When Porthos had left him to
give some orders he saw Mousqueton
approaching. The face of the steward,
despite one slight shade of care, light
as a summer cloud, seemed a physiognomy
of absolute felicity.

"Here is what I am looking for," thought
D'Artagnan; "but alas! the poor fellow
does not know the purpose for which I am
here."

He then made a sign for Mousqueton to
come to him.

"Sir," said the servant, "I have a
favour to ask you."

"Speak out, my friend."

"I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will
think, sir, that prosperity has spoiled
me?"

"Art thou happy, friend?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you
may make me even happier than I am."

"Well, speak, if it depends on me."

"Oh, sir! it depends on you only."

"I listen -- I am waiting to hear."

"Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is,
not to call me `Mousqueton' but
`Mouston.' Since I have had the honor of
being my lord's steward I have taken the
last name as more dignified and
calculated to make my inferiors respect
me. You, sir, know how necessary
subordination is in any large
establishment of servants."

D'Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to
lengthen out his names, Mousqueton to
cut his short.

"Well, my dear Mouston," he said, "rest
satisfied. I will call thee Mouston; and
if it makes thee happy I will not
`tutoyer' you any longer."

"Oh!" cried Mousqueton, reddening with
joy; "if you do me, sir, such honor, I
shall be grateful all my life; it is too
much to ask."

"Alas!" thought D'Artagnan, "it is very
little to offset the unexpected
tribulations I am bringing to this poor
devil who has so warmly welcomed me."

"Will monsieur remain long with us?"
asked Mousqueton, with a serene and
glowing countenance.

"I go to-morrow, my friend," replied
D'Artagnan.

"Ah, monsieur," said Mousqueton, "then
you have come here only to awaken our
regrets."

"I fear that is true," said D'Artagnan,
in a low tone.

D'Artagnan was secretly touched with
remorse, not at inducing Porthos to
enter into schemes in which his life and
fortune would be in jeopardy, for
Porthos, in the title of baron, had his
object and reward; but poor Mousqueton,
whose only wish was to be called
Mouston -- was it not cruel to snatch
him from the delightful state of peace
and plenty in which he was?

He was thinking of these matters when
Porthos summoned him to dinner.

"What! to dinner?" said D'Artagnan.
"What time is it, then?"

"Eh! why, it is after one o'clock."

"Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one
takes no note of time. I follow you,
though I am not hungry."

"Come, if one can't always eat, one can
always drink -- a maxim of poor Athos,
the truth of which I have discovered
since I began to be lonely."

D'Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was
inclined to sobriety, seemed not so sure
as his friend of the truth of Athos's
maxim, but he did his best to keep up
with his host. Meanwhile his misgivings
in regard to Mousqueton recurred to his
mind and with greater force because
Mousqueton, though he did not himself
wait on the table, which would have been
beneath him in his new position,
appeared at the door from time to time
and evinced his gratitude to D'Artagnan
by the quality of the wine he directed
to be served. Therefore, when, at
dessert, upon a sign from D'Artagnan,
Porthos had sent away his servants and
the two friends were alone:

"Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "who will
attend you in your campaigns?"

"Why," replied Porthos, "Mouston, of
course."

This was a blow to D'Artagnan. He could
already see the intendant's beaming
smile change to a contortion of grief.
"But," he said, "Mouston is not so young
as he was, my dear fellow; besides, he
has grown fat and perhaps has lost his
fitness for active service."

"That may be true," replied Porthos;
"but I am used to him, and besides, he
wouldn't be willing to let me go without
him, he loves me so much."

"Oh, blind self-love!" thought
D'Artagnan.

"And you," asked Porthos, "haven't you
still in your service your old lackey,
that good, that brave, that
intelligent ---what, then, is his name?"

"Planchet -- yes, I have found him
again, but he is lackey no longer."

"What is he, then?"

"With his sixteen hundred francs -- you
remember, the sixteen hundred francs he
earned at the siege of La Rochelle by
carrying a letter to Lord de Winter --
he has set up a little shop in the Rue
des Lombards and is now a confectioner."

"Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des
Lombards! How does it happen, then, that
he is in your service?"

"He has been guilty of certain escapades
and fears he may be disturbed." And the
musketeer narrated to his friend
Planchet's adventure.

"Well," said Porthos, "if any one had
told you in the old times that the day
would come when Planchet would rescue
Rochefort and that you would protect him
in it ---- "

"I should not have believed him; but men
are changed by events."

"There is nothing truer than that," said
Porthos; "but what does not change, or
changes for the better, is wine. Taste
of this; it is a Spanish wine which our
friend Athos thought much of."

At that moment the steward came in to
consult his master upon the proceedings
of the next day and also with regard to
the shooting party which had been
proposed.

"Tell me, Mouston," said Porthos, "are
my arms in good condition?"

"Your arms, my lord -- what arms?"

"Zounds! my weapons."

"What weapons?"

"My military weapons."

"Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so."

"Make sure of it, and if they want it,
have them burnished up. Which is my best
cavalry horse?"

"Vulcan."

"And the best hack?"

"Bayard."

"What horse dost thou choose for
thyself?"

"I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal,
whose paces suit me."

"Strong, thinkest thou?"

"Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will
go night and day."

"That will do for us. See to these
horses. Polish up or make some one else
polish my arms. Then take pistols with
thee and a hunting-knife."

"Are we then going to travel, my lord?"
asked Mousqueton, rather uneasy.

"Something better still, Mouston."

"An expedition, sir?" asked the steward,
whose roses began to change into lilies.

"We are going to return to the service,
Mouston," replied Porthos, still trying
to restore his mustache to the military
curl it had long lost.

"Into the service -- the king's
service?" Mousqueton trembled; even his
fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke,
and he looked at D'Artagnan with an air
of reproach; he staggered, and his voice
was almost choked.

"Yes and no. We shall serve in a
campaign, seek out all sorts of
adventures -- return, in short, to our
former life."

These last words fell on Mousqueton like
a thunderbolt. It was those very
terrible old days that made the present
so excessively delightful, and the blow
was so great he rushed out, overcome,
and forgot to shut the door.

The two friends remained alone to speak
of the future and to build castles in
the air. The good wine which Mousqueton
had placed before them traced out in
glowing drops to D'Artagnan a fine
perspective, shining with quadruples and
pistoles, and showed to Porthos a blue
ribbon and a ducal mantle; they were, in
fact, asleep on the table when the
servants came to light them to their
bed.

Mousqueton was, however, somewhat
consoled by D'Artagnan, who the next day
told him that in all probability war
would always be carried on in the heart
of Paris and within reach of the Chateau
du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or
Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of
Pierrefonds, which was between Compiegne
and Villars-Cotterets.

"But -- formerly -- it appears," began
Mousqueton timidly.

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "we don't now
make war as we did formerly. To-day it's
a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask
Planchet."

Mousqueton inquired, therefore, the
state of the case of his old friend, who
confirmed the statement of D'Artagnan.
"But," he added, "in this war prisoners
stand a chance of being hung."

"The deuce they do!" said Mousqueton; "I
think I should like the siege of
Rochelle better than this war, then!"

Porthos, meantime, asked D'Artagnan to
give him his instructions how to proceed
on his journey.

"Four days," replied his friend, "are
necessary to reach Blois; one day to
rest there; three or four days to return
to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week,
with your suite, and go to the Hotel de
la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and there
await me."

"That's agreed," said Porthos.

"As to myself, I shall go around to see
Athos; for though I don't think his aid
worth much, one must with one's friends
observe all due politeness," said
D'Artagnan.

The friends then took leave of each
other on the very border of the estate
of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos
escorted his friend.

"At least," D'Artagnan said to himself,
as he took the road to
Villars-Cotterets, "at least I shall not
be alone in my undertaking. That devil,
Porthos, is a man of prodigious
strength; still, if Athos joins us,
well, we shall be three of us to laugh
at Aramis, that little coxcomb with his
too good luck."

At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the
cardinal:



"My Lord, -- I have already one man to
offer to your eminence, and he is well
worth twenty men. I am just setting out
for Blois. The Comte de la Fere inhabits
the Castle of Bragelonne, in the
environs of that city."



13

Two Angelic Faces.



The road was long, but the horses upon
which D'Artagnan and Planchet rode had
been refreshed in the well supplied
stables of the Lord of Bracieux; the
master and servant rode side by side,
conversing as they went, for D'Artagnan
had by degrees thrown off the master and
Planchet had entirely ceased to assume
the manners of a servant. He had been
raised by circumstances to the rank of a
confidant to his master. It was many
years since D'Artagnan had opened his
heart to any one; it happened, however,
that these two men, on meeting again,
assimilated perfectly. Planchet was in
truth no vulgar companion in these new
adventures; he was a man of uncommonly
sound sense. Without courting danger he
never shrank from an encounter; in
short, he had been a soldier and arms
ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the
footing of friends that D'Artagnan and
Planchet arrived in the neighborhood of
Blois.

Going along, D'Artagnan, shaking his
head, said:

"I know that my going to Athos is
useless and absurd; but still I owe this
courtesy to my old friend, a man who had
in him material for the most noble and
generous of characters."

"Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble
gentleman," said Planchet, "was he not?
Scattering money round about him as
Heaven sprinkles rain. Do you remember,
sir, that duel with the Englishman in
the inclosure des Carmes? Ah! how lofty,
how magnificent Monsieur Athos was that
day, when he said to his adversary: `You
have insisted on knowing my name, sir;
so much the worse for you, since I shall
be obliged to kill you.' I was near him,
those were his exact words, when he
stabbed his foe as he said he would, and
his adversary fell without saying, `Oh!'
'Tis a noble gentleman -- Monsieur
Athos."

"Yes, true as Gospel," said D'Artagnan;
"but one single fault has swallowed up
all these fine qualities."

"I remember well," said Planchet, "he
was fond of drinking -- in truth, he
drank, but not as other men drink. One
seemed, as he raised the wine to his
lips, to hear him say, `Come, juice of
the grape, and chase away my sorrows.'
And how he used to break the stem of a
glass or the neck of a bottle! There was
no one like him for that."

"And now," replied D'Artagnan, "behold
the sad spectacle that awaits us. This
noble gentleman with his lofty glance,
this handsome cavalier, so brilliant in
feats of arms that every one was
surprised that he held in his hand a
sword only instead of a baton of
command! Alas! we shall find him changed
into a broken down old man, with garnet
nose and eyes that slobber; we shall
find him extended on some lawn, whence
he will look at us with a languid eye
and peradventure will not recognize us.
God knows, Planchet, that I should fly
from a sight so sad if I did not wish to
show my respect for the illustrious
shadow of what was once the Comte de la
Fere, whom we loved so much."

Planchet shook his head and said
nothing. It was evident that he shared
his master's apprehensions.

"And then," resumed D'Artagnan, "to this
decrepitude is probably added poverty,
for he must have neglected the little
that he had, and the dirty scoundrel,
Grimaud, more taciturn than ever and
still more drunken than his master --
stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to
merely think of it."

"I fancy myself there and that I see him
staggering and hear him stammering,"
said Planchet, in a piteous tone, "but
at all events we shall soon know the
real state of things, for I imagine that
those lofty walls, now turning ruby in
the setting sun, are the walls of
Blois."

"Probably; and those steeples, pointed
and sculptured, that we catch a glimpse
of yonder, are similar to those that I
have heard described at Chambord."

At this moment one of those heavy
wagons, drawn by bullocks, which carry
the wood cut in the fine forests of the
country to the ports of the Loire, came
out of a byroad full of ruts and turned
on that which the two horsemen were
following. A man carrying a long switch
with a nail at the end of it, with which
he urged on his slow team, was walking
with the cart.

"Ho! friend," cried Planchet.

"What's your pleasure, gentlemen?"
replied the peasant, with a purity of
accent peculiar to the people of that
district and which might have put to
shame the cultured denizens of the
Sorbonne and the Rue de l'Universite.

"We are looking for the house of
Monsieur de la Fere," said D'Artagnan.

The peasant took off his hat on hearing
this revered name.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the wood that I
am carting is his; I cut it in his copse
and I am taking it to the chateau."

D'Artagnan determined not to question
this man; he did not wish to hear from
another what he had himself said to
Planchet.

"The chateau!" he said to himself, "what
chateau? Ah, I understand! Athos is not
a man to be thwarted; he, like Porthos,
has obliged his peasantry to call him
`my lord,' and to dignify his
pettifogging place by the name of
chateau. He had a heavy hand -- dear old
Athos -- after drinking."

D'Artagnan, after asking the man the
right way, continued his route, agitated
in spite of himself at the idea of
seeing once more that singular man whom
he had so truly loved and who had
contributed so much by advice and
example to his education as a gentleman.
He checked by degrees the speed of his
horse and went on, his head drooping as
if in deep thought.

Soon, as the road turned, the Chateau de
la Valliere appeared in view; then, a
quarter of a mile beyond, a white house,
encircled in sycamores, was visible at
the farther end of a group of trees,
which spring had powdered with a snow of
flowers.

On beholding this house, D'Artagnan,
calm as he was in general, felt an
unusual disturbance within his heart --
so powerful during the whole course of
life are the recollections of youth. He
proceeded, nevertheless, and came
opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in
the taste of the period.

Through the gate was seen
kitchen-gardens, carefully attended to,
a spacious courtyard, in which neighed
several horses held by valets in various
liveries, and a carriage, drawn by two
horses of the country.

"We are mistaken," said D'Artagnan.
"This cannot be the establishment of
Athos. Good heavens! suppose he is dead
and that this property now belongs to
some one who bears his name. Alight,
Planchet, and inquire, for I confess
that I have scarcely courage so to do."

Planchet alighted.

"Thou must add," said D'Artagnan, "that
a gentleman who is passing by wishes to
have the honor of paying his respects to
the Comte de la Fere, and if thou art
satisfied with what thou hearest, then
mention my name!"

Planchet, leading his horse by the
bridle, drew near to the gate and rang
the bell, and immediately a servant-man
with white hair and of erect stature,
notwithstanding his age, presented
himself.

"Does Monsieur le Comte de la Fere live
here?" asked Planchet.

"Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives,"
the servant replied to Planchet, who was
not in livery.

"A nobleman retired from service, is he
not?"

"Yes."

"And who had a lackey named Grimaud?"
persisted Planchet, who had prudently
considered that he couldn't have too
much information.

"Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the
chateau for the time being," said the
servitor, who, little used as he was to
such inquiries, began to examine
Planchet from head to foot.

"Then," cried Planchet joyously, "I see
well that it is the same Comte de la
Fere whom we seek. Be good enough to
open to me, for I wish to announce to
monsieur le comte that my master, one of
his friends, is here, and wishes to
greet him."

"Why didn't you say so?" said the
servitor, opening the gate. "But where
is your master?"

"He is following me."

The servitor opened the gate and walked
before Planchet, who made a sign to
D'Artagnan. The latter, his heart
palpitating more than ever, entered the
courtyard without dismounting.

Whilst Planchet was standing on the
steps before the house he heard a voice
say:

"Well, where is this gentleman and why
do they not bring him here?"

This voice, the sound of which reached
D'Artagnan, reawakened in his heart a
thousand sentiments, a thousand
recollections that he had forgotten. He
vaulted hastily from his horse, whilst
Planchet, with a smile on his lips,
advanced toward the master of the house.

"But I know you, my lad," said Athos,
appearing on the threshold.

"Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me
and I know you. I am Planchet --
Planchet, whom you know well." But the
honest servant could say no more, so
much was he overcome by this unexpected
interview.

"What, Planchet, is Monsieur d'Artagnan
here?"

"Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!"
cried D'Artagnan, in a faltering voice
and almost staggering from agitation.

At these words a visible emotion was
expressed on the beautiful countenance
and calm features of Athos. He rushed
toward D'Artagnan with eyes fixed upon
him and clasped him in his arms.
D'Artagnan, equally moved, pressed him
also closely to him, whilst tears stood
in his eyes. Athos then took him by the
hand and led him into the drawing-room,
where there were several people. Every
one arose.

"I present to you," he said, "Monsieur
le Chevalier D'Artagnan, lieutenant of
his majesty's musketeers, a devoted
friend and one of the most excellent,
brave gentlemen that I have ever known."

D'Artagnan received the compliments of
those who were present in his own way,
and whilst the conversation became
general he looked earnestly at Athos.

Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all!
His fine eyes, no longer surrounded by
that dark line which nights of
dissipation pencil too infallibly,
seemed larger, more liquid than ever.
His face, a little elongated, had gained
in calm dignity what it had lost in
feverish excitement. His hand, always
wonderfully beautiful and strong, was
set off by a ruffle of lace, like
certain hands by Titian and Vandyck. He
was less stiff than formerly. His long,
dark hair, softly powdered here and
there with silver tendrils, fell
elegantly over his shoulders in wavy
curls; his voice was still youthful, as
if belonging to a Hercules of
twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth,
which he had preserved white and sound,
gave an indescribable charm to his
smile.

Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the
two friends were longing to be alone,
prepared to depart, when a noise of dogs
barking resounded through the courtyard
and many persons said at the same
moment:

"Ah! 'tis Raoul, who is come home."

Athos, as the name of Raoul was
pronounced, looked inquisitively at
D'Artagnan, in order to see if any
curiosity was painted on his face. But
D'Artagnan was still in confusion and
turned around almost mechanically when a
fine young man of fifteen years of age,
dressed simply, but in perfect taste,
entered the room, raising, as he came,
his hat, adorned with a long plume of
scarlet feathers.

Nevertheless, D'Artagnan was struck by
the appearance of this new personage. It
seemed to explain to him the change in
Athos; a resemblance between the boy and
the man explained the mystery of this
regenerated existence. He remained
listening and gazing.

"Here you are, home again, Raoul," said
the comte.

"Yes, sir," replied the youth, with deep
respect, "and I have performed the
commission that you gave me."

"But what's the matter, Raoul?" said
Athos, very anxiously. "You are pale and
agitated."

"Sir," replied the young man, "it is on
account of an accident which has
happened to our little neighbor."

"To Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" asked
Athos, quickly.

"What is it?" cried many persons
present.

"She was walking with her nurse
Marceline, in the place where the
woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on
horseback, I stopped. She saw me also
and in trying to jump from the end of a
pile of wood on which she had mounted,
the poor child fell and was not able to
rise again. I fear that she has badly
sprained her ankle."

"Oh, heavens!" cried Athos. "And her
mother, Madame de Saint-Remy, have they
yet told her of it?"

"No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at
Blois with the Duchess of Orleans. I am
afraid that what was first done was
unskillful, if not worse than useless. I
am come, sir, to ask your advice."

"Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or,
rather, take horse and ride immediately
yourself."

Raoul bowed.

"But where is Louise?" asked the comte.

"I have brought her here, sir, and I
have deposited her in charge of
Charlotte, who, till better advice
comes, has bathed the foot in cold
well-water."

The guests now all took leave of Athos,
excepting the old Duc de Barbe, who, as
an old friend of the family of La
Valliere, went to see little Louise and
offered to take her to Blois in his
carriage.

"You are right, sir," said Athos. "She
will be the sooner with her mother. As
for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your
fault, some giddiness or folly."

"No, sir, I assure you," muttered Raoul,
"it is not."

"Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!" cried
the young girl, while Raoul turned pale
at the idea of his being perhaps the
cause of her disaster.

"Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to
Blois and you must make your excuses and
mine to Madame de Saint-Remy."

The youth looked pleased. He again took
in his strong arms the little girl,
whose pretty golden head and smiling
face rested on his shoulder, and placed
her gently in the carriage; then jumping
on his horse with the elegance of a
first-rate esquire, after bowing to
Athos and D'Artagnan, he went off close
by the door of the carriage, on somebody
inside of which his eyes were riveted.



14

The Castle of Bragelonne.



Whilst this scene was going on,
D'Artagnan remained with open mouth and
a confused gaze. Everything had turned
out so differently from what he expected
that he was stupefied with wonder.

Athos, who had been observing him and
guessing his thoughts, took his arm and
led him into the garden.

"Whilst supper is being prepared," he
said, smiling, "you will not, my friend,
be sorry to have the mystery which so
puzzles you cleared up."

"True, monsieur le comte," replied
D'Artagnan, who felt that by degrees
Athos was resuming that great influence
which aristocracy had over him.

Athos smiled.

"First and foremost, dear D'Artagnan, we
have no title such as count here. When I
call you `chevalier,' it is in
presenting you to my guests, that they
may know who you are. But to you,
D'Artagnan, I am, I hope, still dear
Athos, your comrade, your friend. Do you
intend to stand on ceremony because you
are less attached to me than you were?"

"Oh! God forbid!"

"Then let us be as we used to be; let us
be open with each other. You are
surprised at what you see here?"

"Extremely."

"But above all things, I am a marvel to
you?"

"I confess it."

"I am still young, am I not? Should you
not have known me again, in spite of my
eight-and-forty years of age?"

"On the contrary, I do not find you the
same person at all."

"I understand," cried Athos, with a
gentle blush. "Everything, D'Artagnan,
even folly, has its limit."

"Then your means, it appears, are
improved; you have a capital house --
your own, I presume? You have a park,
and horses, servants."

Athos smiled.

"Yes, I inherited this little property
when I quitted the army, as I told you.
The park is twenty acres -- twenty,
comprising kitchen-gardens and a common.
I have two horses, -- I do not count my
servant's bobtailed nag. My sporting
dogs consist of two pointers, two
harriers and two setters. But then all
this extravagance is not for myself,"
added Athos, laughing.

"Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul,"
said D'Artagnan.

"You guess aright, my friend; this youth
is an orphan, deserted by his mother,
who left him in the house of a poor
country priest. I have brought him up.
It is Raoul who has worked in me the
change you see; I was dried up like a
miserable tree, isolated, attached to
nothing on earth; it was only a deep
affection that could make me take root
again and drag me back to life. This
child has caused me to recover what I
had lost. I had no longer any wish to
live for myself, I have lived for him. I
have corrected the vices that I had; I
have assumed the virtues that I had not.
Precept something, but example more. I
may be mistaken, but I believe that
Raoul will be as accomplished a
gentleman as our degenerate age could
display."

The remembrance of Milady recurred to
D'Artagnan.

"And you are happy?" he said to his
friend.

"As happy as it is allowed to one of
God's creatures to be on this earth; but
say out all you think, D'Artagnan, for
you have not yet done so."

"You are too bad, Athos; one can hide
nothing from you," answered D'Artagnan.
"I wished to ask you if you ever feel
any emotions of terror resembling ---- "

"Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and
no. I do not feel remorse, because that
woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her
punishment. Had she one redeeming trait?
I doubt it. I do not feel remorse,
because had we allowed her to live she
would have persisted in her work of
destruction. But I do not mean, my
friend that we were right in what we
did. Perhaps all blood demands some
expiation. Hers had been accomplished;
it remains, possibly, for us to
accomplish ours."

"I have sometimes thought as you do,
Athos."

"She had a son, that unhappy woman?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever heard of him?"

"Never."

"He must be about twenty-three years of
age," said Athos, in a low tone. "I
often think of that young man,
D'Artagnan."

"Strange! for I had forgotten him," said
the lieutenant.

Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.

"And Lord de Winter -- do you know
anything about him?"

"I know that he is in high favor with
Charles I."

"The fortunes of that monarch now are at
low water. He shed the blood of
Strafford; that confirms what I said
just now -- blood will have blood. And
the queen?"

"What queen?"

"Madame Henrietta of England, daughter
of Henry IV."

"She is at the Louvre, as you know."

"Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her
daughter, during the severest cold, was
obliged for want of fire to remain in
bed. Do you grasp that?" said Athos,
shrugging his shoulders; "the daughter
of Henry IV. shivering for want of a
fagot! Why did she not ask from any one
of us a home instead of from Mazarin?
She should have wanted nothing."

"Have you ever seen the queen of
England?" inquired D'Artagnan.

"No; but my mother, as a child, saw her.
Did I ever tell you that my mother was
lady of honor to Marie de Medici "

"Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke
much of such matters."

"Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right,"
Athos replied; "but then there must be
some occasion for speaking."

"Porthos wouldn't have waited for it so
patiently," said D'Artagnan, with a
smile.

"Every one according to his nature, my
dear D'Artagnan. Porthos, in spite of a
touch of vanity, has many excellent
qualities. Have you seen him?"

"I left him five days ago," said
D'Artagnan, and he portrayed with Gascon
wit and sprightliness the magnificence
of Porthos in his Chateau of
Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to
launch a few arrows of wit at the
excellent Monsieur Mouston.

"I sometimes wonder," replied Athos,
smiling at that gayety which recalled
the good old days, "that we could form
an association of men who would be,
after twenty years of separation, still
so closely bound together. Friendship
throws out deep roots in honest hearts,
D'Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the
evil-minded who deny friendship; they
cannot understand it. And Aramis?"

"I have seen him also," said D'Artagnan;
"but he seemed to me cold."

"Ah, you have seen Aramis?" said Athos,
turning on D'Artagnan a searching look.
"Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my
dear friend, that you are making to the
Temple of Friendship, as the poets would
say."

"Why, yes," replied D'Artagnan, with
embarrassment.

"Aramis, you know," continued Athos, "is
naturally cold, and then he is always
involved in intrigues with women."

"I believe he is at this moment in a
very complicated one," said D'Artagnan.

Athos made no reply.

"He is not curious," thought D'Artagnan.

Athos not only failed to reply, he even
changed the subject of conversation.

"You see," said he, calling D'Artagnan's
attention to the fact that they had come
back to the chateau after an hour's
walk, "we have made a tour of my
domains."

"All is charming and everything savors
of nobility," replied D'Artagnan.

At this instant they heard the sound of
horses' feet.

"'Tis Raoul who has come back," said
Athos; "and we can now hear how the poor
child is."

In fact, the young man appeared at the
gate, covered with dust, entered the
courtyard, leaped from his horse, which
he consigned to the charge of a groom,
and then went to greet the count and
D'Artagnan.

"Monsieur," said Athos, placing his hand
on D'Artagnan's shoulder, "monsieur is
the Chevalier D'Artagnan of whom you
have often heard me speak, Raoul."

"Monsieur," said the young man, saluting
again and more profoundly, "monsieur le
comte has pronounced your name before me
as an example whenever he wished to
speak of an intrepid and generous
gentleman."

That little compliment could not fail to
move D'Artagnan. He extended a hand to
Raoul and said:

"My young friend, all the praises that
are given me should be passed on to the
count here; for he has educated me in
everything and it is not his fault that
his pupil profited so little from his
instructions. But he will make it up in
you I am sure. I like your manner,
Raoul, and your politeness has touched
me."

Athos was more delighted than can be
told. He looked at D'Artagnan with an
expression of gratitude and then
bestowed on Raoul one of those strange
smiles, of which children are so proud
when they receive them.

"Now," said D'Artagnan to himself,
noticing that silent play of
countenance, "I am sure of it."

"I hope the accident has been of no
consequence?"

"They don't yet know, sir, on account of
the swelling; but the doctor is afraid
some tendon has been injured."

At this moment a little boy, half
peasant, half foot-boy, came to announce
supper.

Athos led his guest into a dining-room
of moderate size, the windows of which
opened on one side on a garden, on the
other on a hot-house full of magnificent
flowers.

D'Artagnan glanced at the dinner
service. The plate was magnificent, old,
and appertaining to the family.
D'Artagnan stopped to look at a
sideboard on which was a superb ewer of
silver.

"That workmanship is divine!" he
exclaimed.

"Yes, a chef d'oeuvre of the great
Florentine sculptor, Benvenuto Cellini,"
replied Athos.

"What battle does it represent?"

"That of Marignan, just at the point
where one of my forefathers is offering
his sword to Francis I., who has broken
his. It was on that occasion that my
ancestor, Enguerrand de la Fere, was
made a knight of the Order of St.
Michael; besides which, the king,
fifteen years afterward, gave him also
this ewer and a sword which you may have
seen formerly in my house, also a lovely
specimen of workmanship. Men were giants
in those times," said Athos; "now we are
pigmies in comparison. Let us sit down
to supper. Call Charles," he added,
addressing the boy who waited.

"My good Charles, I particularly
recommend to your care Planchet, the
laquais of Monsieur D'Artagnan. He likes
good wine; now you have the key of the
cellar. He has slept a long time on a
hard bed, so he won't object to a soft
one; take every care of him, I beg of
you." Charles bowed and retired.

"You think of everything," said
D'Artagnan; "and I thank you for
Planchet, my dear Athos."

Raoul stared on hearing this name and
looked at the count to be quite sure
that it was he whom the lieutenant thus
addressed.

"That name sounds strange to you," said
Athos, smiling; "it was my nom de guerre
when Monsieur D'Artagnan, two other
gallant friends and myself performed
some feats of arms at the siege of La
Rochelle, under the deceased cardinal
and Monsieur de Bassompierre. My friend
is still so kind as to address me by
that old and well beloved appellation,
which makes my heart glad when I hear
it."

"'Tis an illustrious name," said the
lieutenant, "and had one day triumphal
honors paid to it."

"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Raoul.

"You have not forgotten St. Gervais,
Athos, and the napkin which was
converted into a banner?" and he then
related to Raoul the story of the
bastion, and Raoul fancied he was
listening to one of those deeds of arms
belonging to days of chivalry, so
gloriously recounted by Tasso and
Ariosto.

"D'Artagnan does not tell you, Raoul,"
said Athos, in his turn, "that he was
reckoned one of the finest swordsmen of
his time -- a knuckle of iron, a wrist
of steel, a sure eye and a glance of
fire; that's what his adversary met
with. He was eighteen, only three years
older than you are, Raoul, when I saw
him set to work, pitted against tried
men."

"And did Monsieur D'Artagnan come off
the conqueror?" asked the young man,
with glistening eye.

"I killed one man, if I recollect
rightly," replied D'Artagnan, with a
look of inquiry directed to Athos;
"another I disarmed or wounded, I don't
remember which."

"Wounded!" said Athos; "it was a
phenomenon of skill."

The young man would willingly have
prolonged this conversation far into the
night, but Athos pointed out to him that
his guest must need repose. D'Artagnan
would fain have declared that he was not
fatigued, but Athos insisted on his
retiring to his chamber, conducted
thither by Raoul.



15

Athos as a Diplomatist.



D'Artagnan retired to bed -- not to
sleep, but to think over all he had
heard that evening. Being naturally
goodhearted, and having had once a
liking for Athos, which had grown into a
sincere friendship, he was delighted at
thus meeting a man full of intelligence
and moral strength, instead of a
drunkard. He admitted without annoyance
the continued superiority of Athos over
himself, devoid as he was of that
jealousy which might have saddened a
less generous disposition; he was
delighted also that the high qualities
of Athos appeared to promise favorably
for his mission. Nevertheless, it seemed
to him that Athos was not in all
respects sincere and frank. Who was the
youth he had adopted and who bore so
striking a resemblance to him? What
could explain Athos's having re-entered
the world and the extreme sobriety he
had observed at table? The absence of
Grimaud, whose name had never once been
uttered by Athos, gave D'Artagnan
uneasiness. It was evident either that
he no longer possessed the confidence of
his friend, or that Athos was bound by
some invisible chain, or that he had
been forewarned of the lieutenant's
visit.

He could not help thinking of M.
Rochefort, whom he had seen in Notre
Dame; could De Rochefort have
forestalled him with Athos? Again, the
moderate fortune which Athos possessed,
concealed as it was, so skillfully,
seemed to show a regard for appearances
and to betray a latent ambition which
might be easily aroused. The clear and
vigorous intellect of Athos would render
him more open to conviction than a less
able man would be. He would enter into
the minister's schemes with the more
ardor, because his natural activity
would be doubled by necessity.

Resolved to seek an explanation on all
these points on the following day,
D'Artagnan, in spite of his fatigue,
prepared for an attack and determined
that it should take place after
breakfast. He determined to cultivate
the good-will of the youth Raoul and,
either whilst fencing with him or when
out shooting, to extract from his
simplicity some information which would
connect the Athos of old times with the
Athos of the present. But D'Artagnan at
the same time, being a man of extreme
caution, was quite aware what injury he
should do himself, if by any
indiscretion or awkwardness he should
betray has manoeuvering to the
experienced eye of Athos. Besides, to
tell truth, whilst D'Artagnan was quite
disposed to adopt a subtle course
against the cunning of Aramis or the
vanity of Porthos, he was ashamed to
equivocate with Athos, true-hearted,
open Athos. It seemed to him that if
Porthos and Aramis deemed him superior
to them in the arts of diplomacy, they
would like him all the better for it;
but that Athos, on the contrary, would
despise him.

"Ah! why is not Grimaud, the taciturn
Grimaud, here?" thought D'Artagnan,
"there are so many things his silence
would have told me; with Grimaud silence
was another form of eloquence!"

There reigned a perfect stillness in the
house. D'Artagnan had heard the door
shut and the shutters barred; the dogs
became in their turn silent. At last a
nightingale, lost in a thicket of
shrubs, in the midst of its most
melodious cadences had fluted low and
lower into stillness and fallen asleep.
Not a sound was heard in the castle,
except of a footstep up and down, in the
chamber above -- as he supposed, the
bedroom of Athos.

"He is walking about and thinking,"
thought D'Artagnan; "but of what? It is
impossible to know; everything else
might be guessed, but not that."

At length Athos went to bed, apparently,
for the noise ceased.

Silence and fatigue together overcame
D'Artagnan and sleep overtook him also.
He was not, however, a good sleeper.
Scarcely had dawn gilded his window
curtains when he sprang out of bed and
opened the windows. Somebody, he
perceived, was in the courtyard, moving
stealthily. True to his custom of never
passing anything over that it was within
his power to know, D'Artagnan looked out
of the window and perceived the close
red coat and brown hair of Raoul.

The young man was opening the door of
the stable. He then, with noiseless
haste, took out the horse that he had
ridden on the previous evening, saddled
and bridled it himself and led the
animal into the alley to the right of
the kitchen-garden, opened a side door
which conducted him to a bridle road,
shut it after him, and D'Artagnan saw
him pass by like a dart, bending, as he
went, beneath the pendent flowery
branches of maple and acacia. The road,
as D'Artagnan had observed, was the way
to Blois.

"So!" thought the Gascon "here's a young
blade who has already his love affair,
who doesn't at all agree with Athos in
his hatred to the fair sex. He's not
going to hunt, for he has neither dogs
nor arms; he's not going on a message,
for he goes secretly. Why does he go in
secret? Is he afraid of me or of his
father? for I am sure the count is his
father. By Jove! I shall know about that
soon, for I shall soon speak out to
Athos."

Day was now advanced; all the noises
that had ceased the night before
reawakened, one after the other. The
bird on the branch, the dog in his
kennel, the sheep in the field, the
boats moored in the Loire, even, became
alive and vocal. The latter, leaving the
shore, abandoned themselves gaily to the
current. The Gascon gave a last twirl to
his mustache, a last turn to his hair,
brushed, from habit, the brim of his hat
with the sleeve of his doublet, and went
downstairs. Scarcely had he descended
the last step of the threshold when he
saw Athos bent down toward the ground,
as if he were looking for a crown-piece
in the dust.

"Good-morning, my dear host," cried
D'Artagnan.

"Good-day to you; have you slept well?"

"Excellently, Athos, but what are you
looking for? You are perhaps a tulip
fancier?"

"My dear friend, if I am, you must not
laugh at me for being so. In the country
people alter; one gets to like, without
knowing it, all those beautiful objects
that God causes to spring from the
earth, which are despised in cities. I
was looking anxiously for some iris
roots I planted here, close to this
reservoir, and which some one has
trampled upon this morning. These
gardeners are the most careless people
in the world; in bringing the horse out
to the water they've allowed him to walk
over the border."

D'Artagnan began to smile.

"Ah! you think so, do you?"

And he took his friend along the alley,
where a number of tracks like those
which had trampled down the flowerbeds,
were visible.

"Here are the horse's hoofs again, it
seems, Athos," he said carelessly.

"Yes, indeed, the marks are recent."

"Quite so," replied the lieutenant.

"Who went out this morning?" Athos
asked, uneasily. "Has any horse got
loose?"

"Not likely," answered the Gascon;
"these marks are regular."

"Where is Raoul?" asked Athos; "how is
it that I have not seen him?"

"Hush!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, putting
his finger on his lips; and he related
what he had seen, watching Athos all the
while.

"Ah, he's gone to Blois; the poor
boy ---- "

"Wherefore?"

"Ah, to inquire after the little La
Valliere; she has sprained her foot, you
know."

"You think he has?"

"I am sure of it," said Athos; "don't
you see that Raoul is in love?"

"Indeed! with whom -- with a child seven
years old?"

"Dear friend, at Raoul's age the heart
is so expansive that it must encircle
one object or another, fancied or real.
Well, his love is half real, half
fanciful. She is the prettiest little
creature in the world, with flaxen hair,
blue eyes, -- at once saucy and
languishing."

"But what say you to Raoul's fancy?"

"Nothing -- I laugh at Raoul; but this
first desire of the heart is imperious.
I remember, just at his age, how deep in
love I was with a Grecian statue which
our good king, then Henry IV., gave my
father, insomuch that I was mad with
grief when they told me that the story
of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable."

"It is mere want of occupation. You do
not make Raoul work, so he takes his own
way of employing himself."

"Exactly; therefore I think of sending
him away from here."

"You will be wise to do so."

"No doubt of it; but it will break his
heart. So long as three or four years
ago he used to adorn and adore his
little idol, whom he will some day fall
in love with in right earnest if he
remains here. The parents of little La
Valliere have for a long time perceived
and been amused at it; now they begin to
look concerned."

"Nonsense! However, Raoul must be
diverted from this fancy. Send him away
or you will never make a man of him."

"I think I shall send him to Paris."

"So!" thought D'Artagnan, and it seemed
to him that the moment for attack had
arrived.

"Suppose," he said, "we roughly chalk
out a career for this young man. I wish
to consult you about some thing."

"Do so."

"Do you think it is time for us to enter
the service?"

"But are you not still in the service --
you, D'Artagnan?"

"I mean active service. Our former life,
has it still no attractions for you?
would you not be happy to begin anew in
my society and in that of Porthos, the
exploits of our youth?"

"Do you propose to me to do so,
D'Artagnan?"

"Decidedly and honestly."

"On whose side?" asked Athos, fixing his
clear, benevolent glance on the
countenance of the Gascon.

"Ah, devil take it, you speak in
earnest ---- "

"And must have a definite answer.
Listen, D'Artagnan. There is but one
person, or rather, one cause, to whom a
man like me can be useful -- that of the
king."

"Exactly," answered the musketeer.

"Yes, but let us understand each other,"
returned Athos, seriously. "If by the
cause of the king you mean that of
Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not
understand each other."

"I don't say exactly," answered the
Gascon, confused.

"Come, D'Artagnan, don't let us play a
sidelong game; your hesitation, your
evasion, tells me at once on whose side
you are; for that party no one dares
openly to recruit, and when people
recruit for it, it is with averted eyes
and humble voice."

"Ah! my dear Athos!"

"You know that I am not alluding to you;
you are the pearl of brave, bold men. I
speak of that spiteful and intriguing
Italian -- of the pedant who has tried
to put on his own head a crown which he
stole from under a pillow -- of the
scoundrel who calls his party the party
of the king -- who wants to send the
princes of the blood to prison, not
daring to kill them, as our great
cardinal -- our cardinal did -- of the
miser, who weighs his gold pieces and
keeps the clipped ones for fear, though
he is rich, of losing them at play next
morning -- of the impudent fellow who
insults the queen, as they say -- so
much the worse for her -- and who is
going in three months to make war upon
us, in order that he may retain his
pensions; is that the master whom you
propose to me? I thank you, D'Artagnan."

"You are more impetuous than you were,"
returned D'Artagnan. "Age has warmed,
not chilled your blood. Who informed you
this was the master I propose to you?
Devil take it," he muttered to himself,
"don't let me betray my secrets to a man
not inclined to entertain them."

"Well, then," said Athos, "what are your
schemes? what do you propose?"

"Zounds! nothing more than natural. You
live on your estate, happy in golden
mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty
thousand francs income. Aramis has
always fifty duchesses quarreling over
the priest, as they quarreled formerly
over the musketeer; but I -- what have I
in the world? I have worn my cuirass
these twenty years, kept down in this
inferior rank, without going forward or
backward, hardly half living. In fact, I
am dead. Well! when there is some idea
of being resuscitated, you say he's a
scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser,
a bad master! By Jove! I am of your
opinion, but find me a better one or
give me the means of living."

Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.

"Good! D'Artagnan is for Mazarin," he
said to himself.

From that moment he grew very guarded.

On his side D'Artagnan became more
cautious also.

"You spoke to me," Athos resumed, "of
Porthos; have you persuaded him to seek
his fortune? But he has wealth, I
believe, already."

"Doubtless he has. But such is man, we
always want something more than we
already have."

"What does Porthos wish for?"

"To be a baron."

"Ah, true! I forgot," said Athos,
laughing.

"'Tis true!" thought the Gascon, "where
has he heard it? Does he correspond with
Aramis? Ah! if I knew that he did I
should know all."

The conversation was interrupted by the
entrance of Raoul.

"Is our little neighbor worse?" asked
D'Artagnan, seeing a look of vexation on
the face of the youth.

"Ah, sir!" replied Raoul, "her fall is a
very serious one, and without any
ostensible injury, the physician fears
she will be lame for life."

"This is terrible," said Athos.

"And what makes me all the more
wretched, sir, is, that I was the cause
of this misfortune."

"How so?" asked Athos.

"It was to run to meet me that she
leaped from that pile of wood."

"There's only one remedy, dear Raoul --
that is, to marry her as a compensation
" remarked D'Artagnan.

"Ah, sir!" answered Raoul, "you joke
about a real misfortune; that is cruel,
indeed."

The good understanding between the two
friends was not in the least altered by
the morning's skirmish. They breakfasted
with a good appetite, looking now and
then at poor Raoul, who with moist eyes
and a full heart, scarcely ate at all.

After breakfast two letters arrived for
Athos, who read them with profound
attention, whilst D'Artagnan could not
restrain himself from jumping up several
times on seeing him read these epistles,
in one of which, there being at the time
a very strong light, he perceived the
fine writing of Aramis. The other was in
a feminine hand, long, and crossed.

"Come," said D'Artagnan to Raoul, seeing
that Athos wished to be alone, "come,
let us take a turn in the fencing
gallery; that will amuse you."

And they both went into a low room where
there were foils, gloves, masks,
breastplates, and all the accessories
for a fencing match.

In a quarter of an hour Athos joined
them and at the same moment Charles
brought in a letter for D'Artagnan,
which a messenger had just desired might
be instantly delivered.

It was now Athos's turn to take a sly
look.

D'Artagnan read the letter with apparent
calmness and said, shaking his head:

"See, dear friend, what it is to belong
to the army. Faith, you are indeed right
not to return to it. Monsieur de
Treville is ill, so my company can't do
without me; there! my leave is at an
end!"

"Do you return to Paris?" asked Athos,
quickly.

"Egad! yes; but why don't you come there
also?"

Athos colored a little and answered:

"Should I go, I shall be delighted to
see you there."

"Halloo, Planchet!" cried the Gascon
from the door, "we must set out in ten
minutes; give the horses some hay.

Then turning to Athos he added:

"I seem to miss something here. I am
really sorry to go away without having
seen Grimaud."

"Grimaud!" replied Athos. "I'm surprised
you have never so much as asked after
him. I have lent him to a friend ---- "

"Who will understand the signs he
makes?" returned D'Artagnan.

"I hope so."

The friends embraced cordially;
D'Artagnan pressed Raoul's hand.

"Will you not come with me?" he said; "I
shall pass by Blois."

Raoul turned toward Athos, who showed
him by a secret sign that he did not
wish him to go.

"No, monsieur," replied the young man;
"I will remain with monsieur le comte."

"Adieu, then, to both, my good friends,"
said D'Artagnan; "may God preserve you!
as we used to say when we said good-bye
to each other in the late cardinal's
time."

Athos waved his hand, Raoul bowed, and
D'Artagnan and Planchet set out.

The count followed them with his eyes,
his hands resting on the shoulders of
the youth, whose height was almost equal
to his own; but as soon as they were out
of sight he said:

"Raoul, we set out to-night for Paris."

"Eh?" cried the young man, turning pale.

"You may go and offer your adieux and
mine to Madame de Saint-Remy. I shall
wait for you here till seven."

The young man bent low, with an
expression of sorrow and gratitude
mingled, and retired in order to saddle
his horse.

As to D'Artagnan, scarcely, on his side,
was he out of sight when he drew from
his pocket a letter, which he read over
again:



"Return immediately to Paris. -- J.
M ---- ."



"The epistle is laconic," said
D'Artagnan; "and if there had not been a
postscript, probably I should not have
understood it; but happily there is a
postscript."

And he read that welcome postscript,
which made him forget the abruptness of
the letter.



"P. S. -- Go to the king's treasurer, at
Blois; tell him your name and show him
this letter; you will receive two
hundred pistoles."



"Assuredly," said D'Artagnan, "I admire
this piece of prose. The cardinal writes
better than I thought. Come, Planchet,
let us pay a visit to the king's
treasurer and then set off."

"Toward Paris, sir?"

"Toward Paris."

And they set out at as hard a canter as
their horses could maintain.



16

The Duc de Beaufort.



The circumstances that had hastened the
return of D'Artagnan to Paris were as
follows:

One evening, when Mazarin, according to
custom, went to visit the queen, in
passing the guard-chamber he heard loud
voices; wishing to know on what topic
the soldiers were conversing, he
approached with his wonted wolf-like
step, pushed open the door and put his
head close to the chink.

There was a dispute among the guards.

"I tell you," one of them was saying,
"that if Coysel predicted that, 'tis as
good as true; I know nothing about it,
but I have heard say that he's not only
an astrologer, but a magician."

"Deuce take it, friend, if he's one of
thy friends thou wilt ruin him in saying
so."

"Why?"

"Because he may be tried for it."

"Ah! absurd! they don't burn sorcerers
nowadays."

"No? 'Tis not a long time since the late
cardinal burnt Urban Grandier, though."

"My friend, Urban Grandier wasn't a
sorcerer, he was a learned man. He
didn't predict the future, he knew the
past -- often a more dangerous thing."

Mazarin nodded an assent, but wishing to
know what this prediction was, about
which they disputed, he remained in the
same place.

"I don't say," resumed the guard, "that
Coysel is not a sorcerer, but I say that
if his prophecy gets wind, it's a sure
way to prevent it's coming true."

"How so?"

"Why, in this way: if Coysel says loud
enough for the cardinal to hear him, on
such or such a day such a prisoner will
escape, 'tis plain that the cardinal
will take measures of precaution and
that the prisoner will not escape."

"Good Lord!" said another guard, who
might have been thought asleep on a
bench, but who had lost not a syllable
of the conversation, "do you suppose
that men can escape their destiny? If it
is written yonder, in Heaven, that the
Duc de Beaufort is to escape, he will
escape; and all the precautions of the
cardinal will not prevent it."

Mazarin started. He was an Italian and
therefore superstitious. He walked
straight into the midst of the guards,
who on seeing him were silent.

"What were you saying?" he asked with
his flattering manner; "that Monsieur de
Beaufort had escaped, were you not?"

"Oh, no, my lord!" said the incredulous
soldier. "He's well guarded now; we only
said he would escape."

"Who said so?"

"Repeat your story, Saint Laurent,"
replied the man, turning to the
originator of the tale.

"My lord," said the guard, "I have
simply mentioned the prophecy I heard
from a man named Coysel, who believes
that, be he ever so closely watched and
guarded, the Duke of Beaufort will
escape before Whitsuntide."

"Coysel is a madman!" returned the
cardinal.

"No," replied the soldier, tenacious in
his credulity; "he has foretold many
things which have come to pass; for
instance, that the queen would have a
son; that Monsieur Coligny would be
killed in a duel with the Duc de Guise;
and finally, that the coadjutor would be
made cardinal. Well! the queen has not
only one son, but two; then, Monsieur de
Coligny was killed, and ---- "

"Yes," said Mazarin, "but the coadjutor
is not yet made cardinal!"

"No, my lord, but he will be," answered
the guard.

Mazarin made a grimace, as if he meant
to say, "But he does not wear the
cardinal's cap;" then he added:

"So, my friend, it's your opinion that
Monsieur de Beaufort will escape?"

"That's my idea, my lord; and if your
eminence were to offer to make me at
this moment governor of the castle of
Vincennes, I should refuse it. After
Whitsuntide it would be another thing."

There is nothing so convincing as a firm
conviction. It has its own effect upon
the most incredulous; and far from being
incredulous, Mazarin was superstitious.
He went away thoughtful and anxious and
returned to his own room, where he
summoned Bernouin and desired him to
fetch thither in the morning the special
guard he had placed over Monsieur de
Beaufort and to awaken him whenever he
should arrive.

The guard had, in fact, touched the
cardinal in the tenderest point. During
the whole five years in which the Duc de
Beaufort had been in prison not a day
had passed in which the cardinal had not
felt a secret dread of his escape. It
was not possible, as he knew well, to
confine for the whole of his life the
grandson of Henry IV., especially when
this young prince was scarcely thirty
years of age. But however and whensoever
he did escape, what hatred he must
cherish against him to whom he owed his
long imprisonment; who had taken him,
rich, brave, glorious, beloved by women,
feared by men, to cut off his life's
best, happiest years; for it is not
life, it is merely existence, in prison!
Meantime, Mazarin redoubled his
surveillance over the duke. But like the
miser in the fable, he could not sleep
for thinking of his treasure. Often he
awoke in the night, suddenly, dreaming
that he had been robbed of Monsieur de
Beaufort. Then he inquired about him and
had the vexation of hearing that the
prisoner played, drank, sang, but that
whilst playing, drinking, singing, he
often stopped short to vow that Mazarin
should pay dear for all the amusements
he had forced him to enter into at
Vincennes.

So much did this one idea haunt the
cardinal even in his sleep, that when at
seven in the morning Bernouin came to
arouse him, his first words were: "Well,
what's the matter? Has Monsieur de
Beaufort escaped from Vincennes?"

"I do not think so, my lord," said
Bernouin; "but you will hear about him,
for La Ramee is here and awaits the
commands of your eminence."

"Tell him to come in," said Mazarin,
arranging his pillows, so that he might
receive the visitor sitting up in bed.

The officer entered, a large fat man,
with an open physiognomy. His air of
perfect serenity made Mazarin uneasy.

"Approach, sir," said the cardinal.

The officer obeyed.

"Do you know what they are saying here?"

"No, your eminence."

"Well, they say that Monsieur de
Beaufort is going to escape from
Vincennes, if he has not done so
already."

The officer's face expressed complete
stupefaction. He opened at once his
little eyes and his great mouth, to
inhale better the joke his eminence
deigned to address to him, and ended by
a burst of laughter, so violent that his
great limbs shook in hilarity as they
would have done in an ague.

"Escape! my lord -- escape! Your
eminence does not then know where
Monsieur de Beaufort is?"

"Yes, I do, sir; in the donjon of
Vincennes."

"Yes, sir; in a room, the walls of which
are seven feet thick, with grated
windows, each bar as thick as my arm."

"Sir," replied Mazarin, "with
perseverance one may penetrate through a
wall; with a watch-spring one may saw
through an iron bar."

"Then my lord does not know that there
are eight guards about him, four in his
chamber, four in the antechamber, and
that they never leave him."

"But he leaves his room, he plays at
tennis at the Mall?"

"Sir, those amusements are allowed; but
if your eminence wishes it, we will
discontinue the permission."

"No, no!" cried Mazarin, fearing that
should his prisoner ever leave his
prison he would be the more exasperated
against him if he thus retrenched his
amusement. He then asked with whom he
played.

"My lord, either with the officers of
the guard, with the other prisoners, or
with me."

"But does he not approach the walls
while playing?"

"Your eminence doesn't know those walls;
they are sixty feet high and I doubt if
Monsieur de Beaufort is sufficiently
weary of life to risk his neck by
jumping off."

"Hum!" said the cardinal, beginning to
feel more comfortable. "You mean to say,
then, my dear Monsieur la Ramee ---- "

"That unless Monsieur de Beaufort can
contrive to metamorphose himself into a
little bird, I will continue answerable
for him."

"Take care! you assert a great deal,"
said Mazarin. "Monsieur de Beaufort told
the guards who took him to Vincennes
that he had often thought what he should
do in case he were put into prison, and
that he had found out forty ways of
escaping."

"My lord, if among these forty there had
been one good way he would have been out
long ago."

"Come, come; not such a fool as I
fancied!" thought Mazarin.

"Besides, my lord must remember that
Monsieur de Chavigny is governor of
Vincennes," continued La Ramee, "and
that Monsieur de Chavigny is not
friendly to Monsieur de Beaufort."

"Yes, but Monsieur de Chavigny is
sometimes absent."

"When he is absent I am there."

"But when you leave him, for instance?"

"Oh! when I leave him, I place in my
stead a bold fellow who aspires to be
his majesty's special guard. I promise
you he keeps a good watch over the
prisoner. During the three weeks that he
has been with me, I have only had to
reproach him with one thing -- being too
severe with the prisoners."

"And who is this Cerberus?"

"A certain Monsieur Grimaud, my lord."

"And what was he before he went to
Vincennes?"

"He was in the country, as I was told by
the person who recommended him to me."

"And who recommended this man to you?"

"The steward of the Duc de Grammont."

"He is not a gossip, I hope?"

"Lord a mercy, my lord! I thought for a
long time that he was dumb; he answers
only by signs. It seems his former
master accustomed him to that."

"Well, dear Monsieur la Ramee," replied
the cardinal "let him prove a true and
thankful keeper and we will shut our
eyes upon his rural misdeeds and put on
his back a uniform to make him
respectable, and in the pockets of that
uniform some pistoles to drink to the
king's health."

Mazarin was large in promises, -- quite
unlike the virtuous Monsieur Grimaud so
bepraised by La Ramee; for he said
nothing and did much.

It was now nine o'clock. The cardinal,
therefore, got up, perfumed himself,
dressed, and went to the queen to tell
her what had detained him. The queen,
who was scarcely less afraid of Monsieur
de Beaufort than the cardinal himself,
and who was almost as superstitious as
he was, made him repeat word for word
all La Ramee's praises of his deputy.
Then, when the cardinal had ended:

"Alas, sir! why have we not a Grimaud
near every prince?"

"Patience!" replied Mazarin, with his
Italian smile; "that may happen one day;
but in the meantime ---- "

"Well, in the meantime?"

"I shall still take precautions."

And he wrote to D'Artagnan to hasten his
return.



17

Describes how the Duc de Beaufort amused
his Leisure Hours in the Donjon of
Vincennes.



The captive who was the source of so
much alarm to the cardinal and whose
means of escape disturbed the repose of
the whole court, was wholly unconscious
of the terror he caused at the Palais
Royal.

He had found himself so strictly guarded
that he soon perceived the fruitlessness
of any attempt at escape. His vengeance,
therefore, consisted in coining curses
on the head of Mazarin; he even tried to
make some verses on him, but soon gave
up the attempt, for Monsieur de Beaufort
had not only not received from Heaven
the gift of versifying, he had the
greatest difficulty in expressing
himself in prose.

The duke was the grandson of Henry VI.
and Gabrielle d'Estrees -- as
good-natured, as brave, as proud, and
above all, as Gascon as his ancestor,
but less elaborately educated. After
having been for some time after the
death of Louis XIII. the favorite, the
confidant, the first man, in short, at
the court, he had been obliged to yield
his place to Mazarin and so became the
second in influence and favor; and
eventually, as he was stupid enough to
be vexed at this change of position, the
queen had had him arrested and sent to
Vincennes in charge of Guitant, who made
his appearance in these pages in the
beginning of this history and whom we
shall see again. It is understood, of
course, that when we say "the queen,"
Mazarin is meant.

During the five years of this seclusion,
which would have improved and matured
the intellect of any other man, M. de
Beaufort, had he not affected to brave
the cardinal, despise princes, and walk
alone without adherents or disciples,
would either have regained his liberty
or made partisans. But these
considerations never occurred to the
duke and every day the cardinal received
fresh accounts of him which were as
unpleasant as possible to the minister.

After having failed in poetry, Monsieur
de Beaufort tried drawing. He drew
portraits, with a piece of coal, of the
cardinal; and as his talents did not
enable him to produce a very good
likeness, he wrote under the picture
that there might be little doubt
regarding the original: "Portrait of the
Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin." Monsieur
de Chavigny, the governor of Vincennes,
waited upon the duke to request that he
would amuse himself in some other way,
or that at all events, if he drew
likenesses, he would not put mottoes
underneath them. The next day the
prisoner's room was full of pictures and
mottoes. Monsieur de Beaufort, in common
with many other prisoners, was bent upon
doing things that were prohibited; and
the only resource the governor had was,
one day when the duke was playing at
tennis, to efface all these drawings,
consisting chiefly of profiles. M. de
Beaufort did not venture to draw the
cardinal's fat face.

The duke thanked Monsieur de Chavigny
for having, as he said, cleaned his
drawing-paper for him; he then divided
the walls of his room into compartments
and dedicated each of these compartments
to some incident in Mazarin's life. In
one was depicted the "Illustrious
Coxcomb" receiving a shower of blows
from Cardinal Bentivoglio, whose servant
he had been; another, the "Illustrious
Mazarin" acting the part of Ignatius
Loyola in a tragedy of that name; a
third, the "Illustrious Mazarin"
stealing the portfolio of prime minister
from Monsieur de Chavigny, who had
expected to have it; a fourth, the
"Illustrious Coxcomb Mazarin" refusing
to give Laporte, the young king's valet,
clean sheets, and saving that "it was
quite enough for the king of France to
have clean sheets every three months."

The governor, of course, thought proper
to threaten his prisoner that if he did
not give up drawing such pictures he
should be obliged to deprive him of all
the means of amusing himself in that
manner. To this Monsieur de Beaufort
replied that since every opportunity of
distinguishing himself in arms was taken
from him, he wished to make himself
celebrated in the arts; since he could
not be a Bayard, he would become a
Raphael or a Michael Angelo.
Nevertheless, one day when Monsieur de
Beaufort was walking in the meadow his
fire was put out, his charcoal all
removed, taken away; and thus his means
of drawing utterly destroyed.

The poor duke swore, fell into a rage,
yelled, and declared that they wished to
starve him to death as they had starved
the Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior
of Vendome; but he refused to promise
that he would not make any more drawings
and remained without any fire in the
room all the winter.

His next act was to purchase a dog from
one of his keepers. With this animal,
which he called Pistache, he was often
shut up for hours alone, superintending,
as every one supposed, its education. At
last, when Pistache was sufficiently
well trained, Monsieur de Beaufort
invited the governor and officers of
Vincennes to attend a representation
which he was going to have in his
apartment

The party assembled, the room was
lighted with waxlights, and the
prisoner, with a bit of plaster he had
taken out of the wall of his room, had
traced a long white line, representing a
cord, on the floor. Pistache, on a
signal from his master, placed himself
on this line, raised himself on his hind
paws, and holding in his front paws a
wand with which clothes used to be
beaten, he began to dance upon the line
with as many contortions as a
rope-dancer. Having been several times
up and down it, he gave the wand back to
his master and began without hesitation
to perform the same evolutions over
again.

The intelligent creature was received
with loud applause.

The first part of the entertainment
being concluded Pistache was desired to
say what o'clock it was; he was shown
Monsieur de Chavigny's watch; it was
then half-past six; the dog raised and
dropped his paw six times; the seventh
he let it remain upraised. Nothing could
be better done; a sun-dial could not
have shown the hour with greater
precision.

Then the question was put to him who was
the best jailer in all the prisons in
France.

The dog performed three evolutions
around the circle and laid himself, with
the deepest respect, at the feet of
Monsieur de Chavigny, who at first
seemed inclined to like the joke and
laughed long and loud, but a frown
succeeded, and he bit his lips with
vexation.

Then the duke put to Pistache this
difficult question, who was the greatest
thief in the world?

Pistache went again around the circle,
but stopped at no one, and at last went
to the door and began to scratch and
bark.

"See, gentlemen," said M. de Beaufort,
"this wonderful animal, not finding here
what I ask for, seeks it out of doors;
you shall, however, have his answer.
Pistache, my friend, come here. Is not
the greatest thief in the world,
Monsieur (the king's secretary) Le
Camus, who came to Paris with twenty
francs in his pocket and who now
possesses ten millions?"

The dog shook his head.

"Then is it not," resumed the duke, "the
Superintendent Emery, who gave his son,
when he was married, three hundred
thousand francs and a house, compared to
which the Tuileries are a heap of ruins
and the Louvre a paltry building?"

The dog again shook his head as if to
say "no."

"Then," said the prisoner, "let's think
who it can be. Can it be, can it
possibly be, the `Illustrious Coxcomb,
Mazarin de Piscina,' hey?"

Pistache made violent signs that it was,
by raising and lowering his head eight
or ten times successively.

"Gentlemen, you see," said the duke to
those present, who dared not even smile,
"that it is the `Illustrious Coxcomb'
who is the greatest thief in the world;
at least, according to Pistache."

"Let us go on to another of his
exercises."

"Gentlemen!" -- there was a profound
silence in the room when the duke again
addressed them -- "do you not remember
that the Duc de Guise taught all the
dogs in Paris to jump for Mademoiselle
de Pons, whom he styled `the fairest of
the fair?' Pistache is going to show you
how superior he is to all other dogs.
Monsieur de Chavigny, be so good as to
lend me your cane."

Monsieur de Chavigny handed his cane to
Monsieur de Beaufort. Monsieur de
Beaufort placed it horizontally at the
height of one foot.

"Now, Pistache, my good dog, jump the
height of this cane for Madame de
Montbazon."

"But," interposed Monsieur de Chavigny,
"it seems to me that Pistache is only
doing what other dogs have done when
they jumped for Mademoiselle de Pons."

"Stop," said the duke, "Pistache, jump
for the queen." And he raised his cane
six inches higher.

The dog sprang, and in spite of the
height jumped lightly over it.

"And now," said the duke, raising it
still six inches higher, "jump for the
king."

The dog obeyed and jumped quickly over
the cane.

"Now, then," said the duke, and as he
spoke, lowered the cane almost level
with the ground; "Pistache, my friend,
jump for the `Illustrious Coxcomb,
Mazarin de Piscina.'"

The dog turned his back to the cane.

"What," asked the duke, "what do you
mean?" and he gave him the cane again,
first making a semicircle from the head
to the tail of Pistache. "Jump then,
Monsieur Pistache."

But Pistache, as at first, turned round
on his legs and stood with his back to
the cane.

Monsieur de Beaufort made the experiment
a third time, but by this time
Pistache's patience was exhausted; he
threw himself furiously upon the cane,
wrested it from the hands of the prince
and broke it with his teeth.

Monsieur de Beaufort took the pieces out
of his mouth and presented them with
great formality to Monsieur de Chavigny,
saying that for that evening the
entertainment was ended, but in three
months it should be repeated, when
Pistache would have learned a few new
tricks.

Three days afterward Pistache was found
dead -- poisoned.

Then the duke said openly that his dog
had been killed by a drug with which
they meant to poison him; and one day
after dinner he went to bed, calling out
that he had pains in his stomach and
that Mazarin had poisoned him.

This fresh impertinence reached the ears
of the cardinal and alarmed him greatly.
The donjon of Vincennes was considered
very unhealthy and Madame de Rambouillet
had said that the room in which the
Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior de
Vendome had died was worth its weight in
arsenic -- a bon mot which had great
success. So it was ordered the prisoner
was henceforth to eat nothing that had
not previously been tasted, and La Ramee
was in consequence placed near him as
taster.

Every kind of revenge was practiced upon
the duke by the governor in return for
the insults of the innocent Pistache. De
Chavigny, who, according to report, was
a son of Richelieu's, and had been a
creature of the late cardinal's,
understood tyranny. He took from the
duke all the steel knives and silver
forks and replaced them with silver
knives and wooden forks, pretending that
as he had been informed that the duke
was to pass all his life at Vincennes,
he was afraid of his prisoner attempting
suicide. A fortnight afterward the duke,
going to the tennis court, found two
rows of trees about the size of his
little finger planted by the roadside;
he asked what they were for and was told
that they were to shade him from the sun
on some future day. One morning the
gardener went to him and told him, as if
to please him, that he was going to
plant a bed of asparagus for his
especial use. Now, since, as every one
knows, asparagus takes four years in
coming to perfection, this civility
infuriated Monsieur de Beaufort.

At last his patience was exhausted. He
assembled his keepers, and
notwithstanding his well-known
difficulty of utterance, addressed them
as follows:

"Gentlemen! will you permit a grandson
of Henry IV. to be overwhelmed with
insults and ignominy?

"Odds fish! as my grandfather used to
say, I once reigned in Paris! do you
know that? I had the king and Monsieur
the whole of one day in my care. The
queen at that time liked me and called
me the most honest man in the kingdom.
Gentlemen and citizens, set me free; I
shall go to the Louvre and strangle
Mazarin. You shall be my body-guard. I
will make you all captains, with good
pensions! Odds fish! On! march forward!"

But eloquent as he might be, the
eloquence of the grandson of Henry IV.
did not touch those hearts of stone; not
one man stirred, so Monsieur de Beaufort
was obliged to be satisfied with calling
them all kinds of rascals underneath the
sun.

Sometimes, when Monsieur de Chavigny
paid him a visit, the duke used to ask
him what he should think if he saw an
army of Parisians, all fully armed,
appear at Vincennes to deliver him from
prison.

"My lord," answered De Chavigny, with a
low bow, "I have on the ramparts twenty
pieces of artillery and in my casemates
thirty thousand guns. I should bombard
the troops till not one grain of
gunpowder was unexploded."

"Yes, but after you had fired off your
thirty thousand guns they would take the
donjon; the donjon being taken, I should
be obliged to let them hang you -- at
which I should be most unhappy,
certainly."

And in his turn the duke bowed low to
Monsieur de Chavigny.

"For myself, on the other hand, my
lord," returned the governor, "when the
first rebel should pass the threshold of
my postern doors I should be obliged to
kill you with my own hand, since you
were confided peculiarly to my care and
as I am obliged to give you up, dead or
alive."

And once more he bowed low before his
highness.

These bitter-sweet pleasantries lasted
ten minutes, sometimes longer, but
always finished thus:

Monsieur de Chavigny, turning toward the
door, used to call out: "Halloo! La
Ramee!"

La Ramee came into the room.

"La Ramee, I recommend Monsieur le Duc
to you, particularly; treat him as a man
of his rank and family ought to be
treated; that is, never leave him alone
an instant."

La Ramee became, therefore, the duke's
dinner guest by compulsion -- an eternal
keeper, the shadow of his person; but La
Ramee -- gay, frank, convivial, fond of
play, a great hand at tennis, had one
defect in the duke's eyes -- his
incorruptibility.

Now, although La Ramee appreciated, as
of a certain value, the honor of being
shut up with a prisoner of so great
importance, still the pleasure of living
in intimacy with the grandson of Henry
IV. hardly compensated for the loss of
that which he had experienced in going
from time to time to visit his family.

One may be a jailer or a keeper and at
the same time a good father and husband.
La Ramee adored his wife and children,
whom now he could only catch a glimpse
of from the top of the wall, when in
order to please him they used to walk on
the opposite side of the moat. 'Twas too
brief an enjoyment, and La Ramee felt
that the gayety of heart he had regarded
as the cause of health (of which it was
perhaps rather the result) would not
long survive such a mode of life.

He accepted, therefore, with delight, an
offer made to him by his friend the
steward of the Duc de Grammont, to give
him a substitute; he also spoke of it to
Monsieur de Chavigny, who promised that
he would not oppose it in any way --
that is, if he approved of the person
proposed.

We consider it useless to draw a
physical or moral portrait of Grimaud;
if, as we hope, our readers have not
wholly forgotten the first part of this
work, they must have preserved a clear
idea of that estimable individual, who
is wholly unchanged, except that he is
twenty years older, an advance in life
that has made him only more silent;
although, since the change that had been
working in himself, Athos had given
Grimaud permission to speak.

But Grimaud had for twelve or fifteen
years preserved habitual silence, and a
habit of fifteen or twenty years'
duration becomes second nature.



18

Grimaud begins his Functions.



Grimaud thereupon presented himself with
his smooth exterior at the donjon of
Vincennes. Now Monsieur de Chavigny
piqued himself on his infallible
penetration; for that which almost
proved that he was the son of Richelieu
was his everlasting pretension; he
examined attentively the countenance of
the applicant for place and fancied that
the contracted eyebrows, thin lips,
hooked nose, and prominent cheek-bones
of Grimaud were favorable signs. He
addressed about twelve words to him;
Grimaud answered in four.

"Here's a promising fellow and it is I
who have found out his merits," said
Monsieur de Chavigny. "Go," he added,
"and make yourself agreeable to Monsieur
la Ramee, and tell him that you suit me
in all respects."

Grimaud had every quality that could
attract a man on duty who wishes to have
a deputy. So, after a thousand questions
which met with only a word in reply, La
Ramee, fascinated by this sobriety in
speech, rubbed his hands and engaged
Grimaud.

"My orders?" asked Grimaud.

"They are these; never to leave the
prisoner alone; to keep away from him
every pointed or cutting instrument, and
to prevent his conversing any length of
time with the keepers."

"Those are all?" asked Grimaud.

"All now," replied La Ramee.

"Good," answered Grimaud; and he went
right to the prisoner.

The duke was in the act of combing his
beard, which he had allowed to grow, as
well as his hair, in order to reproach
Mazarin with his wretched appearance and
condition. But having some days
previously seen from the top of the
donjon Madame de Montbazon pass in her
carriage, and still cherishing an
affection for that beautiful woman, he
did not wish to be to her what he wished
to be to Mazarin, and in the hope of
seeing her again, had asked for a leaden
comb, which was allowed him. The comb
was to be a leaden one, because his
beard, like that of most fair people,
was rather red; he therefore dyed it
thus whilst combing it.

As Grimaud entered he saw this comb on
the tea-table; he took it up, and as he
took it he made a low bow.

The duke looked at this strange figure
with surprise. The figure put the comb
in its pocket.

"Ho! hey! what's that?" cried the duke.
"Who is this creature?"

Grimaud did not answer, but bowed a
second time.

"Art thou dumb?" cried the duke.

Grimaud made a sign that he was not.

"What art thou, then? Answer! I command
thee!" said the duke.

"A keeper," replied Grimaud.

"A keeper!" reiterated the duke; "there
was nothing wanting in my collection,
except this gallows-bird. Halloo! La
Ramee! some one!"

La Ramee ran in haste to obey the call.

"Who is this wretch who takes my comb
and puts it in his pocket?" asked the
duke.

"One of your guards, my prince; a man of
talent and merit, whom you will like, as
I and Monsieur de Chavigny do, I am
sure."

"Why does he take my comb?"

"Why do you take my lord's comb?" asked
La Ramee.

Grimaud drew the comb from his pocket
and passing his fingers over the largest
teeth, pronounced this one word,
"Pointed."

"True," said La Ramee.

"What does the animal say?" asked the
duke.

"That the king has forbidden your
lordship to have any pointed
instrument."

"Are you mad, La Ramee? You yourself
gave me this comb."

"I was very wrong, my lord, for in
giving it to you I acted in opposition
to my orders."

The duke looked furiously at Grimaud.

"I perceive that this creature will be
my particular aversion," he muttered.

Grimaud, nevertheless, was resolved for
certain reasons not at once to come to a
full rupture with the prisoner; he
wanted to inspire, not a sudden
repugnance, but a good, sound, steady
hatred; he retired, therefore, and gave
place to four guards, who, having
breakfasted, could attend on the
prisoner.

A fresh practical joke now occurred to
the duke. He had asked for crawfish for
his breakfast on the following morning;
he intended to pass the day in making a
small gallows and hang one of the finest
of these fish in the middle of his
room -- the red color evidently
conveying an allusion to the cardinal --
so that he might have the pleasure of
hanging Mazarin in effigy without being
accused of having hung anything more
significant than a crawfish.

The day was employed in preparations for
the execution. Every one grows childish
in prison, but the character of Monsieur
de Beaufort was particularly disposed to
become so. In the course of his
morning's walk he collected two or three
small branches from a tree and found a
small piece of broken glass, a discovery
that quite delighted him. When he came
home he formed his handkerchief into a
loop.

Nothing of all this escaped Grimaud, but
La Ramee looked on with the curiosity of
a father who thinks that he may perhaps
get a cheap idea concerning a new toy
for his children. The guards looked on
it with indifference. When everything
was ready, the gallows hung in the
middle of the room, the loop made, and
when the duke had cast a glance upon the
plate of crawfish, in order to select
the finest specimen among them, he
looked around for his piece of glass; it
had disappeared.

"Who has taken my piece of glass?" asked
the duke, frowning. Grimaud made a sign
to denote that he had done so.

"What! thou again! Why didst thou take
it?"

"Yes -- why?" asked La Ramee.

Grimaud, who held the piece of glass in
his hand, said: "Sharp."

"True, my lord!" exclaimed La Ramee.
"Ah! deuce take it! we have a precious
fellow here!"

"Monsieur Grimaud!" said the duke, "for
your sake I beg of you, never come
within the reach of my fist!"

"Hush! hush!" cried La Ramee, "give me
your gibbet, my lord. I will shape it
out for you with my knife."

And he took the gibbet and shaped it out
as neatly as possible.

"That's it," said the duke, "now make me
a little hole in the floor whilst I go
and fetch the culprit."

La Ramee knelt down and made a hole in
the floor; meanwhile the duke hung the
crawfish up by a thread. Then he placed
the gibbet in the middle of the room,
bursting with laughter.

La Ramee laughed also and the guards
laughed in chorus; Grimaud, however, did
not even smile. He approached La Ramee
and showing him the crawfish hung up by
the thread:

"Cardinal," he said.

"Hung by order of his Highness the Duc
de Beaufort!" cried the prisoner,
laughing violently, "and by Master
Jacques Chrysostom La Ramee, the king's
commissioner."

La Ramee uttered a cry of horror and
rushed toward the gibbet, which he broke
at once and threw the pieces out of the
window. He was going to throw the
crawfish out also, when Grimaud snatched
it from his hands.

"Good to eat!" he said, and put it in
his pocket.

This scene so enchanted the duke that at
the moment he forgave Grimaud for his
part in it; but on reflection he hated
him more and more, being convinced he
had some evil motive for his conduct.

But the story of the crab made a great
noise through the interior of the donjon
and even outside. Monsieur de Chavigny,
who at heart detested the cardinal, took
pains to tell the story to two or three
friends, who put it into immediate
circulation.

The prisoner happened to remark among
the guards one man with a very good
countenance; and he favored this man the
more as Grimaud became the more and more
odious to him. One morning he took this
man on one side and had succeeded in
speaking to him, when Grimaud entered
and seeing what was going on approached
the duke respectfully, but took the
guard by the arm.

"Go away," he said.

The guard obeyed.

"You are insupportable!" cried the duke;
"I shall beat you."

Grimaud bowed.

"I will break every bone in your body!"
cried the duke.

Grimaud bowed, but stepped back.

"Mr. Spy," cried the duke, more and more
enraged, "I will strangle you with my
own hands."

And he extended his hands toward
Grimaud, who merely thrust the guard out
and shut the door behind him. At the
same time he felt the duke's arms on his
shoulders like two iron claws; but
instead either of calling out or
defending himself, he placed his
forefinger on his lips and said in a low
tone:

"Hush!" smiling as he uttered the word.

A gesture, a smile and a word from
Grimaud, all at once, were so unusual
that his highness stopped short,
astounded.

Grimaud took advantage of that instant
to draw from his vest a charming little
note with an aristocratic seal, and
presented it to the duke without a word.

The duke, more and more bewildered, let
Grimaud loose and took the note.

"From Madame de Montbazon?" he cried.

Grimaud nodded assent.

The duke tore open the note, passed his
hands over his eyes, for he was dazzled
and confused, and read:



"My Dear Duke, -- You may entirely
confide in the brave lad who will give
you this note; he has consented to enter
the service of your keeper and to shut
himself up at Vincennes with you, in
order to prepare and assist your escape,
which we are contriving. The moment of
your deliverance is at hand; have
patience and courage and remember that
in spite of time and absence all your
friends continue to cherish for you the
sentiments they have so long professed
and truly entertained.

"Yours wholly and most affectionately

"Marie de Montbazon.



"P.S. -- I sign my full name, for I
should be vain if I could suppose that
after five years of absence you would
remember my initials."



The poor duke became perfectly giddy.
What for five years he had been
wanting -- a faithful servant, a friend,
a helping hand -- seemed to have fallen
from Heaven just when he expected it the
least.

"Oh, dearest Marie! she thinks of me,
then, after five years of separation!
Heavens! there is constancy!" Then
turning to Grimaud, he said:

"And thou, my brave fellow, thou
consentest thus to aid me?"

Grimaud signified his assent.

"And you have come here with that
purpose?"

Grimaud repeated the sign.

"And I was ready to strangle you!" cried
the duke.

Grimaud smiled.

"Wait, then," said the duke, fumbling in
his pocket. "Wait," he continued,
renewing his fruitless search; "it shall
not be said that such devotion to a
grandson of Henry IV. went without
recompense."

The duke's endeavors evinced the best
intention in the world, but one of the
precautions taken at Vincennes was that
of allowing prisoners to keep no money.
Whereupon Grimaud, observing the duke's
disappointment, drew from his pocket a
purse filled with gold and handed it to
him.

"Here is what you are looking for," he
said.

The duke opened the purse and wanted to
empty it into Grimaud's hands, but
Grimaud shook his head.

"Thank you, monseigneur," he said,
drawing back; "I am paid."

The duke went from one surprise to
another. He held out his hand. Grimaud
drew near and kissed it respectfully.
The grand manner of Athos had left its
mark on Grimaud.

"What shall we do? and when? and how
proceed?"

"It is now eleven," answered Grimaud.
"Let my lord at two o'clock ask leave to
make up a game at tennis with La Ramee
and let him send two or three balls over
the ramparts."

"And then?"

"Your highness will approach the walls
and call out to a man who works in the
moat to send them back again."

"I understand," said the duke.

Grimaud made a sign that he was going
away.

"Ah!" cried the duke, "will you not
accept any money from me?"

"I wish my lord would make me one
promise."

"What! speak!"

"'Tis this: when we escape together,
that I shall go everywhere and be always
first; for if my lord should be
overtaken and caught, there's every
chance of his being brought back to
prison, whereas if I am caught the least
that can befall me is to be -- hung."

"True, on my honor as a gentleman it
shall be as thou dost suggest."

"Now," resumed Grimaud, "I've only one
thing more to ask -- that your highness
will continue to detest me."

"I'll try," said the duke.

At this moment La Ramee, after the
interview we have described with the
cardinal, entered the room. The duke had
thrown himself, as he was wont to do in
moments of dullness and vexation, on his
bed. La Ramee cast an inquiring look
around him and observing the same signs
of antipathy between the prisoner and
his guardian he smiled in token of his
inward satisfaction. Then turning to
Grimaud:

"Very good, my friend, very good. You
have been spoken of in a promising
quarter and you will soon, I hope, have
news that will be agreeable to you."

Grimaud saluted in his politest manner
and withdrew, as was his custom on the
entrance of his superior.

"Well, my lord," said La Ramee, with his
rude laugh, "you still set yourself
against this poor fellow?"

"So! 'tis you, La Ramee; in faith, 'tis
time you came back again. I threw myself
on the bed and turned my nose to the
wall, that I mightn't break my promise
and strangle Grimaud."

"I doubt, however," said La Ramee, in
sprightly allusion to the silence of his
subordinate, "if he has said anything
disagreeable to your highness."

"Pardieu! you are right -- a mute from
the East! I swear it was time for you to
come back, La Ramee, and I was eager to
see you again."

"Monseigneur is too good," said La
Ramee, flattered by the compliment.

"Yes," continued the duke, "really, I
feel bored today beyond the power of
description."

"Then let us have a match in the tennis
court," exclaimed La Ramee.

"If you wish it."

"I am at your service, my lord."

"I protest, my dear La Ramee," said the
duke, "that you are a charming fellow
and that I would stay forever at
Vincennes to have the pleasure of your
society."

"My lord," replied La Ramee, "I think if
it depended on the cardinal your wishes
would be fulfilled."

"What do you mean? Have you seen him
lately?"

"He sent for me to-day."

"Really! to speak to you about me?"

"Of what else do you imagine he would
speak to me? Really, my lord, you are
his nightmare."

The duke smiled with bitterness.

"Ah, La Ramee! if you would but accept
my offers! I would make your fortune."

"How? you would no sooner have left
prison than your goods would be
confiscated."

"I shall no sooner be out of prison than
I shall be master of Paris."

"Pshaw! pshaw! I cannot hear such things
said as that; this is a fine
conversation with an officer of the
king! I see, my lord, I shall be obliged
to fetch a second Grimaud!"

"Very well, let us say no more about it.
So you and the cardinal have been
talking about me? La Ramee, some day
when he sends for you, you must let me
put on your clothes; I will go in your
stead; I will strangle him, and upon my
honor, if that is made a condition I
will return to prison."

"Monseigneur, I see well that I must
call Grimaud."

"Well, I am wrong. And what did the
cuistre [pettifogger] say about me?"

"I admit the word, monseigneur, because
it rhymes with ministre [minister]. What
did he say to me? He told me to watch
you."

"And why so? why watch me?" asked the
duke uneasily.

"Because an astrologer had predicted
that you would escape."

"Ah! an astrologer predicted that?" said
the duke, starting in spite of himself.

"Oh, mon Dieu! yes! those imbeciles of
magicians can only imagine things to
torment honest people."

"And what did you reply to his most
illustrious eminence?"

"That if the astrologer in question made
almanacs I would advise him not to buy
one."

"Why not?"

"Because before you could escape you
would have to be turned into a bird."

"Unfortunately, that is true. Let us go
and have a game at tennis, La Ramee."

"My lord -- I beg your highness's
pardon -- but I must beg for half an
hour's leave of absence."

"Why?"

"Because Monseigneur Mazarin is a
prouder man than his highness, though
not of such high birth: he forgot to ask
me to breakfast."

"Well, shall I send for some breakfast
here?"

"No, my lord; I must tell you that the
confectioner who lived opposite the
castle -- Daddy Marteau, as they called
him ---- "

"Well?"

"Well, he sold his business a week ago
to a confectioner from Paris, an
invalid, ordered country air for his
health."

"Well, what have I to do with that?"

"Why, good Lord! this man, your
highness, when he saw me stop before his
shop, where he has a display of things
which would make your mouth water, my
lord, asked me to get him the custom of
the prisoners in the donjon. `I bought,'
said he, `the business of my predecessor
on the strength of his assurance that he
supplied the castle; whereas, on my
honor, Monsieur de Chavigny, though I've
been here a week, has not ordered so
much as a tartlet.' `But,' I then
replied, `probably Monsieur de Chavigny
is afraid your pastry is not good.' `My
pastry not good! Well, Monsieur La
Ramee, you shall judge of it yourself
and at once.' `I cannot,' I replied; `it
is absolutely necessary for me to return
to the chateau.' `Very well,' said he,
`go and attend to your affairs, since
you seem to be in a hurry, but come back
in half an hour.' `In half an hour?'
`Yes, have you breakfasted?' `Faith,
no.' `Well, here is a pate that will be
ready for you, with a bottle of old
Burgundy.' So, you see, my lord, since I
am hungry, I would, with your highness's
leave ---- " And La Ramee bent low.

"Go, then, animal," said the duke; "but
remember, I only allow you half an
hour."

"May I promise your custom to the
successor of Father Marteau, my lord?"

"Yes, if he does not put mushrooms in
his pies; thou knowest that mushrooms
from the wood of Vincennes are fatal to
my family."

La Ramee went out, but in five minutes
one of the officers of the guard entered
in compliance with the strict orders of
the cardinal that the prisoner should
never be left alone a moment.

But during these five minutes the duke
had had time to read again the note from
Madame de Montbazon, which proved to the
prisoner that his friends were
concerting plans for his deliverance,
but in what way he knew not.

But his confidence in Grimaud, whose
petty persecutions he now perceived were
only a blind, increased, and he
conceived the highest opinion of his
intellect and resolved to trust entirely
to his guidance.



19

In which the Contents of the Pates made
by the Successor of Father Marteau are
described.



In half an hour La Ramee returned, full
of glee, like most men who have eaten,
and more especially drank to their
heart's content. The pates were
excellent, the wine delicious.

The weather was fine and the game at
tennis took place in the open air.

At two o'clock the tennis balls began,
according to Grimaud's directions, to
take the direction of the moat, much to
the joy of La Ramee, who marked fifteen
whenever the duke sent a ball into the
moat; and very soon balls were wanting,
so many had gone over. La Ramee then
proposed to send some one to pick them
up, but the duke remarked that it would
be losing time; and going near the
rampart himself and looking over, he saw
a man working in one of the numerous
little gardens cleared out by the
peasants on the opposite side of the
moat.

"Hey, friend!" cried the duke.

The man raised his head and the duke was
about to utter a cry of surprise. The
peasant, the gardener, was Rochefort,
whom he believed to be in the Bastile.

"Well? Who's up there?" said the man.

"Be so good as to collect and throw us
back our balls," said the duke.

The gardener nodded and began to fling
up the balls, which were picked up by La
Ramee and the guard. One, however, fell
at the duke's feet, and seeing that it
was intended for him, he put it into his
pocket.

La Ramee was in ecstasies at having
beaten a prince of the blood.

The duke went indoors and retired to
bed, where he spent, indeed, the greater
part of every day, as they had taken his
books away. La Ramee carried off all his
clothes, in order to be certain that the
duke would not stir. However, the duke
contrived to hide the ball under his
bolster and as soon as the door was
closed he tore off the cover of the ball
with his teeth and found underneath the
following letter:



My Lord, -- Your friends are watching
over you and the hour of your
deliverance is at hand. Ask day after
to-morrow to have a pie supplied you by
the new confectioner opposite the
castle, and who is no other than
Noirmont, your former maitre d'hotel. Do
not open the pie till you are alone. I
hope you will be satisfied with its
contents.

"Your highness's most devoted servant,

"In the Bastile, as elsewhere,

"Comte de Rochefort.



The duke, who had latterly been allowed
a fire, burned the letter, but kept the
ball, and went to bed, hiding the ball
under his bolster. La Ramee entered; he
smiled kindly on the prisoner, for he
was an excellent man and had taken a
great liking for the captive prince. He
endeavored to cheer him up in his
solitude.

"Ah, my friend!" cried the duke, "you
are so good; if I could but do as you
do, and eat pates and drink Burgundy at
the house of Father Marteau's
successor."

"'Tis true, my lord," answered La Ramee,
"that his pates are famous and his wine
magnificent."

"In any case," said the duke, "his
cellar and kitchen might easily excel
those of Monsieur de Chavigny."

"Well, my lord," said La Ramee, falling
into the trap, "what is there to prevent
your trying them? Besides, I have
promised him your patronage."

"You are right," said the duke. "If I am
to remain here permanently, as Monsieur
Mazarin has kindly given me to
understand, I must provide myself with a
diversion for my old age, I must turn
gourmand."

"My lord," said La Ramee, "if you will
take a bit of good advice, don't put
that off till you are old."

"Good!" said the Duc de Beaufort to
himself, "every man in order that he may
lose his heart and soul, must receive
from celestial bounty one of the seven
capital sins, perhaps two; it seems that
Master La Ramee's is gluttony. Let us
then take advantage of it." Then, aloud:

"Well, my dear La Ramee! the day after
to-morrow is a holiday."

"Yes, my lord -- Pentecost."

"Will you give me a lesson the day after
to-morrow?"

"In what?"

"In gastronomy?"

"Willingly, my lord."

"But tete-a-tete. Send the guards to
take their meal in the canteen of
Monsieur de Chavigny; we'll have a
supper here under your direction."

"Hum!" said La Ramee.

The proposal was seductive, but La Ramee
was an old stager, acquainted with all
the traps a prisoner was likely to set.
Monsieur de Beaufort had said that he
had forty ways of getting out of prison.
Did this proposed breakfast cover some
stratagem? He reflected, but he
remembered that he himself would have
charge of the food and the wine and
therefore that no powder could be mixed
with the food, no drug with the wine. As
to getting him drunk, the duke couldn't
hope to do that, and he laughed at the
mere thought of it. Then an idea came to
him which harmonized everything.

The duke had followed with anxiety La
Ramee's unspoken soliloquy, reading it
from point to point upon his face. But
presently the exempt's face suddenly
brightened.

"Well," he asked, "that will do, will it
not?"

"Yes, my lord, on one condition."

"What?"

"That Grimaud shall wait on us at
table."

Nothing could be more agreeable to the
duke, however, he had presence of mind
enough to exclaim:

"To the devil with your Grimaud! He will
spoil the feast."

"I will direct him to stand behind your
chair, and since he doesn't speak, your
highness will neither see nor hear him
and with a little effort can imagine him
a hundred miles away."

"Do you know, my friend, I find one
thing very evident in all this, you
distrust me."

"My lord, the day after to-morrow is
Pentecost."

"Well, what is Pentecost to me? Are you
afraid that the Holy Spirit will come as
a tongue of fire to open the doors of my
prison?"

"No, my lord; but I have already told
you what that damned magician
predicted."

"And what was it?"

"That the day of Pentecost would not
pass without your highness being out of
Vincennes."

"You believe in sorcerers, then, you
fool?"

"I ---I mind them no more than that ----
" and he snapped his fingers; "but it is
my Lord Giulio who cares about them; as
an Italian he is superstitious."

The duke shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, then," with well acted
good-humor, "I allow Grimaud, but no one
else; you must manage it all. Order
whatever you like for supper -- the only
thing I specify is one of those pies;
and tell the confectioner that I will
promise him my custom if he excels this
time in his pies -- not only now, but
when I leave my prison."

"Then you think you will some day leave
it?" said La Ramee.

"The devil!" replied the prince;
"surely, at the death of Mazarin. I am
fifteen years younger than he is. At
Vincennes, 'tis true, one lives
faster ---- "

"My lord," replied La Ramee, "my
lord ---- "

"Or dies sooner, for it comes to the
same thing."

La Ramee was going out. He stopped,
however, at the door for an instant.

"Whom does your highness wish me to send
to you?"

"Any one, except Grimaud."

"The officer of the guard, then, with
his chessboard?"

"Yes."

Five minutes afterward the officer
entered and the duke seemed to be
immersed in the sublime combinations of
chess.

A strange thing is the mind, and it is
wonderful what revolutions may be
wrought in it by a sign, a word, a hope.
The duke had been five years in prison,
and now to him, looking back upon them,
those five years, which had passed so
slowly, seemed not so long a time as
were the two days, the forty-eight
hours, which still parted him from the
time fixed for his escape. Besides,
there was one thing that engaged his
most anxious thought -- in what way was
the escape to be effected? They had told
him to hope for it, but had not told him
what was to be hidden in the mysterious
pate. And what friends awaited him
without? He had friends, then, after
five years in prison? If that were so he
was indeed a highly favored prince. He
forgot that besides his friends of his
own sex, a woman, strange to say, had
remembered him. It is true that she had
not, perhaps, been scupulously faithful
to him, but she had remembered him; that
was something.

So the duke had more than enough to
think about; accordingly he fared at
chess as he had fared at tennis; he made
blunder upon blunder and the officer
with whom he played found him easy game.

But his successive defeats did service
to the duke in one way -- they killed
time for him till eight o'clock in the
evening; then would come night, and with
night, sleep. So, at least, the duke
believed; but sleep is a capricious
fairy, and it is precisely when one
invokes her presence that she is most
likely to keep him waiting. The duke
waited until midnight, turning on his
mattress like St. Laurence on his
gridiron. Finally he slept.

But at daybreak he awoke. Wild dreams
had disturbed his repose. He dreamed
that he was endowed with wings -- he
wished to fly away. For a time these
wings supported him, but when he reached
a certain height this new aid failed
him. His wings were broken and he seemed
to sink into a bottomless abyss, whence
he awoke, bathed in perspiration and
nearly as much overcome as if he had
really fallen. He fell asleep again and
another vision appeared. He was in a
subterranean passage by which he was to
leave Vincennes. Grimaud was walking
before him with a lantern. By degrees
the passage narrowed, yet the duke
continued his course. At last it became
so narrow that the fugitive tried in
vain to proceed. The sides of the walls
seem to close in, even to press against
him. He made fruitless efforts to go on;
it was impossible. Nevertheless, he
still saw Grimaud with his lantern in
front, advancing. He wished to call out
to him but could not utter a word. Then
at the other extremity he heard the
footsteps of those who were pursuing
him. These steps came on, came fast. He
was discovered; all hope of flight was
gone. Still the walls seemed to be
closing on him; they appeared to be in
concert with his enemies. At last he
heard the voice of La Ramee. La Ramee
took his hand and laughed aloud. He was
captured again, and conducted to the low
and vaulted chamber, in which Ornano,
Puylaurens, and his uncle had died.
Their three graves were there, rising
above the ground, and a fourth was also
there, yawning for its ghastly tenant.

The duke was obliged to make as many
efforts to awake as he had done to go to
sleep; and La Ramee found him so pale
and fatigued that he inquired whether he
was ill.

"In fact," said one of the guards who
had remained in the chamber and had been
kept awake by a toothache, brought on by
the dampness of the atmosphere, "my lord
has had a very restless night and two or
three times, while dreaming, he called
for help."

"What is the matter with your highness?"
asked La Ramee.

"'Tis your fault, you simpleton,"
answered the duke. "With your idle
nonsense yesterday about escaping, you
worried me so that I dreamed that I was
trying to escape and broke my neck in
doing so."

La Ramee laughed.

"Come," he said, "'tis a warning from
Heaven. Never commit such an imprudence
as to try to escape, except in your
dreams."

"And you are right, my dear La Ramee,"
said the duke, wiping away the sweat
that stood on his brow, wide awake
though he was; "after this I will think
of nothing but eating and drinking."

"Hush!" said La Ramee; and one by one he
sent away the guards, on various
pretexts.

"Well?" asked the duke when they were
alone.

"Well!" replied La Ramee, "your supper
is ordered."

"Ah! and what is it to be? Monsieur, my
majordomo, will there be a pie?"

"I should think so, indeed -- almost as
high as a tower."

"You told him it was for me?"

"Yes, and he said he would do his best
to please your highness."

"Good!" exclaimed the duke, rubbing his
hands.

"Devil take it, my lord! what a gourmand
you are growing; I haven't seen you with
so cheerful a face these five years."

The duke saw that he had not controlled
himself as he ought, but at that moment,
as if he had listened at the door and
comprehended the urgent need of
diverting La Ramee's ideas, Grimaud
entered and made a sign to La Ramee that
he had something to say to him.

La Ramee drew near to Grimaud, who spoke
to him in a low voice.

The duke meanwhile recovered his
self-control.

"I have already forbidden that man," he
said, "to come in here without my
permission."

"You must pardon him, my lord," said La
Ramee, "for I directed him to come."

"And why did you so direct when you know
that he displeases me?"

"My lord will remember that it was
agreed between us that he should wait
upon us at that famous supper. My lord
has forgotten the supper."

"No, but I have forgotten Monsieur
Grimaud."

"My lord understands that there can be
no supper unless he is allowed to be
present."

"Go on, then; have it your own way."

"Come here, my lad," said La Ramee, "and
hear what I have to say."

Grimaud approached, with a very sullen
expression on his face.

La Ramee continued: "My lord has done me
the honor to invite me to a supper
to-morrow en tete-a-tete."

Grimaud made a sign which meant that he
didn't see what that had to do with him.

"Yes, yes," said La Ramee, "the matter
concerns you, for you will have the
honor to serve us; and besides, however
good an appetite we may have and however
great our thirst, there will be
something left on the plates and in the
bottles, and that something will be
yours."

Grimaud bowed in thanks.

"And now," said La Ramee, "I must ask
your highness's pardon, but it seems
that Monsieur de Chavigny is to be away
for a few days and he has sent me word
that he has certain directions to give
me before his departure."

The duke tried to exchange a glance with
Grimaud, but there was no glance in
Grimaud's eyes.

"Go, then," said the duke, "and return
as soon as possible."

"Does your highness wish to take revenge
for the game of tennis yesterday?"

Grimaud intimated by a scarcely
perceptible nod that he should consent.

"Yes," said the duke, "but take care, my
dear La Ramee, for I propose to beat you
badly."

La Ramee went out. Grimaud looked after
him, and when the door was closed he
drew out of his pocket a pencil and a
sheet of paper.

"Write, my lord," he said.

"And what?"

Grimaud dictated.

"All is ready for to-morrow evening.
Keep watch from seven to nine. Have two
riding horses ready. We shall descend by
the first window in the gallery."

"What next?"

"Sign your name, my lord."

The duke signed.

"Now, my lord, give me, if you have not
lost it, the ball -- that which
contained the letter."

The duke took it from under his pillow
and gave it to Grimaud. Grimaud gave a
grim smile.

"Well?" asked the duke.

"Well, my lord, I sew up the paper in
the ball and you, in your game of
tennis, will send the ball into the
ditch."

"But will it not be lost?"

"Oh no; there will be some one at hand
to pick it up."

"A gardener?"

Grimaud nodded.

"The same as yesterday?"

Another nod on the part of Grimaud.

"The Count de Rochefort?"

Grimaud nodded the third time.

"Come, now," said the duke, "give some
particulars of the plan for our escape."

"That is forbidden me," said Grimaud,
"until the last moment."

"Who will be waiting for me beyond the
ditch?"

"I know nothing about it, my lord."

"But at least, if you don't want to see
me turn crazy, tell what that famous
pate will contain."

"Two poniards, a knotted rope and a
poire d'angoisse."*



*This poire d'angoisse was a famous gag,
in the form of a pear, which, being
thrust into the mouth, by the aid of a
spring, dilated, so as to distend the
jaws to their greatest width.



"Yes, I understand."

"My lord observes that there will be
enough to go around."

"We shall take to ourselves the poniards
and the rope," replied the duke.

"And make La Ramee eat the pear,"
answered Grimaud.

"My dear Grimaud, thou speakest seldom,
but when thou dost, one must do thee
justice -- thy words are words of gold."



20

One of Marie Michon's Adventures.



Whilst these projects were being formed
by the Duc de Beaufort and Grimaud, the
Comte de la Fere and the Vicomte de
Bragelonne were entering Paris by the
Rue du Faubourg Saint Marcel.

They stopped at the sign of the Fox, in
the Rue du Vieux Colombier, a tavern
known for many years by Athos, and asked
for two bedrooms.

"You must dress yourself, Raoul," said
Athos, "I am going to present you to
some one."

"To-day, monsieur?" asked the young man.

"In half an hour."

The young man bowed. Perhaps, not being
endowed with the endurance of Athos, who
seemed to be made of iron, he would have
preferred a bath in the river Seine of
which he had heard so much, and
afterward his bed; but the Comte de la
Fere had spoken and he had no thought
but to obey.

"By the way," said Athos, "take some
pains with your toilet, Raoul; I want
you to be approved."

"I hope, sir," replied the youth,
smiling, "that there's no idea of a
marriage for me; you know of my
engagement to Louise?"

Athos, in his turn, smiled also.

"No, don't be alarmed, although it is to
a lady that I am going to present you,
and I am anxious that you should love
her ---- "

The young man looked at the count with a
certain uneasiness, but at a smile from
Athos he was quickly reassured.

"How old is she?" inquired the Vicomte
de Bragelonne.

"My dear Raoul, learn, once for all,
that that is a question which is never
asked. When you can find out a woman's
age by her face, it is useless to ask
it; when you cannot do so, it is
indiscreet."

"Is she beautiful?"

"Sixteen years ago she was deemed not
only the prettiest, but the most
graceful woman in France."

This reply reassured the vicomte. A
woman who had been a reigning beauty a
year before he was born could not be the
subject of any scheme for him. He
retired to his toilet. When he
reappeared, Athos received him with the
same paternal smile as that which he had
often bestowed on D'Artagnan, but a more
profound tenderness for Raoul was now
visibly impressed upon his face.

Athos cast a glance at his feet, hands
and hair -- those three marks of race.
The youth's dark hair was neatly parted
and hung in curls, forming a sort of
dark frame around his face; such was the
fashion of the day. Gloves of gray kid,
matching the hat, well displayed the
form of a slender and elegant hand;
whilst his boots, similar in color to
the hat and gloves, confined feet small
as those of a boy twelve years old.

"Come," murmured Athos, "if she is not
proud of him, she must be hard to
please."

It was three o'clock in the afternoon.
The two travelers proceeded to the Rue
Saint Dominique and stopped at the door
of a magnificent hotel, surmounted with
the arms of De Luynes.

"'Tis here," said Athos.

He entered the hotel and ascended the
front steps, and addressing a footman
who waited there in a grand livery,
asked if the Duchess de Chevreuse was
visible and if she could receive the
Comte de la Fere?

The servant returned with a message to
say, that, though the duchess had not
the honor of knowing Monsieur de la
Fere, she would receive him.

Athos followed the footman, who led him
through a long succession of apartments
and paused at length before a closed
door. Athos made a sign to the Vicomte
de Bragelonne to remain where he was.

The footman opened the door and
announced Monsieur le Comte de la Fere.

Madame de Chevreuse, whose name appears
so often in our story "The Three
Musketeers," without her actually having
appeared in any scene, was still a
beautiful woman. Although about
forty-four or forty-five years old, she
might have passed for thirty-five. She
still had her rich fair hair; her large,
animated, intelligent eyes, so often
opened by intrigue, so often closed by
the blindness of love. She had still her
nymph-like form, so that when her back
was turned she still was not unlike the
girl who had jumped, with Anne of
Austria, over the moat of the Tuileries
in 1563. In all other respects she was
the same mad creature who threw over her
amours such an air of originality as to
make them proverbial for eccentricity in
her family.

She was in a little boudoir, hung with
blue damask, adorned by red flowers,
with a foliage of gold, looking upon a
garden; and reclined upon a sofa, her
head supported on the rich tapestry
which covered it. She held a book in her
hand and her arm was supported by a
cushion.

At the footman's announcement she raised
herself a little and peeped out, with
some curiosity.

Athos appeared.

He was dressed in violet-tinted velvet,
trimmed with silk of the same color. His
shoulder-knots were of burnished silver,
his mantle had no gold nor embroidery on
it; a simple plume of violet feathers
adorned his hat; his boots were of black
leather, and at his girdle hung that
sword with a magnificent hilt that
Porthos had so often admired in the Rue
Feron. Splendid lace adorned the falling
collar of his shirt, and lace fell also
over the top of his boots.

In his whole person he bore such an
impress of high degree, that Madame de
Chevreuse half rose from her seat when
she saw him and made him a sign to sit
down near her.

Athos bowed and obeyed. The footman was
withdrawing, but Athos stopped him by a
sign.

"Madame," he said to the duchess, "I
have had the boldness to present myself
at your hotel without being known to
you; it has succeeded, since you deign
to receive me. I have now the boldness
to ask you for an interview of half an
hour."

"I grant it, monsieur," replied Madame
de Chevreuse with her most gracious
smile.

"But that is not all, madame. Oh, I am
very presuming, I am aware. The
interview for which I ask is of us two
alone, and I very earnestly wish that it
may not be interrupted."

"I am not at home to any one," said the
Duchess de Chevreuse to the footman.
"You may go."

The footman went out

There ensued a brief silence, during
which these two persons, who at first
sight recognized each other so clearly
as of noble race, examined each other
without embarrassment on either side.

The duchess was the first to speak.

"Well, sir, I am waiting with impatience
to hear what you wish to say to me."

"And I, madame," replied Athos, "am
looking with admiration."

"Sir," said Madame de Chevreuse, "you
must excuse me, but I long to know to
whom I am talking. You belong to the
court, doubtless, yet I have never seen
you at court. Have you, by any chance,
been in the Bastile?"

"No, madame, I have not; but very likely
I am on the road to it."

"Ah! then tell me who you are, and get
along with you upon your journey,"
replied the duchess, with the gayety
which made her so charming, "for I am
sufficiently in bad odor already,
without compromising myself still more."

"Who I am, madame? My name has been
mentioned to you -- the Comte de la
Fere; you do not know that name. I once
bore another, which you knew, but you
have certainly forgotten it."

"Tell it me, sir."

"Formerly," said the count, "I was
Athos."

Madame de Chevreuse looked astonished.
The name was not wholly forgotten, but
mixed up and confused with ancient
recollections.

"Athos?" said she; "wait a moment."

And she placed her hands on her brow, as
if to force the fugitive ideas it
contained to concentration in a moment.

"Shall I help you, madame?" asked Athos.

"Yes, do," said the duchess.

"This Athos was connected with three
young musketeers, named Porthos,
D'Artagnan, and ---- "

He stopped short.

"And Aramis," said the duchess, quickly.

"And Aramis; I see you have not
forgotten the name."

"No," she said; "poor Aramis; a charming
man, elegant, discreet, and a writer of
poetical verses. I am afraid he has
turned out ill," she added.

"He has; he is an abbe."

"Ah, what a misfortune!" exclaimed the
duchess, playing carelessly with her
fan. "Indeed, sir, I thank you; you have
recalled one of the most agreeable
recollections of my youth."

"Will you permit me, then, to recall
another to you?"

"Relating to him?"

"Yes and no."

"Faith!" said Madame de Chevreuse, "say
on. With a man like you I fear nothing."

Athos bowed. "Aramis," he continued,
"was intimate with a young needlewoman
from Tours, a cousin of his, named Marie
Michon."

"Ah, I knew her!" cried the duchess. "It
was to her he wrote from the siege of
Rochelle, to warn her of a plot against
the Duke of Buckingham."

"Exactly so; will you allow me to speak
to you of her?"

"If," replied the duchess, with a
meaning look, "you do not say too much
against her."

"I should be ungrateful," said Athos,
"and I regard ingratitude, not as a
fault or a crime, but as a vice, which
is much worse."

"You ungrateful to Marie Michon,
monsieur?" said Madame de Chevreuse,
trying to read in Athos's eyes. "But how
can that be? You never knew her."

"Eh, madame, who knows?" said Athos.
"There is a popular proverb to the
effect that it is only mountains that
never meet; and popular proverbs contain
sometimes a wonderful amount of truth."

"Oh, go on, monsieur, go on!" said
Madame de Chevreuse eagerly; "you can't
imagine how much this conversation
interests me."

"You encourage me," said Athos, "I will
continue, then. That cousin of Aramis,
that Marie Michon, that needlewoman,
notwithstanding her low condition, had
acquaintances in the highest rank; she
called the grandest ladies of the court
her friend, and the queen -- proud as
she is, in her double character as
Austrian and as Spaniard -- called her
her sister."

"Alas!" said Madame de Chevreuse, with a
slight sigh and a little movement of her
eyebrows that was peculiarly her own,
"since that time everything has
changed."

"And the queen had reason for her
affection, for Marie was devoted to
her -- devoted to that degree that she
served her as medium of intercourse with
her brother, the king of Spain."

"Which," interrupted the duchess, "is
now brought up against her as a great
crime."

"And therefore," continued Athos, "the
cardinal -- the true cardinal, the other
one -- determined one fine morning to
arrest poor Marie Michon and send her to
the Chateau de Loches. Fortunately the
affair was not managed so secretly but
that it became known to the queen. The
case had been provided for: if Marie
Michon should be threatened with any
danger the queen was to send her a
prayer-book bound in green velvet."

"That is true, monsieur, you are well
informed."

"One morning the green book was brought
to her by the Prince de Marsillac. There
was no time to lose. Happily Marie and a
follower of hers named Kitty could
disguise themselves admirably in men's
clothes. The prince procured for Marie
Michon the dress of a cavalier and for
Kitty that of a lackey; he sent them two
excellent horses, and the fugitives went
out hastily from Tours, shaping their
course toward Spain, trembling at the
least noise, following unfrequented
roads, and asking for hospitality when
they found themselves where there was no
inn."

"Why, really, it was all exactly as you
say!" cried Madame de Chevreuse,
clapping her hands. "It would indeed be
strange if ---- " she checked herself.

"If I should follow the two fugitives to
the end of their journey?" said Athos.
"No, madame, I will not thus waste your
time. We will accompany them only to a
little village in Limousin, lying
between Tulle and Angouleme -- a little
village called Roche-l'Abeille."

Madame de Chevreuse uttered a cry of
surprise, and looked at Athos with an
expression of astonishment that made the
old musketeer smile.

"Wait, madame," continued Athos, "what
remains for me to tell you is even more
strange than what I have narrated."

"Monsieur," said Madame de Chevreuse, "I
believe you are a sorcerer; I am
prepared for anything. But really -- No
matter, go on."

"The journey of that day had been long
and wearing; it was a cold day, the
eleventh of October, there was no inn or
chateau in the village and the homes of
the peasants were poor and unattractive.
Marie Michon was a very aristocratic
person; like her sister the queen, she
had been accustomed to pleasing perfumes
and fine linen; she resolved, therefore,
to seek hospitality of the priest."

Athos paused.

"Oh, continue!" said the duchess. "I
have told you that I am prepared for
anything."

"The two travelers knocked at the door.
It was late; the priest, who had gone to
bed, cried out to them to come in. They
entered, for the door was not locked --
there is much confidence among
villagers. A lamp burned in the chamber
occupied by the priest. Marie Michon,
who made the most charming cavalier in
the world, pushed open the door, put her
head in and asked for hospitality.
`Willingly, my young cavalier,' said the
priest, `if you will be content with the
remains of my supper and with half my
chamber.'

"The two travelers consulted for a
moment. The priest heard a burst of
laughter and then the master, or rather,
the mistress, replied: `Thank you,
monsieur le cure, I accept.' `Sup, then,
and make as little noise as possible,'
said the priest, `for I, too, have been
on the go all day and shall not be sorry
to sleep to-night.'"

Madame de Chevreuse evidently went from
surprise to astonishment, and from
astonishment to stupefaction. Her face,
as she looked at Athos, had taken on an
expression that cannot be described. It
could be seen that she had wished to
speak, but she had remained silent
through fear of losing one of her
companion's words.

"What happened then?" she asked.

"Then?" said Athos. "Ah, I have come now
to what is most difficult."

"Speak, speak! One can say anything to
me. Besides, it doesn't concern me; it
relates to Mademoiselle Marie Michon."

"Ah, that is true," said Athos. "Well,
then, Marie Michon had supper with her
follower, and then, in accordance with
the permission given her, she entered
the chamber of her host, Kitty meanwhile
taking possession of an armchair in the
room first entered, where they had taken
their supper."

"Really, monsieur," said Madame de
Chevreuse, "unless you are the devil in
person I don't know how you could become
acquainted with all these details."

"A charming woman was that Marie
Michon," resumed Athos, "one of those
wild creatures who are constantly
conceiving the strangest ideas. Now,
thinking that her host was a priest,
that coquette took it into her head that
it would be a happy souvenir for her old
age, among the many happy souvenirs she
already possessed, if she could win that
of having damned an abbe."

"Count," said the duchess, "upon my
word, you frighten me."

"Alas!" continued Athos, "the poor abbe
was not a St. Ambroise, and I repeat,
Marie Michon was an adorable creature."

"Monsieur!" cried the duchess, seizing
Athos's hands, "tell me this moment how
you know all these details, or I will
send to the convent of the Vieux
Augustins for a monk to come and
exorcise you."

Athos laughed. "Nothing is easier,
madame. A cavalier, charged with an
important mission, had come an hour
before your arrival, seeking
hospitality, at the very moment that the
cure, summoned to the bedside of a dying
person, left not only his house but the
village, for the entire night. The
priest having all confidence in his
guest, who, besides, was a nobleman, had
left to him his house, his supper and
his chamber. And therefore Marie came
seeking hospitality from the guest of
the good abbe and not from the good abbe
himself."

"And that cavalier, that guest, that
nobleman who arrived before she came?"

"It was I, the Comte de la Fere," said
Athos, rising and bowing respectfully to
the Duchess de Chevreuse.

The duchess remained a moment stupefied;
then, suddenly bursting into laughter:

"Ah! upon my word," said she, "it is
very droll, and that mad Marie Michon
fared better than she expected. Sit
down, dear count, and go on with your
story."

"At this point I have to accuse myself
of a fault, madame. I have told you that
I was traveling on an important mission.
At daybreak I left the chamber without
noise, leaving my charming companion
asleep. In the front room the follower
was also still asleep, her head leaning
back on the chair, in all respects
worthy of her mistress. Her pretty face
arrested my attention; I approached and
recognized that little Kitty whom our
friend Aramis had placed with her. In
that way I discovered that the charming
traveler was ---- "

"Marie Michon!" said Madame de
Chevreuse, hastily.

"Marie Michon," continued Athos. "Then I
went out of the house; I proceeded to
the stable and found my horse saddled
and my lackey ready. We set forth on our
journey."

"And have you never revisited that
village?" eagerly asked Madame de
Chevreuse.

"A year after, madame."

"Well?"

"I wanted to see the good cure again. I
found him much preoccupied with an event
that he could not at all comprehend. A
week before he had received, in a
cradle, a beautiful little boy three
months old, with a purse filled with
gold and a note containing these simple
words: `11 October, 1633.'"

"It was the date of that strange
adventure," interrupted Madame de
Chevreuse.

"Yes, but he couldn't understand what it
meant, for he had spent that night with
a dying person and Marie Michon had left
his house before his return."

"You must know, monsieur, that Marie
Michon, when she returned to France in
1643, immediately sought for information
about that child; as a fugitive she
could not take care of it, but on her
return she wished to have it near her."

"And what said the abbe?" asked Athos.

"That a nobleman whom he did not know
had wished to take charge of it, had
answered for its future, and had taken
it away."

"That was true."

"Ah! I see! That nobleman was you; it
was his father!"

"Hush! do not speak so loud, madame; he
is there."

"He is there! my son! the son of Marie
Michon! But I must see him instantly."

"Take care, madame," said Athos, "for he
knows neither his father nor his
mother."

"You have kept the secret! you have
brought him to see me, thinking to make
me happy. Oh, thanks! sir, thanks!"
cried Madame de Chevreuse, seizing his
hand and trying to put it to her lips;
"you have a noble heart."

"I bring him to you, madame," said
Athos, withdrawing his hand, "hoping
that in your turn you will do something
for him; till now I have watched over
his education and I have made him, I
hope, an accomplished gentleman; but I
am now obliged to return to the
dangerous and wandering life of party
faction. To-morrow I plunge into an
adventurous affair in which I may be
killed. Then it will devolve on you to
push him on in that world where he is
called on to occupy a place."

"Rest assured," cried the duchess, "I
shall do what I can. I have but little
influence now, but all that I have shall
most assuredly be his. As to his title
and fortune ---- "

"As to that, madame, I have made over to
him the estate of Bragelonne, my
inheritance, which will give him ten
thousand francs a year and the title of
vicomte."

"Upon my soul, monsieur," said the
duchess, "you are a true nobleman! But I
am eager to see our young vicomte. Where
is he?"

"There, in the salon. I will have him
come in, if you really wish it."

Athos moved toward the door; the duchess
held him back.

"Is he handsome?" she asked.

Athos smiled.

"He resembles his mother."

So he opened the door and beckoned the
young man in.

The duchess could not restrain a cry of
joy on seeing so handsome a young
cavalier, so far surpassing all that her
maternal pride had been able to
conceive.

"Vicomte, come here," said Athos; "the
duchess permits you to kiss her hand."

The youth approached with his charming
smile and his head bare, and kneeling
down, kissed the hand of the Duchess de
Chevreuse.

"Sir," he said, turning to Athos, "was
it not in compassion to my timidity that
you told me that this lady was the
Duchess de Chevreuse, and is she not the
queen?"

"No, vicomte," said Madame de Chevreuse,
taking his hand and making him sit near
her, while she looked at him with eyes
sparkling with pleasure; "no, unhappily,
I am not the queen. If I were I should
do for you at once the most that you
deserve. But let us see; whatever I may
be," she added, hardly restraining
herself from kissing that pure brow,
"let us see what profession you wish to
follow."

Athos, standing, looked at them both
with indescribable pleasure.

"Madame," answered the youth in his
sweet voice, "it seems to me that there
is only one career for a gentleman --
that of the army. I have been brought up
by monsieur le comte with the intention,
I believe, of making me a soldier; and
he gave me reason to hope that at Paris
he would present me to some one who
would recommend me to the favor of the
prince."

"Yes, I understand it well. Personally,
I am on bad terms with him, on account
of the quarrels between Madame de
Montbazon, my mother-in-law, and Madame
de Longueville. But the Prince de
Marsillac! Yes, indeed, that's the right
thing. The Prince de Marsillac -- my old
friend -- will recommend our young
friend to Madame de Longueville, who
will give him a letter to her brother,
the prince, who loves her too tenderly
not to do what she wishes immediately."

"Well, that will do charmingly," said
the count; "but may I beg that the
greatest haste may be made, for I have
reasons for wishing the vicomte not to
sleep longer than to-morrow night in
Paris!"

"Do you wish it known that you are
interested about him, monsieur le
comte?"

"Better for him in future that he should
be supposed never to have seen me."

"Oh, sir!" cried Raoul.

"You know, Bragelonne," said Athos, "I
never speak without reflection."

"Well, comte, I am going instantly,"
interrupted the duchess, "to send for
the Prince de Marsillac, who is happily,
in Paris just now. What are you going to
do this evening?"

"We intend to visit the Abbe Scarron,
for whom I have a letter of introduction
and at whose house I expect to meet some
of my friends."

"'Tis well; I will go there also, for a
few minutes," said the duchess; "do not
quit his salon until you have seen me."

Athos bowed and prepared to leave.

"Well, monsieur le comte," said the
duchess, smiling, "does one leave so
solemnly his old friends?"

"Ah," murmured Athos, kissing her hand,
"had I only sooner known that Marie
Michon was so charming a creature!" And
he withdrew, sighing.



21

The Abbe Scarron.



There was once in the Rue des Tournelles
a house known by all the sedan chairmen
and footmen of Paris, and yet,
nevertheless, this house was neither
that of a great lord nor of a rich man.
There was neither dining, nor playing at
cards, nor dancing in that house.
Nevertheless, it was the rendezvous of
the great world and all Paris went
there. It was the abode of the little
Abbe Scarron.

In the home of the witty abbe dwelt
incessant laughter; there all the items
of the day had their source and were so
quickly transformed, misrepresented,
metamorphosed, some into epigrams, some
into falsehoods, that every one was
anxious to pass an hour with little
Scarron, listening to what he said,
reporting it to others.

The diminutive Abbe Scarron, who,
however, was an abbe only because he
owned an abbey, and not because he was
in orders, had formerly been one of the
gayest prebendaries in the town of Mans,
which he inhabited. On a day of the
carnival he had taken a notion to
provide an unusual entertainment for
that good town, of which he was the life
and soul. He had made his valet cover
him with honey; then, opening a feather
bed, he had rolled in it and had thus
become the most grotesque fowl it is
possible to imagine. He then began to
visit his friends of both sexes, in that
strange costume. At first he had been
followed through astonishment, then with
derisive shouts, then the porters had
insulted him, then children had thrown
stones at him, and finally he was
obliged to run, to escape the missiles.
As soon as he took to flight every one
pursued him, until, pressed on all
sides, Scarron found no way of escaping
his escort, except by throwing himself
into the river; but the water was icy
cold. Scarron was heated, the cold
seized on him, and when he reached the
farther bank he found himself crippled.

Every means had been employed in vain to
restore the use of his limbs. He had
been subjected to a severe disciplinary
course of medicine, at length he sent
away all his doctors, declaring that he
preferred the disease to the treatment,
and came to Paris, where the fame of his
wit had preceded him. There he had a
chair made on his own plan, and one day,
visiting Anne of Austria in this chair,
she asked him, charmed as she was with
his wit, if he did not wish for a title.

"Yes, your majesty, there is a title
which I covet much," replied Scarron.

"And what is that?"

"That of being your invalid," answered
Scarron.

So he was called the queen's invalid,
with a pension of fifteen hundred
francs.

From that lucky moment Scarron led a
happy life, spending both income and
principal. One day, however, an emissary
of the cardinal's gave him to understand
that he was wrong in receiving the
coadjutor so often.

"And why?" asked Scarron; "is he not a
man of good birth?"

"Certainly."

"Agreeable?"

"Undeniably."

"Witty?"

"He has, unfortunately, too much wit."

"Well, then, why do you wish me to give
up seeing such a man?"

"Because he is an enemy."

"Of whom?"

"Of the cardinal."

"What?" answered Scarron, "I continue to
receive Monsieur Gilles Despreaux, who
thinks ill of me, and you wish me to
give up seeing the coadjutor, because he
thinks ill of another man. Impossible!"

The conversation had rested there and
Scarron, through sheer obstinacy, had
seen Monsieur de Gondy only the more
frequently.

Now, the very morning of which we speak
was that of his quarter-day payment, and
Scarron, as usual, had sent his servant
to get his money at the pension-office,
but the man had returned and said that
the government had no more money to give
Monsieur Scarron.

It was on Thursday, the abbe's reception
day; people went there in crowds. The
cardinal's refusal to pay the pension
was known about the town in half an hour
and he was abused with wit and
vehemence.

In the Rue Saint Honore Athos fell in
with two gentlemen whom he did not know,
on horseback like himself, followed by a
lackey like himself, and going in the
same direction that he was. One of them,
hat in hand, said to him:

"Would you believe it, monsieur? that
contemptible Mazarin has stopped poor
Scarron's pension."

"That is unreasonable," said Athos,
saluting in his turn the two cavaliers.
And they separated with courteous
gestures.

"It happens well that we are going there
this evening," said Athos to the
vicomte; "we will pay our compliments to
that poor man."

"What, then, is this Monsieur Scarron,
who thus puts all Paris in commotion? Is
he some minister out of office?"

"Oh, no, not at all, vicomte," Athos
replied; "he is simply a gentleman of
great genius who has fallen into
disgrace with the cardinal through
having written certain verses against
him."

"Do gentlemen, then, make verses?" asked
Raoul, naively, "I thought it was
derogatory."

"So it is, my dear vicomte," said Athos,
laughing, "to make bad ones; but to make
good ones increases fame -- witness
Monsieur de Rotrou. Nevertheless," he
continued, in the tone of one who gives
wholesome advice, "I think it is better
not to make them."

"Then," said Raoul, "this Monsieur
Scarron is a poet?"

"Yes; you are warned, vicomte. Consider
well what you do in that house. Talk
only by gestures, or rather always
listen."

"Yes, monsieur," replied Raoul.

"You will see me talking with one of my
friends, the Abbe d'Herblay, of whom you
have often heard me speak."

"I remember him, monsieur."

"Come near to us from time to time, as
if to speak; but do not speak, and do
not listen. That little stratagem may
serve to keep off interlopers."

"Very well, monsieur; I will obey you at
all points."

Athos made two visits in Paris; at seven
o'clock he and Raoul directed their
steps to the Rue des Tournelles; it was
stopped by porters, horses and footmen.
Athos forced his way through and
entered, followed by the young man. The
first person that struck him on his
entrance was Aramis, planted near a
great chair on castors, very large,
covered with a canopy of tapestry, under
which there moved, enveloped in a quilt
of brocade, a little face, youngish,
very merry, somewhat pallid, whilst its
eyes never ceased to express a sentiment
at once lively, intellectual, and
amiable. This was the Abbe Scarron,
always laughing, joking,
complimenting -- yet suffering -- and
toying nervously with a small switch.

Around this kind of rolling tent pressed
a crowd of gentlemen and ladies. The
room was neatly, comfortably furnished.
Large valances of silk, embroidered with
flowers of gay colors, which were rather
faded, fell from the wide windows; the
fittings of the room were simple, but in
excellent taste. Two well trained
servingmen were in attendance on the
company. On perceiving Athos, Aramis
advanced toward him, took him by the
hand and presented him to Scarron. Raoul
remained silent, for he was not prepared
for the dignity of the bel esprit.

After some minutes the door opened and a
footman announced Mademoiselle Paulet.

Athos touched the shoulder of the
vicomte.

"Look at this lady, Raoul, she is an
historic personage; it was to visit her
King Henry IV. was going when he was
assassinated."

Every one thronged around Mademoiselle
Paulet, for she was always very much the
fashion. She was a tall woman, with a
slender figure and a forest of golden
curls, such as Raphael was fond of and
Titian has painted all his Magdalens
with. This fawn-colored hair, or,
perhaps the sort of ascendancy which she
had over other women, gave her the name
of "La Lionne." Mademoiselle Paulet took
her accustomed seat, but before sitting
down, she cast, in all her queen-like
grandeur, a look around the room, and
her eyes rested on Raoul.

Athos smiled.

"Mademoiselle Paulet has observed you,
vicomte; go and bow to her; don't try to
appear anything but what you are, a true
country youth; on no account speak to
her of Henry IV."

"When shall we two walk together?" Athos
then said to Aramis.

"Presently -- there are not a sufficient
number of people here yet; we shall be
remarked."

At this moment the door opened and in
walked the coadjutor.

At this name every one looked around,
for his was already a very celebrated
name. Athos did the same. He knew the
Abbe de Gondy only by report.

He saw a little dark man, ill made and
awkward with his hands in everything --
except drawing a sword and firing a
pistol -- with something haughty and
contemptuous in his face.

Scarron turned around toward him and
came to meet him in his chair.

"Well," said the coadjutor, on seeing
him, "you are in disgrace, then, abbe?"

This was the orthodox phrase. It had
been said that evening a hundred
times -- and Scarron was at his
hundredth bon mot on the subject; he was
very nearly at the end of his humoristic
tether, but one despairing effort saved
him.

"Monsieur, the Cardinal Mazarin has been
so kind as to think of me," he said.

"But how can you continue to receive
us?" asked the coadjutor; "if your
income is lessened I shall be obliged to
make you a canon of Notre Dame."

"Oh, no!" cried Scarron, "I should
compromise you too much."

"Perhaps you have resources of which we
are ignorant?"

"I shall borrow from the queen."

"But her majesty has no property,"
interposed Aramis.

At this moment the door opened and
Madame de Chevreuse was announced. Every
one arose. Scarron turned his chair
toward the door, Raoul blushed, Athos
made a sign to Aramis, who went and hid
himself in the enclosure of a window.

In the midst of all the compliments that
awaited her on her entrance, the duchess
seemed to be looking for some one; at
last she found out Raoul and her eyes
sparkled; she perceived Athos and became
thoughtful; she saw Aramis in the
seclusion of the window and gave a start
of surprise behind her fan.

"Apropos," she said, as if to drive away
thoughts that pursued her in spite of
herself, "how is poor Voiture, do you
know, Scarron?"

"What, is Monsieur Voiture ill?"
inquired a gentleman who had spoken to
Athos in the Rue Saint Honore; "what is
the matter with him?"

"He was acting, but forgot to take the
precaution to have a change of linen
ready after the performance," said the
coadjutor, "so he took cold and is about
to die."

"Is he then so ill, dear Voiture?" asked
Aramis, half hidden by the window
curtain.

"Die!" cried Mademoiselle Paulet,
bitterly, "he! Why, he is surrounded by
sultanas, like a Turk. Madame de Saintot
has hastened to him with broth; La
Renaudot warms his sheets; the Marquise
de Rambouillet sends him his tisanes."

"You don't like him, my dear Parthenie,"
said Scarron.

"What an injustice, my dear invalid! I
hate him so little that I should be
delighted to order masses for the repose
of his soul."

"You are not called `Lionne' for
nothing," observed Madame de Chevreuse,
"your teeth are terrible."

"You are unjust to a great poet, it
seems to me," Raoul ventured to say.

"A great poet! come, one may easily see,
vicomte, that you are lately from the
provinces and have never so much as seen
him. A great poet! he is scarcely five
feet high."

"Bravo bravo!" cried a tall man with an
enormous mustache and a long rapier,
"bravo, fair Paulet, it is high time to
put little Voiture in his right place.
For my part, I always thought his poetry
detestable, and I think I know something
about poetry."

"Who is this officer," inquired Raoul of
Athos, "who is speaking?"

"Monsieur de Scudery, the author of
`Clelie,' and of `Le Grand Cyrus,' which
were composed partly by him and partly
by his sister, who is now talking to
that pretty person yonder, near Monsieur
Scarron."

Raoul turned and saw two faces just
arrived. One was perfectly charming,
delicate, pensive, shaded by beautiful
dark hair, and eyes soft as velvet, like
those lovely flowers, the heartsease, in
which shine out the golden petals. The
other, of mature age, seemed to have the
former one under her charge, and was
cold, dry and yellow -- the true type of
a duenna or a devotee.

Raoul resolved not to quit the room
without having spoken to the beautiful
girl with the soft eyes, who by a
strange fancy, although she bore no
resemblance, reminded him of his poor
little Louise, whom he had left in the
Chateau de la Valliere and whom, in the
midst of all the party, he had never for
one moment quite forgotten. Meantime
Aramis had drawn near to the coadjutor,
who, smiling all the while, contrived to
drop some words into his ear. Aramis,
notwithstanding his self-control, could
not refrain from a slight movement of
surprise.

"Laugh, then," said Monsieur de Retz;
"they are looking at us." And leaving
Aramis he went to talk with Madame de
Chevreuse, who was in the midst of a
large group.

Aramis affected a laugh, to divert the
attention of certain curious listeners,
and perceiving that Athos had betaken
himself to the embrasure of a window and
remained there, he proceeded to join
him, throwing out a few words carelessly
as he moved through the room.

As soon as the two friends met they
began a conversation which was
emphasized by frequent gesticulation.

Raoul then approached them as Athos had
directed him to do.

"'Tis a rondeau by Monsieur Voiture that
monsieur l'abbe is repeating to me."
said Athos in a loud voice, "and I
confess I think it incomparable."

Raoul stayed only a few minutes near
them and then mingled with the group
round Madame de Chevreuse.

"Well, then?" asked Athos, in a low
tone.

"It is to be to-morrow," said Aramis
hastily.

"At what time?"

"Six o'clock."

"Where?"

"At Saint Mande."

"Who told you?"

"The Count de Rochefort."

Some one drew near.

"And then philosophic ideas are wholly
wanting in Voiture's works, but I am of
the same opinion as the coadjutor -- he
is a poet, a true poet." Aramis spoke so
as to be heard by everybody.

"And I, too," murmured the young lady
with the velvet eyes. "I have the
misfortune also to admire his poetry
exceedingly."

"Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor,"
said Raoul, blushing, "to tell me the
name of that young lady whose opinion
seems so different from that of others
of the company."

"Ah! my young vicomte," replied Scarron,
"I suppose you wish to propose to her an
alliance offensive and defensive."

Raoul blushed again.

"You asked the name of that young lady.
She is called the fair Indian."

"Excuse me, sir," returned Raoul,
blushing still more deeply, "I know no
more than I did before. Alas! I am from
the country."

"Which means that you know very little
about the nonsense which here flows down
our streets. So much the better, young
man! so much the better! Don't try to
understand it -- you will only lose your
time."

"You forgive me, then, sir," said Raoul,
"and you will deign to tell me who is
the person that you call the young
Indian?"

"Certainly; one of the most charming
persons that lives -- Mademoiselle
Frances d'Aubigne."

"Does she belong to the family of the
celebrated Agrippa, the friend of Henry
IV.?"

"His granddaughter. She comes from
Martinique, so I call her the beautiful
Indian."

Raoul looked surprised and his eyes met
those of the young lady, who smiled.

The company went on speaking of the poet
Voiture.

"Monsieur," said Mademoiselle d'Aubigne
to Scarron, as if she wished to join in
the conversation he was engaged in with
Raoul, "do you not admire Monsieur
Voiture's friends? Listen how they pull
him to pieces even whilst they praise
him; one takes away from him all claim
to good sense, another robs him of his
poetry, a third of his originality,
another of his humor, another of his
independence of character, a sixth --
but, good heavens! what will they leave
him? as Mademoiselle de Scudery
remarks."

Scarron and Raoul laughed. The fair
Indian, astonished at the sensation her
observation produced, looked down and
resumed her air of naivete.

Athos, still within the inclosure of the
window, watched this scene with a smile
of disdain on his lips.

"Tell the Comte de la Fere to come to
me," said Madame de Chevreuse, "I want
to speak to him."

"And I," said the coadjutor, "want it to
be thought that I do not speak to him. I
admire, I love him -- for I know his
former adventures -- but I shall not
speak to him until the day after
to-morrow."

"And why day after to-morrow?" asked
Madame de Chevreuse.

"You will know that to-morrow evening,"
said the coadjutor, smiling.

"Really, my dear Gondy," said the
duchess, "you remind one of the
Apocalypse. Monsieur d'Herblay," she
added, turning toward Aramis, "will you
be my servant once more this evening?"

"How can you doubt it?" replied Aramis;
"this evening, to-morrow, always;
command me."

"I will, then. Go and look for the Comte
de la Fere; I wish to speak with him."

Aramis found Athos and brought him.

"Monsieur le comte," said the duchess,
giving him a letter, "here is what I
promised you; our young friend will be
extremely well received."

"Madame, he is very happy in owing any
obligation to you."

"You have no reason to envy him on that
score, for I owe to you the pleasure of
knowing him," replied the witty woman,
with a smile which recalled Marie Michon
to Aramis and to Athos.

As she uttered that bon mot, she arose
and asked for her carriage. Mademoiselle
Paulet had already gone; Mademoiselle de
Scudery was going.

"Vicomte," said Athos to Raoul, "follow
the duchess; beg her to do you the favor
to take your arm in going downstairs,
and thank her as you descend."

The fair Indian approached Scarron.

"You are going already?" he said.

"One of the last, as you see; if you
hear anything of Monsieur Voiture, be so
kind as to send me word to-morrow."

"Oh!" said Scarron, "he may die now."

"Why?" asked the young girl with the
velvet eyes.

"Certainly; his panegyric has been
uttered."

They parted, laughing, she turning back
to gaze at the poor paralytic man with
interest, he looking after her with eyes
of love.

One by one the several groups broke up.
Scarron seemed not to observe that
certain of his guests had talked
mysteriously, that letters had passed
from hand to hand and that the assembly
had seemed to have a secret purpose
quite apart from the literary discussion
carried on with so much ostentation.
What was all that to Scarron? At his
house rebellion could be planned with
impunity, for, as we have said, since
that morning he had ceased to be "the
queen's invalid."

As to Raoul, he had attended the duchess
to her carriage, where, as she took her
seat, she gave him her hand to kiss;
then, by one of those wild caprices
which made her so adorable and at the
same time so dangerous, she had suddenly
put her arm around his neck and kissed
his forehead, saying:

"Vicomte, may my good wishes and this
kiss bring you good fortune!"

Then she had pushed him away and
directed the coachman to stop at the
Hotel de Luynes. The carriage had
started, Madame de Chevreuse had made a
parting gesture to the young man, and
Raoul had returned in a state of
stupefaction.

Athos surmised what had taken place and
smiled. "Come, vicomte," he said, "it is
time for you to go to bed; you will
start in the morning for the army of
monsieur le prince. Sleep well your last
night as citizen."

"I am to be a soldier then?" said the
young man. "Oh, monsieur, I thank you
with all my heart."

"Adieu, count," said the Abbe d'Herblay;
"I return to my convent."

"Adieu, abbe," said the coadjutor, "I am
to preach to-morrow and have twenty
texts to examine this evening."

"Adieu, gentlemen," said the count; "I
am going to sleep twenty-four hours; I
am just falling down with fatigue."

The three men saluted one another,
whilst exchanging a last look.

Scarron followed their movements with a
glance from the corner of his eye.

"Not one of them will do as he says," he
murmured, with his little monkey smile;
"but they may do as they please, the
brave gentlemen! Who knows if they will
not manage to restore to me my pension?
They can move their arms, they can, and
that is much. Alas, I have only my
tongue, but I will try to show that it
is good for something. Ho, there,
Champenois! here, it is eleven o'clock.
Come and roll me to bed. Really, that
Demoiselle d'Aubigne is very charming!"

So the invalid disappeared soon
afterward and went into his
sleeping-room; and one by one the lights
in the salon of the Rue des Tournelles
were extinguished.



22

Saint Denis.



The day had begun to break when Athos
arose and dressed himself. It was plain,
by a paleness still greater than usual,
and by those traces which loss of sleep
leaves on the face, that he must have
passed almost the whole of the night
without sleeping. Contrary to the custom
of a man so firm and decided, there was
this morning in his personal appearance
something tardy and irresolute.

He was occupied with the preparations
for Raoul's departure and was seeking to
gain time. In the first place he himself
furbished a sword, which he drew from
its perfumed leather sheath; he examined
it to see if its hilt was well guarded
and if the blade was firmly attached to
the hilt. Then he placed at the bottom
of the valise belonging to the young man
a small bag of louis, called Olivain,
the lackey who had followed him from
Blois, and made him pack the valise
under his own eyes, watchful to see that
everything should be put in which might
be useful to a young man entering on his
first campaign.

At length, after occupying about an hour
in these preparations, he opened the
door of the room in which the vicomte
slept, and entered.

The sun, already high, penetrated into
the room through the window, the
curtains of which Raoul had neglected to
close on the previous evening. He was
still sleeping, his head gracefully
reposing on his arm.

Athos approached and hung over the youth
in an attitude full of tender
melancholy; he looked long on this young
man, whose smiling mouth and half closed
eyes bespoke soft dreams and lightest
slumber, as if his guardian angel
watched over him with solicitude and
affection. By degrees Athos gave himself
up to the charms of his reverie in the
proximity of youth, so pure, so fresh.
His own youth seemed to reappear,
bringing with it all those savoury
remembrances, which are like perfumes
more than thoughts. Between the past and
the present was an ineffable abyss. But
imagination has the wings of an angel of
light and travels safely through or over
the seas where we have been almost
shipwrecked, the darkness in which our
illusions are lost, the precipice whence
our happiness has been hurled and
swallowed up. He remembered that all the
first part of his life had been
embittered by a woman and he thought
with alarm of the influence love might
assume over so fine, and at the same
time so vigorous an organization as that
of Raoul.

In recalling all he had been through, he
foresaw all that Raoul might suffer; and
the expression of the deep and tender
compassion which throbbed in his heart
was pictured in the moist eye with which
he gazed on the young man.

At this moment Raoul awoke, without a
cloud on his face without weariness or
lassitude; his eyes were fixed on those
of Athos and perhaps he comprehended all
that passed in the heart of the man who
was awaiting his awakening as a lover
awaits the awakening of his mistress,
for his glance, in return, had all the
tenderness of love.

"You are there, sir?" he said,
respectfully.

"Yes, Raoul," replied the count.

"And you did not awaken me?"

"I wished to leave you still to enjoy
some moments of sleep, my child; you
must be fatigued from yesterday."

"Oh, sir, how good you are!"

Athos smiled.

"How do you feel this morning?" he
inquired.

"Perfectly well; quite rested, sir."

"You are still growing," Athos
continued, with that charming and
paternal interest felt by a grown man
for a youth.

"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed
Raoul, ashamed of so much attention; "in
an instant I shall be dressed."

Athos then called Olivain.

"Everything," said Olivain to Athos,
"has been done according to your
directions; the horses are waiting."

"And I was asleep," cried Raoul, "whilst
you, sir, you had the kindness to attend
to all these details. Truly, sir, you
overwhelm me with benefits!"

"Therefore you love me a little, I
hope," replied Athos, in a tone of
emotion.

"Oh, sir! God knows how much I love,
revere you."

"See that you forget nothing," said
Athos, appearing to look about him, that
he might hide his emotion.

"No, indeed, sir," answered Raoul.

The servant then approached Athos and
said, hesitatingly:

"Monsieur le vicomte has no sword."

"'Tis well," said Athos, "I will take
care of that."

They went downstairs, Raoul looking
every now and then at the count to see
if the moment of farewell was at hand,
but Athos was silent. When they reached
the steps Raoul saw three horses.

"Oh, sir! then you are going with me?"

"I will accompany you a portion of the
way," said Athos.

Joy shone in Raoul's eyes and he leaped
lightly to his saddle.

Athos mounted more slowly, after
speaking in a low voice to the lackey,
who, instead of following them
immediately, returned to their rooms.
Raoul, delighted at the count's
companionship, perceived, or affected to
perceive nothing of this byplay.

They set out, passing over the Pont
Neuf; they pursued their way along the
quay then called L'Abreuvoir Pepin, and
went along by the walls of the Grand
Chatelet. They proceeded to the Rue
Saint Denis.

After passing through the Porte Saint
Denis, Athos looked at Raoul's way of
riding and observed:

"Take care, Raoul! I have already often
told you of this; you must not forget
it, for it is a great defect in a rider.
See! your horse is tired already, he
froths at the mouth, whilst mine looks
as if he had only just left the stable.
You hold the bit too tight and so make
his mouth hard, so that you will not be
able to make him manoeuvre quickly. The
safety of a cavalier often depends on
the prompt obedience of his horse. In a
week, remember, you will no longer be
performing your manoeuvres for practice,
but on a field of battle."

Then suddenly, in order not to give too
uncomfortable an importance to this
observation:

"See, Raoul!" he resumed; "what a fine
plain for partridge shooting."

The young man stored in his mind the
admonition whilst he admired the
delicate tenderness with which it was
bestowed.

"I have remarked also another thing,"
said Athos, "which is, that in firing
off your pistol you hold your arm too
far outstretched. This tension lessens
the accuracy of the aim. So in twelve
times you thrice missed the mark."

"Which you, sir, struck twelve times,"
answered Raoul, smiling.

"Because I bent my arm and rested my
hand on my elbow -- so; do you
understand what I mean?"

"Yes, sir. I have fired since in that
manner and have been quite successful."

"What a cold wind!" resumed Athos; "a
wintry blast. Apropos, if you fire --
and you will do so, for you are
recommended to a young general who is
very fond of powder -- remember that in
single combat, which often takes place
in the cavalry, never to fire the first
shot. He who fires the first shot rarely
hits his man, for he fires with the
apprehension of being disarmed, before
an armed foe; then, whilst he fires,
make your horse rear; that manoeuvre has
saved my life several times."

"I shall do so, if only in
gratitude ---- "

"Eh!" cried Athos, "are not those
fellows poachers they have arrested
yonder? They are. Then another important
thing, Raoul: should you be wounded in a
battle, and fall from your horse, if you
have any strength left, disentangle
yourself from the line that your
regiment has formed; otherwise, it may
be driven back and you will be trampled
to death by the horses. At all events,
should you be wounded, write to me that
very instant, or get some one at once to
write to me. We are judges of wounds, we
old soldiers," Athos added, smiling.

"Thank you, sir," answered the young
man, much moved.

They arrived that very moment at the
gate of the town, guarded by two
sentinels.

"Here comes a young gentleman," said one
of them, "who seems as if he were going
to join the army."

"How do you make that out?" inquired
Athos.

"By his manner, sir, and his age; he's
the second to-day."

"Has a young man, such as I am, gone
through this morning, then?" asked
Raoul.

"Faith, yes, with a haughty presence, a
fine equipage; such as the son of a
noble house would have."

"He will be my companion on the journey,
sir," cried Raoul. "Alas! he cannot make
me forget what I shall have lost!"

Thus talking, they traversed the
streets, full of people on account of
the fete, and arrived opposite the old
cathedral, where first mass was going
on.

"Let us alight; Raoul," said Athos.
"Olivain, take care of our horses and
give me my sword."

The two gentlemen then went into the
church. Athos gave Raoul some of the
holy water. A love as tender as that of
a lover for his mistress dwells,
undoubtedly, in some paternal hearts
toward a son.

Athos said a word to one of the vergers,
who bowed and proceeded toward the
basement.

"Come, Raoul," he said, "let us follow
this man."

The verger opened the iron grating that
guarded the royal tombs and stood on the
topmost step, whilst Athos and Raoul
descended. The sepulchral depths of the
descent were dimly lighted by a silver
lamp on the lowest step; and just below
this lamp there was laid, wrapped in a
flowing mantle of violet velvet, worked
with fleurs-de-lis of gold, a catafalque
resting on trestles of oak. The young
man, prepared for this scene by the
state of his own feelings, which were
mournful, and by the majesty of the
cathedral which he had passed through,
descended in a slow and solemn manner
and stood with head uncovered before
these mortal spoils of the last king,
who was not to be placed by the side of
his forefathers until his successor
should take his place there; and who
appeared to abide on that spot, that he
might thus address human pride, so sure
to be exalted by the glories of a
throne: "Dust of the earth! Here I await
thee!"

There was profound silence.

Then Athos raised his hand and pointing
to the coffin:

"This temporary sepulture is," he said,
"that of a man who was of feeble mind,
yet one whose reign was full of great
events; because over this king watched
the spirit of another man, even as this
lamp keeps vigil over this coffin and
illumines it. He whose intellect was
thus supreme, Raoul, was the actual
sovereign; the other, nothing but a
phantom to whom he lent a soul; and yet,
so powerful is majesty amongst us, this
man has not even the honor of a tomb at
the feet of him in whose service his
life was worn away. Remember, Raoul,
this! If Richelieu made the king, by
comparison, seem small, he made royalty
great. The Palace of the Louvre contains
two things -- the king, who must die,
and royalty, which never dies. The
minister, so feared, so hated by his
master, has descended into the tomb,
drawing after him the king, whom he
would not leave alone on earth, lest his
work should be destroyed. So blind were
his contemporaries that they regarded
the cardinal's death as a deliverance;
and I, even I, opposed the designs of
the great man who held the destinies of
France within the hollow of his hand.
Raoul, learn how to distinguish the king
from royalty; the king is but a man;
royalty is the gift of God. Whenever you
hesitate as to whom you ought to serve,
abandon the exterior, the material
appearance for the invisible principle,
for the invisible principle is
everything. Raoul, I seem to read your
future destiny as through a cloud. It
will be happier, I think, than ours has
been. Different in your fate from us,
you will have a king without a minister,
whom you may serve, love, respect.
Should the king prove a tyrant, for
power begets tyranny, serve, love,
respect royalty, that Divine right, that
celestial spark which makes this dust
still powerful and holy, so that we --
gentlemen, nevertheless, of rank and
condition -- are as nothing in
comparison with the cold corpse there
extended."

"I shall adore God, sir," said Raoul,
"respect royalty and ever serve the
king. And if death be my lot, I hope to
die for the king, for royalty and for
God. Have I, sir, comprehended your
instructions?"

Athos smiled.

"Yours is a noble nature." he said;
"here is your sword."

Raoul bent his knee to the ground.

"It was worn by my father, a loyal
gentleman. I have worn it in my turn and
it has sometimes not been disgraced when
the hilt was in my hand and the sheath
at my side. Should your hand still be
too weak to use this sword, Raoul, so
much the better. You will have the more
time to learn to draw it only when it
ought to be used."

"Sir," replied Raoul, putting the sword
to his lips as he received it from the
count, "I owe you everything and yet
this sword is the most precious gift you
have yet made me. I will wear it, I
swear to you, as a grateful man should
do."

"'Tis well; arise, vicomte, embrace me."

Raoul arose and threw himself with
emotion into the count's arms.

"Adieu," faltered the count, who felt
his heart die away within him; "adieu,
and think of me."

"Oh! for ever and ever!" cried the
youth; "oh! I swear to you, sir, should
any harm befall me, your name will be
the last name that I shall utter, the
remembrance of you my last thought."

Athos hastened upstairs to conceal his
emotion, and regained with hurried steps
the porch where Olivain was waiting with
the horses.

"Olivain," said Athos, showing the
servant Raoul's shoulder-belt, "tighten
the buckle of the sword, it falls too
low. You will accompany monsieur le
vicomte till Grimaud rejoins you. You
know, Raoul, Grimaud is an old and
zealous servant; he will follow you."

"Yes, sir," answered Raoul.

"Now to horse, that I may see you
depart!"

Raoul obeyed.

"Adieu, Raoul," said the count; "adieu,
my dearest boy!"

"Adieu, sir, adieu, my beloved
protector."

Athos waved his hand -- he dared not
trust himself to speak: and Raoul went
away, his head uncovered. Athos remained
motionless, looking after him until he
turned the corner of the street.

Then the count threw the bridle of his
horse into the hands of a peasant,
remounted the steps, went into the
cathedral, there to kneel down in the
darkest corner and pray.



23

One of the Forty Methods of Escape of
the Duc de Beaufort.



Meanwhile time was passing on for the
prisoner, as well as for those who were
preparing his escape; only for him it
passed more slowly. Unlike other men,
who enter with ardor upon a perilous
resolution and grow cold as the moment
of execution approaches, the Duc de
Beaufort, whose buoyant courage had
become a proverb, seemed to push time
before him and sought most eagerly to
hasten the hour of action. In his escape
alone, apart from his plans for the
future, which, it must be admitted, were
for the present sufficiently vague and
uncertain, there was a beginning of
vengeance which filled his heart. In the
first place his escape would be a
serious misfortune to Monsieur de
Chavigny, whom he hated for the petty
persecutions he owed to him. It would be
a still worse affair for Mazarin, whom
he execrated for the greater offences he
had committed. It may be observed that
there was a proper proportion in his
sentiments toward the governor of the
prison and the minister -- toward the
subordinate and the master.

Then Monsieur de Beaufort, who was so
familiar with the interior of the Palais
Royal, though he did not know the
relations existing between the queen and
the cardinal, pictured to himself, in
his prison, all that dramatic excitement
which would ensue when the rumor should
run from the minister's cabinet to the
chamber of Anne of Austria: "Monsieur de
Beaufort has escaped!" Whilst saying
that to himself, Monsieur de Beaufort
smiled pleasantly and imagined himself
already outside, breathing the air of
the plains and the forests, pressing a
strong horse between his knees and
crying out in a loud voice, "I am free!"

It is true that on coming to himself he
found that he was still within four
walls; he saw La Ramee twirling his
thumbs ten feet from him, and his guards
laughing and drinking in the
ante-chamber. The only thing that was
pleasant to him in that odious
tableau -- such is the instability of
the human mind -- was the sullen face of
Grimaud, for whom he had at first
conceived such a hatred and who now was
all his hope. Grimaud seemed to him an
Antinous. It is needless to say that
this transformation was visible only to
the prisoner's feverish imagination.
Grimaud was still the same, and
therefore he retained the entire
confidence of his superior, La Ramee,
who now relied upon him more than he did
upon himself, for, as we have said, La
Ramee felt at the bottom of his heart a
certain weakness for Monsieur de
Beaufort.

And so the good La Ramee made a
festivity of the little supper with his
prisoner. He had but one fault -- he was
a gourmand; he had found the pates good,
the wine excellent. Now the successor of
Pere Marteau had promised him a pate of
pheasant instead of a pate of fowl, and
Chambertin wine instead of Macon. All
this, set off by the presence of that
excellent prince, who was so
good-natured, who invented so droll
tricks against Monsieur de Chavigny and
so fine jokes against Mazarin, made for
La Ramee the approaching Pentecost one
of the four great feasts of the year. He
therefore looked forward to six o'clock
with as much impatience as the duke
himself.

Since daybreak La Ramee had been
occupied with the preparations, and
trusting no one but himself, he had
visited personally the successor of Pere
Marteau. The latter had surpassed
himself; he showed La Ramee a monstrous
pate, ornamented with Monsieur de
Beaufort's coat-of-arms. It was empty as
yet, but a pheasant and two partridges
were lying near it. La Ramee's mouth
watered and he returned to the duke's
chamber rubbing his hands. To crown his
happiness, Monsieur de Chavigny had
started on a journey that morning and in
his absence La Ramee was deputy-governor
of the chateau.

As for Grimaud, he seemed more sullen
than ever.

In the course of the forenoon Monsieur
de Beaufort had a game of tennis with La
Ramee; a sign from Grimaud put him on
the alert. Grimaud, going in advance,
followed the course which they were to
take in the evening. The game was played
in an inclosure called the little court
of the chateau, a place quite deserted
except when Monsieur de Beaufort was
playing; and even then the precaution
seemed superfluous, the wall was so
high.

There were three gates to open before
reaching the inclosure, each by a
different key. When they arrived Grimaud
went carelessly and sat down by a
loophole in the wall, letting his legs
dangle outside. It was evident that
there the rope ladder was to be
attached.

This manoeuvre, transparent to the Duc
de Beaufort, was quite unintelligible to
La Ramee.

The game at tennis, which, upon a sign
from Grimaud, Monsieur de Beaufort had
consented to play, began in the
afternoon. The duke was in full strength
and beat La Ramee completely.

Four of the guards, who were constantly
near the prisoner, assisted in picking
up the tennis balls. When the game was
over, the duke, laughing at La Ramee for
his bad play, offered these men two
louis d'or to go and drink his health,
with their four other comrades.

The guards asked permission of La Ramee,
who gave it to them, but not till the
evening, however; until then he had
business and the prisoner was not to be
left alone.

Six o'clock came and, although they were
not to sit down to table until seven
o'clock, dinner was ready and served up.
Upon a sideboard appeared the colossal
pie with the duke's arms on it, and
seemingly cooked to a turn, as far as
one could judge by the golden color
which illuminated the crust.

The rest of the dinner was to come.

Every one was impatient, La Ramee to sit
down to table, the guards to go and
drink, the duke to escape.

Grimaud alone was calm as ever. One
might have fancied that Athos had
educated him with the express
forethought of such a great event.

There were moments when, looking at
Grimaud, the duke asked himself if he
was not dreaming and if that marble
figure was really at his service and
would grow animated when the moment came
for action.

La Ramee sent away the guards, desiring
them to drink to the duke's health, and
as soon as they were gone shut all the
doors, put the keys in his pocket and
showed the table to the prince with an
air that signified:

"Whenever my lord pleases."

The prince looked at Grimaud, Grimaud
looked at the clock; it was hardly a
quarter-past six. The escape was fixed
to take place at seven o'clock; there
was therefore three-quarters of an hour
to wait.

The duke, in order to pass away another
quarter of an hour, pretended to be
reading something that interested him
and muttered that he wished they would
allow him to finish his chapter. La
Ramee went up to him and looked over his
shoulder to see what sort of a book it
was that had so singular an influence
over the prisoner as to make him put off
taking his dinner.

It was "Caesar's Commentaries," which La
Ramee had lent him, contrary to the
orders of the governor; and La Ramee
resolved never again to disobey these
injunctions.

Meantime he uncorked the bottles and
went to smell if the pie was good.

At half-past six the duke arose and said
very gravely:

"Certainly, Caesar was the greatest man
of ancient times."

"You think so, my lord?" answered La
Ramee.

"Yes."

"Well, as for me, I prefer Hannibal."

"And why, pray, Master La Ramee?" asked
the duke.

"Because he left no Commentaries,"
replied La Ramee, with his coarse laugh.

The duke vouchsafed no reply, but
sitting down at the table made a sign
that La Ramee should seat himself
opposite. There is nothing so expressive
as the face of an epicure who finds
himself before a well spread table, so
La Ramee, when receiving his plate of
soup from Grimaud, presented a type of
perfect bliss.

The duke smiled.

"Zounds!" he said; "I don't suppose
there is a more contented man at this
moment in all the kingdom than
yourself!"

"You are right, my lord duke," answered
the officer; "I don't know any
pleasanter sight on earth than a well
covered table; and when, added to that,
he who does the honors is the grandson
of Henry IV., you will, my lord duke,
easily comprehend that the honor fairly
doubles the pleasure one enjoys."

The duke, in his turn, bowed, and an
imperceptible smile appeared on the face
of Grimaud, who kept behind La Ramee.

"My dear La Ramee," said the duke, "you
are the only man to turn such faultless
compliments."

"No, my lord duke," replied La Ramee, in
the fullness of his heart; "I say what I
think; there is no compliment in what I
say to you ---- "

"Then you are attached to me?" asked the
duke.

"To own the truth, I should be
inconsolable if you were to leave
Vincennes."

"A droll way of showing your
affliction." The duke meant to say
"affection."

"But, my lord," returned La Ramee, "what
would you do if you got out? Every folly
you committed would embroil you with the
court and they would put you into the
Bastile, instead of Vincennes. Now,
Monsieur de Chavigny is not amiable, I
allow, but Monsieur du Tremblay is
considerably worse."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the duke, who from
time to time looked at the clock, the
fingers of which seemed to move with
sickening slowness.

"But what can you expect from the
brother of a capuchin monk, brought up
in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah,
my lord, it is a great happiness that
the queen, who always wished you well,
had a fancy to send you here, where
there's a promenade and a tennis court,
good air, and a good table."

"In short," answered the duke, "if I
comprehend you aright, La Ramee, I am
ungrateful for having ever thought of
leaving this place?"

"Oh! my lord duke, 'tis the height of
ingratitude; but your highness has never
seriously thought of it?"

"Yes," returned the duke, "I must
confess I sometimes think of it."

"Still by one of your forty methods,
your highness?"

"Yes, yes, indeed."

"My lord," said La Ramee, "now we are
quite at our ease and enjoying
ourselves, pray tell me one of those
forty ways invented by your highness."

"Willingly," answered the duke, "give me
the pie!"

"I am listening," said La Ramee, leaning
back in his armchair and raising his
glass of Madeira to his lips, and
winking his eye that he might see the
sun through the rich liquid that he was
about to taste.

The duke glanced at the clock. In ten
minutes it would strike seven.

Grimaud placed the pie before the duke,
who took a knife with a silver blade to
raise the upper crust; but La Ramee, who
was afraid of any harm happening to this
fine work of art, passed his knife,
which had an iron blade, to the duke.

"Thank you, La Ramee," said the
prisoner.

"Well, my lord! this famous invention of
yours?"

"Must I tell you," replied the duke, "on
what I most reckon and what I determine
to try first?"

"Yes, that's the thing, my lord!" cried
his custodian, gaily.

"Well, I should hope, in the first
instance, to have for keeper an honest
fellow like you."

"And you have me, my lord. Well?"

"Having, then, a keeper like La Ramee, I
should try also to have introduced to
him by some friend or other a man who
would be devoted to me, who would assist
me in my flight."

"Come, come," said La Ramee, "that's not
a bad idea."

"Capital, isn't it? for instance, the
former servingman of some brave
gentleman, an enemy himself to Mazarin,
as every gentleman ought to be."

"Hush! don't let us talk politics, my
lord."

"Then my keeper would begin to trust
this man and to depend upon him, and I
should have news from those without the
prison walls."

"Ah, yes! but how can the news be
brought to you?"

"Nothing easier; in a game of tennis,
for example."

"In a game of tennis?" asked La Ramee,
giving more serious attention to the
duke's words.

"Yes; see, I send a ball into the moat;
a man is there who picks it up; the ball
contains a letter. Instead of returning
the ball to me when I call for it from
the top of the wall, he throws me
another; that other ball contains a
letter. Thus we have exchanged ideas and
no one has seen us do it."

"The devil it does! The devil it does!"
said La Ramee, scratching his head; "you
are in the wrong to tell me that, my
lord. I shall have to watch the men who
pick up balls."

The duke smiled.

"But," resumed La Ramee, "that is only a
way of corresponding."

"And that is a great deal, it seems to
me."

"But not enough."

"Pardon me; for instance, I say to my
friends, Be on a certain day, on a
certain hour, at the other side of the
moat with two horses."

"Well, what then?" La Ramee began to be
uneasy; "unless the horses have wings to
mount the ramparts and come and fetch
you."

"That's not needed. I have," replied the
duke, "a way of descending from the
ramparts."

"What?"

"A rope ladder."

"Yes, but," answered La Ramee, trying to
laugh, "a ladder of ropes can't be sent
around a ball, like a letter."

"No, but it may be sent in something
else."

"In something else -- in something else?
In what?"

"In a pate, for example."

"In a pate?" said La Ramee.

"Yes. Let us suppose one thing," replied
the duke "let us suppose, for instance,
that my maitre d'hotel, Noirmont, has
purchased the shop of Pere Marteau ----
"

"Well?" said La Ramee, shuddering.

"Well, La Ramee, who is a gourmand, sees
his pates, thinks them more attractive
than those of Pere Marteau and proposes
to me that I shall try them. I consent
on condition that La Ramee tries them
with me. That we may be more at our
ease, La Ramee removes the guards,
keeping only Grimaud to wait on us.
Grimaud is the man whom a friend has
sent to second me in everything. The
moment for my escape is fixed -- seven
o'clock. Well, at a few minutes to
seven ---- "

"At a few minutes to seven?" cried La
Ramee, cold sweat upon his brow.

"At a few minutes to seven," returned
the duke (suiting the action to the
words), "I raise the crust of the pie; I
find in it two poniards, a ladder of
rope, and a gag. I point one of the
poniards at La Ramee's breast and I say
to him, `My friend, I am sorry for it,
but if thou stirrest, if thou utterest
one cry, thou art a dead man!'"

The duke, in pronouncing these words,
suited, as we have said, the action to
the words. He was standing near the
officer and he directed the point of the
poniard in such a manner, close to La
Ramee's heart, that there could be no
doubt in the mind of that individual as
to his determination. Meanwhile,
Grimaud, still mute as ever, drew from
the pie the other poniard, the rope
ladder and the gag.

La Ramee followed all these objects with
his eyes, his alarm every moment
increasing.

"Oh, my lord," he cried, with an
expression of stupefaction in his face;
"you haven't the heart to kill me!"

"No; not if thou dost not oppose my
flight."

"But, my lord, if I allow you to escape
I am a ruined man."

"I will compensate thee for the loss of
thy place."

"You are determined to leave the
chateau?"

"By Heaven and earth! This night I am
determined to be free."

"And if I defend myself, or call, or cry
out?"

"I will kill thee, on the honor of a
gentleman."

At this moment the clock struck.

"Seven o'clock!" said Grimaud, who had
not spoken a word.

La Ramee made one movement, in order to
satisfy his conscience. The duke
frowned, the officer felt the point of
the poniard, which, having penetrated
through his clothes, was close to his
heart.

"Let us dispatch," said the duke.

"My lord, one last favor."

"What? speak, make haste."

"Bind my arms, my lord, fast."

"Why bind thee?"

"That I may not be considered as your
accomplice."

"Your hands?" asked Grimaud.

"Not before me, behind me."

"But with what?" asked the duke.

"With your belt, my lord!" replied La
Ramee.

The duke undid his belt and gave it to
Grimaud, who tied La Ramee in such a way
as to satisfy him.

"Your feet, too," said Grimaud.

La Ramee stretched out his legs, Grimaud
took a table-cloth, tore it into strips
and tied La Ramee's feet together.

"Now, my lord," said the poor man, "let
me have the poire d'angoisse. I ask for
it; without it I should be tried in a
court of justice because I did not raise
the alarm. Thrust it into my mouth, my
lord, thrust it in."

Grimaud prepared to comply with this
request, when the officer made a sign as
if he had something to say.

"Speak," said the duke.

"Now, my lord, do not forget, if any
harm happens to me on your account, that
I have a wife and four children."

"Rest assured; put the gag in, Grimaud."

In a second La Ramee was gagged and laid
prostrate. Two or three chairs were
thrown down as if there had been a
struggle. Grimaud then took from the
pocket of the officer all the keys it
contained and first opened the door of
the room in which they were, then shut
it and double-locked it, and both he and
the duke proceeded rapidly down the
gallery which led to the little
inclosure. At last they reached the
tennis court. It was completely
deserted. No sentinels, no one at any of
the windows. The duke ran to the rampart
and perceived on the other side of the
ditch, three cavaliers with two riding
horses. The duke exchanged a signal with
them. It was indeed for him that they
were there.

Grimaud, meantime, undid the means of
escape.

This was not, however, a rope ladder,
but a ball of silk cord, with a narrow
board which was to pass between the
legs, the ball to unwind itself by the
weight of the person who sat astride
upon the board.

"Go!" said the duke.

"First, my lord?" inquired Grimaud.

"Certainly. If I am caught, I risk
nothing but being taken back again to
prison. If they catch thee, thou wilt be
hung."

"True," replied Grimaud.

And instantly, Grimaud, sitting upon the
board as if on horseback, commenced his
perilous descent.

The duke followed him with his eyes,
with involuntary terror. He had gone
down about three-quarters of the length
of the wall when the cord broke. Grimaud
fell -- precipitated into the moat.

The duke uttered a cry, but Grimaud did
not give a single moan. He must have
been dreadfully hurt, for he did not
stir from the place where he fell.

Immediately one of the men who were
waiting slipped down into the moat, tied
under Grimaud's shoulders the end of a
cord, and the remaining two, who held
the other end, drew Grimaud to them.

"Descend, my lord," said the man in the
moat. "There are only fifteen feet more
from the top down here, and the grass is
soft."

The duke had already begun to descend.
His task was the more difficult, as
there was no board to support him. He
was obliged to let himself down by his
hands and from a height of fifty feet.
But as we have said he was active,
strong, and full of presence of mind. In
less than five minutes he arrived at the
end of the cord. He was then only
fifteen feet from the ground, as the
gentlemen below had told him. He let go
the rope and fell upon his feet, without
receiving any injury.

He instantly began to climb up the slope
of the moat, on the top of which he met
De Rochefort. The other two gentlemen
were unknown to him. Grimaud, in a
swoon, was tied securely to a horse.

"Gentlemen," said the duke, "I will
thank you later; now we have not a
moment to lose. On, then! on! those who
love me, follow me!"

And he jumped on his horse and set off
at full gallop, snuffing the fresh air
in his triumph and shouting out, with an
expression of face which it would be
impossible to describe:

"Free! free! free!"



24

The timely Arrival of D'Artagnan in
Paris.



At Blois, D'Artagnan received the money
paid to him by Mazarin for any future
service he might render the cardinal.

From Blois to Paris was a journey of
four days for ordinary travelers, but
D'Artagnan arrived on the third day at
the Barriere Saint Denis. In turning the
corner of the Rue Montmartre, in order
to reach the Rue Tiquetonne and the
Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had
appointed Porthos to meet him, he saw at
one of the windows of the hotel, that
friend himself dressed in a sky-blue
waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and
gaping, till he showed every one of his
white teeth; whilst the people passing
by admiringly gazed at this gentleman,
so handsome and so rich, who seemed to
weary of his riches and his greatness.

D'Artagnan and Planchet had hardly
turned the corner when Porthos
recognized them.

"Eh! D'Artagnan!" he cried. "Thank God
you have come!"

"Eh! good-day, dear friend!" replied
D'Artagnan.

Porthos came down at once to the
threshold of the hotel.

"Ah, my dear friend!" he cried, "what
bad stabling for my horses here."

"Indeed!" said D'Artagnan; "I am most
unhappy to hear it, on account of those
fine animals."

"And I, also -- I was also wretchedly
off," he answered, moving backward and
forward as he spoke; "and had it not
been for the hostess," he added, with
his air of vulgar self-complacency, "who
is very agreeable and understands a
joke, I should have got a lodging
elsewhere."

The pretty Madeleine, who had approached
during this colloquy, stepped back and
turned pale as death on hearing
Porthos's words, for she thought the
scene with the Swiss was about to be
repeated. But to her great surprise
D'Artagnan remained perfectly calm, and
instead of being angry he laughed, and
said to Porthos:

"Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue
Tiquetonne is not like that of
Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I
will soon conduct you to one much
better."

"When will you do that?"

"Immediately, I hope."

"Ah! so much the better!"

To that exclamation of Porthos's
succeeded a groaning, low and profound,
which seemed to come from behind a door.
D'Artagnan, who had just dismounted,
then saw, outlined against the wall, the
enormous stomach of Mousqueton, whose
down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of
distress.

"And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston,
are out of place in this poor hotel, are
you not?" asked D'Artagnan, in that
rallying tone which may indicate either
compassion or mockery.

"He finds the cooking detestable,"
replied Porthos.

"Why, then, doesn't he attend to it
himself, as at Chantilly?"

"Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had
there, the ponds of monsieur le prince,
where I could catch those beautiful
carp, nor the forests of his highness to
provide me with partridges. As for the
cellar, I have searched every part and
poor stuff I found."

"Monsieur Mouston," said D'Artagnan, "I
should indeed condole with you had I not
at this moment something very pressing
to attend to."

Then taking Porthos aside:

"My dear Du Vallon," he said, "here you
are in full dress most fortunately, for
I am going to take you to the
cardinal's."

"Gracious me! really!" exclaimed
Porthos, opening his great wondering
eyes.

"Yes, my friend."

"A presentation? indeed!"

"Does that alarm you?"

"No, but it agitates me."

"Oh! don't be distressed; you have to
deal with a cardinal of another kind.
This one will not oppress you by his
dignity."

"'Tis the same thing -- you understand
me, D'Artagnan -- a court."

"There's no court now. Alas!"

"The queen!"

"I was going to say, there's no longer a
queen. The queen! Rest assured, we shall
not see her."

"And you say that we are going from here
to the Palais Royal?"

"Immediately. Only, that there may be no
delay, I shall borrow one of your
horses."

"Certainly; all the four are at your
service."

"Oh, I need only one of them for the
time being."

"Shall we take our valets?"

"Yes, you may as well take Mousqueton.
As to Planchet, he has certain reasons
for not going to court."

"And what are they?"

"Oh, he doesn't stand well with his
eminence."

"Mouston," said Porthos, "saddle Vulcan
and Bayard."

"And for myself, monsieur, shall I
saddle Rustaud?"

"No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus
or Superbe; we are going with some
ceremony."

"Ah," said Mousqueton, breathing more
freely, "you are only going, then, to
make a visit?"

"Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing
else. But to avoid risk, put the pistols
in the holsters. You will find mine on
my saddle, already loaded."

Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn't
understand visits of ceremony made under
arms.

"Indeed," said Porthos, looking
complacently at his old lackey as he
went away, "you are right, D'Artagnan;
Mouston will do; Mouston has a very fine
appearance."

D'Artagnan smiled.

"But you, my friend -- are you not going
to change your dress?"

"No, I shall go as I am. This traveling
dress will serve to show the cardinal my
haste to obey his commands."

They set out on Vulcan and Bayard,
followed by Mousqueton on Phoebus, and
arrived at the Palais Royal at about a
quarter to seven. The streets were
crowded, for it was the day of
Pentecost, and the crowd looked in
wonder at these two cavaliers; one as
fresh as if he had come out of a
bandbox, the other so covered with dust
that he looked as if he had but just
come off a field of battle.

Mousqueton also attracted attention; and
as the romance of Don Quixote was then
the fashion, they said that he was
Sancho, who, after having lost one
master, had found two.

On reaching the palace, D'Artagnan sent
to his eminence the letter in which he
had been ordered to return without
delay. He was soon ordered to the
presence of the cardinal.

"Courage!" he whispered to Porthos, as
they proceeded. "Do not be intimidated.
Believe me, the eye of the eagle is
closed forever. We have only the vulture
to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt
upright as on the day of the bastion of
St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to
this Italian; that might give him a poor
idea of you."

"Good!" answered Porthos. "Good!"

Mazarin was in his study, working at a
list of pensions and benefices, of which
he was trying to reduce the number. He
saw D'Artagnan and Porthos enter with
internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in
his countenance.

"Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant,
you have been very prompt. 'Tis well.
Welcome to ye."

"Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your
eminence's service, as well as Monsieur
du Vallon, one of my old friends, who
used to conceal his nobility under the
name of Porthos."

Porthos bowed to the cardinal.

"A magnificent cavalier," remarked
Mazarin.

Porthos turned his head to the right and
to the left, and drew himself up with a
movement full of dignity.

"The best swordsman in the kingdom, my
lord," said D'Artagnan.

Porthos bowed to his friend.

Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as,
in later times, Frederick of Prussia
used to be. He admired the strong hands,
the broad shoulders and the steady eye
of Porthos. He seemed to see before him
the salvation of his administration and
of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and
bone. He remembered that the old
association of musketeers was composed
of four persons.

"And your two other friends?" he asked.

Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a
good opportunity to put in a word in his
turn; D'Artagnan checked him by a glance
from the corner of his eye.

"They are prevented at this moment, but
will join us later."

Mazarin coughed a little.

"And this gentleman, being disengaged,
takes to the service willingly?" he
asked.

"Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to
the cause, for Monsieur de Bracieux is
rich."

"Rich!" said Mazarin, whom that single
word always inspired with a great
respect.

"Fifty thousand francs a year," said
Porthos.

These were the first words he had
spoken.

"From pure zeal?" resumed Mazarin, with
his artful smile; "from pure zeal and
devotion then?"

"My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those
words?" said D'Artagnan.

"Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?" asked
Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his
desk and his chin on his hands.

"I," replied the Gascon, "I believe in
devotion as a word at one's baptism, for
instance, which naturally comes before
one's proper name; every one is
naturally more or less devout,
certainly; but there should be at the
end of one's devotion something to
gain."

"And your friend, for instance; what
does he expect to have at the end of his
devotion?"

"Well, my lord, my friend has three
magnificent estates: that of Vallon, at
Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the
Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in
the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like
to have one of his three estates erected
into a barony."

"Only that?" said Mazarin, his eyes
twinkling with joy on seeing that he
could pay for Porthos's devotion without
opening his purse; "only that? That can
be managed."

"I shall be baron!" explained Porthos,
stepping forward.

"I told you so," said D'Artagnan,
checking him with his hand; "and now his
eminence confirms it."

"And you, Monsieur D'Artagnan, what do
you want?"

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "it is
twenty years since Cardinal de Richelieu
made me lieutenant."

"Yes, and you would be gratified if
Cardinal Mazarin should make you
captain."

D'Artagnan bowed.

"Well, that is not impossible. We will
see, gentlemen, we will see. Now,
Monsieur de Vallon," said Mazarin, "what
service do you prefer, in the town or in
the country?"

Porthos opened his mouth to reply.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "Monsieur de
Vallon is like me, he prefers service
extraordinary -- that is to say,
enterprises that are considered mad and
impossible."

That boastfulness was not displeasing to
Mazarin; he fell into meditation.

"And yet," he said, "I must admit that I
sent for you to appoint you to quiet
service; I have certain apprehensions --
well, what is the meaning of that?"

In fact, a great noise was heard in the
ante-chamber; at the same time the door
of the study was burst open and a man,
covered with dust, rushed into it,
exclaiming:

"My lord the cardinal! my lord the
cardinal!"

Mazarin thought that some one was going
to assassinate him and he drew back,
pushing his chair on the castors.
D'Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to
plant themselves between the person
entering and the cardinal.

"Well, sir," exclaimed Mazarin, "what's
the matter? and why do you rush in here,
as if you were about to penetrate a
crowded market-place?"

"My lord," replied the messenger, "I
wish to speak to your eminence in
secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an
officer in the guards, on duty at the
donjon of Vincennes."

Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and
agitation of the messenger that he had
something of importance to say, made a
sign that D'Artagnan and Porthos should
give place.

D'Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a
corner of the cabinet.

"Speak, monsieur, speak at once!" said
Mazarin "What is the matter?"

"The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de
Beaufort has contrived to escape from
the Chateau of Vincennes."

Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler
than the man who had brought the news.
He fell back, almost fainting, in his
chair.

"Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?"

"My lord, I saw him run off from the top
of the terrace."

"And you did not fire on him?"

"He was out of range."

"Monsieur de Chavigny -- where was he?"

"Absent."

"And La Ramee?"

"Was found locked up in the prisoner's
room, a gag in his mouth and a poniard
near him."

"But the man who was under him?"

"Was an accomplice of the duke's and
escaped along with him."

Mazarin groaned.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, advancing
toward the cardinal, "it seems to me
that your eminence is losing precious
time. It may still be possible to
overtake the prisoner. France is large;
the nearest frontier is sixty leagues
distant."

"And who is to pursue him?" cried
Mazarin.

"I, pardieu!"

"And you would arrest him?"

"Why not?"

"You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort,
armed, in the field?"

"If your eminence should order me to
arrest the devil, I would seize him by
the horns and would bring him in."

"So would I," said Porthos.

"So would you!" said Mazarin, looking
with astonishment at those two men. "But
the duke will not yield himself without
a furious battle."

"Very well," said D'Artagnan, his eyes
aflame, "battle! It is a long time since
we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?"

"Battle!" cried Porthos.

"And you think you can catch him?"

"Yes, if we are better mounted than he."

"Go then, take what guards you find
here, and pursue him."

"You command us, my lord, to do so?"

"And I sign my orders," said Mazarin,
taking a piece of paper and writing some
lines; "Monsieur du Vallon, your barony
is on the back of the Duc de Beaufort's
horse; you have nothing to do but to
overtake it. As for you, my dear
lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but
if you bring him back to me, dead or
alive, you may ask all you wish."

"To horse, Porthos!" said D'Artagnan,
taking his friend by the hand.

"Here I am," smiled Porthos, with his
sublime composure.

They descended the great staircase,
taking with them all the guards they
found on their road, and crying out, "To
arms! To arms!" and immediately put spur
to horse, which set off along the Rue
Saint Honore with the speed of the
whirlwind.

"Well, baron, I promise you some good
exercise!" said the Gascon.

"Yes, my captain."

As they went, the citizens, awakened,
left their doors and the street dogs
followed the cavaliers, barking. At the
corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean,
D'Artagnan upset a man; it was too
insignificant an occurrence to delay
people so eager to get on. The troop
continued its course as though their
steeds had wings.

Alas! there are no unimportant events in
this world and we shall see that this
apparently slight incident came near
endangering the monarchy.



25

An Adventure on the High Road.



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.



26

The Rencontre.



They rode on in this way for ten
minutes. Suddenly two dark forms seemed
to separate from the mass, advanced,
grew in size, and as they loomed up
larger and larger, assumed the
appearance of two horsemen.

"Aha!" cried D'Artagnan, "they're coming
toward us."

"So much the worse for them," said
Porthos.

"Who goes there?" cried a hoarse voice.

The three horsemen made no reply,
stopped not, and all that was heard was
the noise of swords drawn from the
scabbards and the cocking of the pistols
with which the two phantoms were armed.

"Bridle in mouth!" said D'Artagnan.

Porthos understood him and he and the
lieutenant each drew with the left hand
a pistol from their bolsters and cocked
it in their turn.

"Who goes there?" was asked a second
time. "Not a step forward, or you're
dead men."

"Stuff!" cried Porthos, almost choked
with dust and chewing his bridle as a
horse chews his bit. "Stuff and
nonsense; we have seen plenty of dead
men in our time."

Hearing these words, the two shadows
blockaded the road and by the light of
the stars might be seen the shining of
their arms.

"Back!" shouted D'Artagnan, "or you are
dead!"

Two shots were the reply to this threat;
but the assailants attacked their foes
with such velocity that in a moment they
were upon them; a third pistol-shot was
heard, aimed by D'Artagnan, and one of
his adversaries fell. As for Porthos, he
assaulted the foe with such violence
that, although his sword was thrust
aside, the enemy was thrown off his
horse and fell about ten steps from it.

"Finish, Mouston, finish the work!"
cried Porthos. And he darted on beside
his friend, who had already begun a
fresh pursuit.

"Well?" said Porthos.

"I've broken my man's skull," cried
D'Artagnan. "And you ---- "

"I've only thrown the fellow down, but
hark!"

Another shot of a carbine was heard. It
was Mousqueton, who was obeying his
master's command.

"On! on!" cried D'Artagnan; "all goes
well! we have the first throw."

"Ha! ha!" answered Porthos, "behold,
other players appear."

And in fact, two other cavaliers made
their appearance, detached, as it
seemed, from the principal group; they
again disputed the road.

This time the lieutenant did not wait
for the opposite party to speak.

"Stand aside!" he cried; "stand off the
road!"

"What do you want?" asked a voice.

"The duke!" Porthos and D'Artagnan
roared out both at once.

A burst of laughter was the answer, but
finished with a groan. D'Artagnan had,
with his sword, cut in two the poor
wretch who had laughed.

At the same time Porthos and his
adversary fired on each other and
D'Artagnan turned to him.

"Bravo! you've killed him, I think."

"No, wounded his horse only."

"What would you have, my dear fellow?
One doesn't hit the bull's-eye every
time; it is something to hit inside the
ring. Ho! parbleau! what is the matter
with my horse?"

"Your horse is falling," said Porthos,
reining in his own.

In truth, the lieutenant's horse
stumbled and fell on his knees; then a
rattling in his throat was heard and he
lay down to die. He had received in the
chest the bullet of D'Artagnan's first
adversary. D'Artagnan swore loud enough
to be heard in the skies.

"Does your honor want a horse?" asked
Mousqueton.

"Zounds! want one!" cried the Gascon.

"Here's one, your honor ---- "

"How the devil hast thou two horses?"
asked D'Artagnan, jumping on one of
them.

"Their masters are dead! I thought they
might be useful, so I took them."

Meantime Porthos had reloaded his
pistols.

"Be on the qui vive!" cried D'Artagnan.
"Here are two other cavaliers."

As he spoke, two horsemen advanced at
full speed.

"Ho! your honor!" cried Mousqueton, "the
man you upset is getting up."

"Why didn't thou do as thou didst to the
first man?" said Porthos.

"I held the horses, my hands were full,
your honor."

A shot was fired that moment; Mousqueton
shrieked with pain.

"Ah, sir! I'm hit in the other side!
exactly opposite the other! This hurt is
just the fellow of the one I had on the
road to Amiens."

Porthos turned around like a lion,
plunged on the dismounted cavalier, who
tried to draw his sword; but before it
was out of the scabbard, Porthos, with
the hilt of his had struck him such a
terrible blow on the head that he fell
like an ox beneath the butcher's knife.

Mousqueton, groaning, slipped from his
horse, his wound not allowing him to
keep the saddle.

On perceiving the cavaliers, D'Artagnan
had stopped and charged his pistol
afresh; besides, his horse, he found,
had a carbine on the bow of the saddle.

"Here I am!" exclaimed Porthos. "Shall
we wait, or shall we charge?"

"Let us charge them," answered the
Gascon.

"Charge!" cried Porthos.

They spurred on their horses; the other
cavaliers were only twenty steps from
them.

"For the king!" cried D'Artagnan.

"The king has no authority here!"
answered a deep voice, which seemed to
proceed from a cloud, so enveloped was
the cavalier in a whirlwind of dust.

"'Tis well, we will see if the king's
name is not a passport everywhere,"
replied the Gascon.

"See!" answered the voice.

Two shots were fired at once, one by
D'Artagnan, the other by the adversary
of Porthos. D'Artagnan's ball took off
his enemy's hat. The ball fired by
Porthos's foe went through the throat of
his horse, which fell, groaning.

"For the last time, where are you
going?"

"To the devil!" answered D'Artagnan.

"Good! you may be easy, then -- you'll
get there."

D'Artagnan then saw a musket-barrel
leveled at him; he had no time to draw
from his holsters. He recalled a bit of
advice which Athos had once given him,
and made his horse rear.

The ball struck the animal full in
front. D'Artagnan felt his horse giving
way under him and with his wonderful
agility threw himself to one side.

"Ah! this," cried the voice, the tone of
which was at once polished and jeering,
"this is nothing but a butchery of
horses and not a combat between men. To
the sword, sir! the sword!"

And he jumped off his horse.

"To the swords! be it so!" replied
D'Artagnan; "that is exactly what I
want."

D'Artagnan, in two steps, was engaged
with the foe, whom, according to custom,
he attacked impetuously, but he met this
time with a skill and a strength of arm
that gave him pause. Twice he was
obliged to step back; his opponent
stirred not one inch. D'Artagnan
returned and again attacked him.

Twice or thrice thrusts were attempted
on both sides, without effect; sparks
were emitted from the swords like water
spouting forth.

At last D'Artagnan thought it was time
to try one of his favorite feints in
fencing. He brought it to bear,
skillfully executed it with the rapidity
of lightning, and struck the blow with a
force which he fancied would prove
irresistible.

The blow was parried.

"'Sdeath!" he cried, with his Gascon
accent.

At this exclamation his adversary
bounded back and, bending his bare head,
tried to distinguish in the gloom the
features of the lieutenant.

As to D'Artagnan, afraid of some feint,
he still stood on the defensive.

"Have a care," cried Porthos to his
opponent; "I've still two pistols
charged."

"The more reason you should fire the
first!" cried his foe.

Porthos fired; the flash threw a gleam
of light over the field of battle.

As the light shone on them a cry was
heard from the other two combatants.

"Athos!" exclaimed D'Artagnan.

"D'Artagnan!" ejaculated Athos.

Athos raised his sword; D'Artagnan
lowered his.

"Aramis!" cried Athos, "don't fire!"

"Ah! ha! is it you, Aramis?" said
Porthos.

And he threw away his pistol.

Aramis pushed his back into his
saddle-bags and sheathed his sword.

"My son!" exclaimed Athos, extending his
hand to D'Artagnan.

This was the name which he gave him in
former days, in their moments of tender
intimacy.

"Athos!" cried D'Artagnan, wringing his
hands. "So you defend him! And I, who
have sworn to take him dead or alive, I
am dishonored -- and by you!"

"Kill me!" replied Athos, uncovering his
breast, "if your honor requires my
death."

"Oh! woe is me! woe is me!" cried the
lieutenant; "there's only one man in the
world who could stay my hand; by a
fatality that very man bars my way. What
shall I say to the cardinal?"

"You can tell him, sir," answered a
voice which was the voice of high
command in the battle-field, "that he
sent against me the only two men capable
of getting the better of four men; of
fighting man to man, without
discomfiture, against the Comte de la
Fere and the Chevalier d'Herblay, and of
surrendering only to fifty men!

"The prince!" exclaimed at the same
moment Athos and Aramis, unmasking as
they addressed the Duc de Beaufort,
whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos stepped
backward.

"Fifty cavaliers!" cried the Gascon and
Porthos.

"Look around you, gentlemen, if you
doubt the fact," said the duke.

The two friends looked to the right, to
the left; they were encompassed by a
troop of horsemen.

"Hearing the noise of the fight,"
resumed the duke, "I fancied you had
about twenty men with you, so I came
back with those around me, tired of
always running away, and wishing to draw
my sword in my own cause; but you are
only two."

"Yes, my lord; but, as you have said,
two that are a match for twenty," said
Athos.

"Come, gentlemen, your swords," said the
duke.

"Our swords!" cried D'Artagnan, raising
his head and regaining his
self-possession. "Never!"

"Never!" added Porthos.

Some of the men moved toward them.

"One moment, my lord," whispered Athos,
and he said something in a low voice.

"As you will," replied the duke. "I am
too much indebted to you to refuse your
first request. Gentlemen," he said to
his escort, "withdraw. Monsieur
d'Artagnan, Monsieur du Vallon, you are
free."

The order was obeyed; D'Artagnan and
Porthos then found themselves in the
centre of a large circle.

"Now, D'Herblay," said Athos, "dismount
and come here."

Aramis dismounted and went to Porthos,
whilst Athos approached D'Artagnan.

All four once more together.

"Friends!" said Athos, "do you regret
you have not shed our blood?"

"No," replied D'Artagnan; "I regret to
see that we, hitherto united, are
opposed to each other. Ah! nothing will
ever go well with us hereafter!"

"Oh, Heaven! No, all is over!" said
Porthos.

"Well, be on our side now," resumed
Aramis.

"Silence, D'Herblay!" cried Athos; "such
proposals are not to be made to
gentlemen such as these. 'Tis a matter
of conscience with them, as with us."

"Meantime, here we are, enemies!" said
Porthos. "Gramercy! who would ever have
thought it?"

D'Artagnan only sighed.

Athos looked at them both and took their
hands in his.

"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a serious
business and my heart bleeds as if you
had pierced it through and through. Yes,
we are severed; there is the great, the
distressing truth! But we have not as
yet declared war; perhaps we shall have
to make certain conditions, therefore a
solemn conference is indispensable."

"For my own part, I demand it," said
Aramis.

"I accept it," interposed D'Artagnan,
proudly.

Porthos bowed, as if in assent.

"Let us choose a place of rendezvous,"
continued Athos, "and in a last
interview arrange our mutual position
and the conduct we are to maintain
toward each other."

"Good!" the other three exclaimed.

"Well, then, the place?"

"Will the Place Royale suit you?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"In Paris?"

"Yes."

Athos and Aramis looked at each other.

"The Place Royale -- be it so!" replied
Athos.

"When?"

"To-morrow evening, if you like!"

"At what hour?"

"At ten in the evening, if that suits
you; by that time we shall have
returned."

"Good."

"There," continued Athos, "either peace
or war will be decided; honor, at all
events, will be maintained!"

"Alas!" murmured D'Artagnan, "our honor
as soldiers is lost to us forever!"

"D'Artagnan," said Athos, gravely, "I
assure you that you do me wrong in
dwelling so upon that. What I think of
is, that we have crossed swords as
enemies. Yes," he continued, sadly
shaking his head, "Yes, it is as you
said, misfortune, indeed, has overtaken
us. Come, Aramis."

"And we, Porthos," said D'Artagnan,
"will return, carrying our shame to the
cardinal."

"And tell him," cried a voice, "that I
am not too old yet for a man of action."

D'Artagnan recognized the voice of De
Rochefort.

"Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?"
asked the duke.

"Bear witness that we have done all that
we could."

"That shall be testified to, rest
assured. Adieu! we shall meet soon, I
trust, in Paris, where you shall have
your revenge." The duke, as he spoke,
kissed his hand, spurred his horse into
a gallop and disappeared, followed by
his troop, who were soon lost in
distance and darkness.

D'Artagnan and Porthos were now alone
with a man who held by the bridles two
horses; they thought it was Mousqueton
and went up to him.

"What do I see?" cried the lieutenant.
"Grimaud, is it thou?"

Grimaud signified that he was not
mistaken.

"And whose horses are these?" cried
D'Artagnan.

"Who has given them to us?" said
Porthos.

"The Comte de la Fere."

"Athos! Athos!" muttered D'Artagnan;
"you think of every one; you are indeed
a nobleman! Whither art thou going,
Grimaud?"

"To join the Vicomte de Bragelonne in
Flanders, your honor."

They were taking the road toward Paris,
when groans, which seemed to proceed
from a ditch, attracted their attention.

"What is that?" asked D'Artagnan.

"It is I -- Mousqueton," said a mournful
voice, whilst a sort of shadow arose out
of the side of the road.

Porthos ran to him. "Art thou
dangerously wounded, my dear
Mousqueton?" he said.

"No, sir, but I am severely."

"What can we do?" said D'Artagnan; "we
must return to Paris."

"I will take care of Mousqueton," said
Grimaud; and he gave his arm to his old
comrade, whose eyes were full of tears,
nor could Grimaud tell whether the tears
were caused by wounds or by the pleasure
of seeing him again.

D'Artagnan and Porthos went on,
meantime, to Paris. They were passed by
a sort of courier, covered with dust,
the bearer of a letter from the duke to
the cardinal, giving testimony to the
valor of D'Artagnan and Porthos.

Mazarin had passed a very bad night when
this letter was brought to him,
announcing that the duke was free and
that he would henceforth raise up mortal
strife against him.

"What consoles me," said the cardinal
after reading the letter, "is that, at
least, in this chase, D'Artagnan has
done me one good turn -- he has
destroyed Broussel. This Gascon is a
precious fellow; even his misadventures
are of use."

The cardinal referred to that man whom
D'Artagnan upset at the corner of the
Cimetiere Saint Jean in Paris, and who
was no other than the Councillor
Broussel.



27

The four old Friends prepare to meet
again.



"Well," said Porthos, seated in the
courtyard of the Hotel de la Chevrette,
to D'Artagnan, who, with a long and
melancholy face, had returned from the
Palais Royal; "did he receive you
ungraciously, my dear friend?"

"I'faith, yes! a brute, that cardinal.
What are you eating there, Porthos?"

"I am dipping a biscuit in a glass of
Spanish wine; do the same."

"You are right. Gimblou, a glass of
wine."

"Well, how has all gone off?"

"Zounds! you know there's only one way
of saying things, so I went in and said,
`My lord, we were not the strongest
party.'

"`Yes, I know that,' he said, `but give
me the particulars.'

"You know, Porthos, I could not give him
the particulars without naming our
friends; to name them would be to commit
them to ruin, so I merely said they were
fifty and we were two.

"`There was firing, nevertheless, I
heard,' he said; `and your swords --
they saw the light of day, I presume?'

"`That is, the night, my lord,' I
answered.

"`Ah!' cried the cardinal, `I thought
you were a Gascon, my friend?'

"`I am a Gascon,' said I, `only when I
succeed.' The answer pleased him and he
laughed.

"`That will teach me,' he said, `to have
my guards provided with better horses;
for if they had been able to keep up
with you and if each one of them had
done as much as you and your friend, you
would have kept your word and would have
brought him back to me dead or alive.'"

"Well, there's nothing bad in that, it
seems to me," said Porthos.

"Oh, mon Dieu! no, nothing at all. It
was the way in which he spoke. It is
incredible how these biscuit soak up
wine! They are veritable sponges!
Gimblou, another bottle."

The bottle was brought with a promptness
which showed the degree of consideration
D'Artagnan enjoyed in the establishment.
He continued:

"So I was going away, but he called me
back.

"`You have had three horses foundered or
killed?' he asked me.

"`Yes, my lord.'

"`How much were they worth?'"

"Why," said Porthos, "that was very good
of him, it seems to me."

"`A thousand pistoles,' I said."

"A thousand pistoles!" Porthos
exclaimed. "Oh! oh! that is a large sum.
If he knew anything about horses he
would dispute the price."

"Faith! he was very much inclined to do
so, the contemptible fellow. He made a
great start and looked at me. I also
looked at him; then he understood, and
putting his hand into a drawer, he took
from it a quantity of notes on a bank in
Lyons."

"For a thousand pistoles?"

"For a thousand pistoles -- just that
amount, the beggar; not one too many."

"And you have them?"

"They are here."

"Upon my word, I think he acted very
generously."

"Generously! to men who had risked their
lives for him, and besides had done him
a great service?"

"A great service -- what was that?"

"Why, it seems that I crushed for him a
parliament councillor."

"What! that little man in black that you
upset at the corner of Saint Jean
Cemetery?"

"That's the man, my dear fellow; he was
an annoyance to the cardinal.
Unfortunately, I didn't crush him flat.
It seems that he came to himself and
that he will continue to be an
annoyance."

"See that, now!" said Porthos; "and I
turned my horse aside from going plump
on to him! That will be for another
time."

"He owed me for the councillor, the
pettifogger!"

"But," said Porthos, "if he was not
crushed completely ---- "

"Ah! Monsieur de Richelieu would have
said, `Five hundred crowns for the
councillor.' Well, let's say no more
about it. How much were your animals
worth, Porthos?"

"Ah, if poor Mousqueton were here he
could tell you to a fraction."

"No matter; you can tell within ten
crowns."

"Why, Vulcan and Bayard cost me each
about two hundred pistoles, and putting
Phoebus at a hundred and fifty, we
should be pretty near the amount."

"There will remain, then, four hundred
and fifty pistoles," said D'Artagnan,
contentedly.

"Yes," said Porthos, "but there are the
equipments."

"That is very true. Well, how much for
the equipments?"

"If we say one hundred pistoles for the
three ---- "

"Good for the hundred pistoles; there
remains, then, three hundred and fifty."

Porthos made a sign of assent.

"We will give the fifty pistoles to the
hostess for our expenses," said
D'Artagnan, "and share the three
hundred."

"We will share," said Porthos.

"A paltry piece of business!" murmured
D'Artagnan crumpling his note.

"Pooh!" said Porthos, "it is always
that. But tell me ---- "

"What?"

"Didn't he speak of me in any way?"

"Ah! yes, indeed!" cried D'Artagnan, who
was afraid of disheartening his friend
by telling him that the cardinal had not
breathed a word about him; "yes, surely,
he said ---- "

"He said?" resumed Porthos.

"Stop, I want to remember his exact
words. He said, `As to your friend, tell
him he may sleep in peace.'"

"Good, very good," said Porthos; "that
signified as clear as daylight that he
still intends to make me a baron."

At this moment nine o'clock struck.
D'Artagnan started.

"Ah, yes," said Porthos, "there is nine
o'clock. We have a rendezvous, you
remember, at the Place Royale."

"Ah! stop! hold your peace, Porthos,
don't remind me of it; 'tis that which
has made me so cross since yesterday. I
shall not go."

"Why?" asked Porthos.

"Because it is a grievous thing for me
to meet again those two men who caused
the failure of our enterprise."

"And yet," said Porthos, "neither of
them had any advantage over us. I still
had a loaded pistol and you were in full
fight, sword in hand."

"Yes," said D'Artagnan; "but what if
this rendezvous had some hidden
purpose?"

"Oh!" said Porthos, "you can't think
that, D'Artagnan!"

D'Artagnan did not believe Athos to be
capable of a deception, but he sought an
excuse for not going to the rendezvous.

"We must go," said the superb lord of
Bracieux, "lest they should say we were
afraid. We who have faced fifty foes on
the high road can well meet two in the
Place Royale."

"Yes, yes, but they took part with the
princes without apprising us of it.
Athos and Aramis have played a game with
me which alarms me. We discovered
yesterday the truth; what is the use of
going to-day to learn something else?"

"You really have some distrust, then?"
said Porthos.

"Of Aramis, yes, since he has become an
abbe. You can't imagine, my dear fellow,
the sort of man he is. He sees us on the
road which leads him to a bishopric, and
perhaps will not be sorry to get us out
of his way."

"Ah, as regards Aramis, that is another
thing," said Porthos, "and it wouldn't
surprise me at all."

"Perhaps Monsieur de Beaufort will try,
in his turn, to lay hands on us."

"Nonsense! He had us in his power and he
let us go. Besides we can be on our
guard; let us take arms, let Planchet
post himself behind us with his
carbine."

"Planchet is a Frondeur," answered
D'Artagnan.

"Devil take these civil wars! one can no
more now reckon on one's friends than on
one's footmen," said Porthos. "Ah! if
Mousqueton were here! there's a fellow
who will never desert me!"

"So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend!
'tis not civil war that disunites us. It
is that we are each of us twenty years
older; it is that the honest emotions of
youth have given place to suggestions of
interest, whispers of ambition, counsels
of selfishness. Yes, you are right; let
us go, Porthos, but let us go well
armed; were we not to keep the
rendezvous, they would declare we were
afraid. Halloo! Planchet! here! saddle
our horses, take your carbine."

"Whom are we going to attack, sir?"

"No one; a mere matter of precaution,"
answered the Gascon.

"You know, sir, that they wished to
murder that good councillor, Broussel,
the father of the people?"

"Really, did they?" said D'Artagnan.

"Yes, but he has been avenged. He was
carried home in the arms of the people.
His house has been full ever since. He
has received visits from the coadjutor,
from Madame de Longueville, and the
Prince de Conti; Madame de Chevreuse and
Madame de Vendome have left their names
at his door. And now, whenever he
wishes ---- "

"Well, whenever he wishes?"

Planchet began to sing:



"Un vent de fronde

S'est leve ce matin;

Je crois qu'il gronde

Contre le Mazarin.

Un vent de fronde

S'est leve ce matin."



"It doesn't surprise me," said
D'Artagnan, in a low tone to Porthos,
"that Mazarin would have been much
better satisfied had I crushed the life
out of his councillor."

"You understand, then, monsieur,"
resumed Planchet, "that if it were for
some enterprise like that undertaken
against Monsieur Broussel that you
should ask me to take my carbine ---- "

"No, don't be alarmed; but where did you
get all these details?"

"From a good source, sir; I heard it
from Friquet."

"From Friquet? I know that name ---- "

"A son of Monsieur de Broussel's
servant, and a lad that, I promise you,
in a revolt will not give away his share
to the dogs."

"Is he not a singing boy at Notre Dame?"
asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes, that is the very boy; he's
patronized by Bazin."

"Ah, yes, I know."

"Of what importance is this little
reptile to you?" asked Porthos.

"Gad!" replied D'Artagnan; "he has
already given me good information and he
may do the same again."

Whilst all this was going on, Athos and
Aramis were entering Paris by the
Faubourg St. Antoine. They had taken
some refreshment on the road and
hastened on, that they might not fail at
the appointed place. Bazin was their
only attendant, for Grimaud had stayed
behind to take care of Mousqueton. As
they were passing onward, Athos proposed
that they should lay aside their arms
and military costume, and assume a dress
more suited to the city.

"Oh, no, dear count!" cried Aramis, "is
it not a warlike encounter that we are
going to?"

"What do you mean, Aramis?"

"That the Place Royale is the
termination to the main road to
Vendomois, and nothing else."

"What! our friends?"

"Are become our most dangerous enemies,
Athos. Let us be on our guard."

"Oh! my dear D'Herblay!"

"Who can say whether D'Artagnan may not
have betrayed us to the cardinal? who
can tell whether Mazarin may not take
advantage of this rendezvous to seize
us?"

"What! Aramis, you think that
D'Artagnan, that Porthos, would lend
their hands to such an infamy?"

"Among friends, my dear Athos, no, you
are right; but among enemies it would be
only a stratagem."

Athos crossed his arms and bowed his
noble head.

"What can you expect, Athos? Men are so
made; and we are not always twenty years
old. We have cruelly wounded, as you
know, that personal pride by which
D'Artagnan is blindly governed. He has
been beaten. Did you not observe his
despair on the journey? As to Porthos,
his barony was perhaps dependent on that
affair. Well, he found us on his road
and will not be baron this time. Perhaps
that famous barony will have something
to do with our interview this evening.
Let us take our precautions, Athos."

"But suppose they come unarmed? What a
disgrace to us."

"Oh, never fear! besides, if they do, we
can easily make an excuse; we came
straight off a journey and are
insurgents, too."

"An excuse for us! to meet D'Artagnan
with a false excuse! to have to make a
false excuse to Porthos! Oh, Aramis!"
continued Athos, shaking his head
mournfully, "upon my soul, you make me
the most miserable of men; you
disenchant a heart not wholly dead to
friendship. Go in whatever guise you
choose; for my part, I shall go
unarmed."

"No, for I will not allow you to do so.
'Tis not one man, not Athos only, not
the Comte de la Fere whom you will ruin
by this amiable weakness, but a whole
party to whom you belong and who depend
upon you."

"Be it so then," replied Athos,
sorrowfully.

And they pursued their road in mournful
silence.

Scarcely had they reached by the Rue de
la Mule the iron gate of the Place
Royale, when they perceived three
cavaliers, D'Artagnan, Porthos, and
Planchet, the two former wrapped up in
their military cloaks under which their
swords were hidden, and Planchet, his
musket by his side. They were waiting at
the entrance of the Rue Sainte
Catharine, and their horses were
fastened to the rings of the arcade.
Athos, therefore, commanded Bazin to
fasten up his horse and that of Aramis
in the same manner.

They then advanced two and two, and
saluted each other politely.

"Now where will it be agreeable to you
that we hold our conference?" inquired
Aramis, perceiving that people were
stopping to look at them, supposing that
they were going to engage in one of
those far-famed duels still extant in
the memory of the Parisians, and
especially the inhabitants of the Place
Royale.

"The gate is shut," said Aramis, "but if
these gentlemen like a cool retreat
under the trees, and perfect seclusion,
I will get the key from the Hotel de
Rohan and we shall be well suited."

D'Artagnan darted a look into the
obscurity of the Place. Porthos ventured
to put his head between the railings, to
try if his glance could penetrate the
gloom.

"If you prefer any other place," said
Athos, in his persuasive voice, "choose
for yourselves."

"This place, if Monsieur d'Herblay can
procure the key, is the best that we can
have," was the answer.

Aramis went off at once, begging Athos
not to remain alone within reach of
D'Artagnan and Porthos; a piece of
advice which was received with a
contemptuous smile.

Aramis returned soon with a man from the
Hotel de Rohan, who was saying to him:

"You swear, sir, that it is not so?"

"Stop," and Aramis gave him a louis
d'or.

"Ah! you will not swear, my master,"
said the concierge, shaking his head.

"Well, one can never say what may
happen; at present we and these
gentlemen are excellent friends."

"Yes, certainly," added Athos and the
other two.

D'Artagnan had heard the conversation
and had understood it.

"You see?" he said to Porthos.

"What do I see?"

"That he wouldn't swear."

"Swear what?"

"That man wanted Aramis to swear that we
are not going to the Place Royale to
fight."

"And Aramis wouldn't swear?"

"No."

"Attention, then!"

Athos did not lose sight of the two
speakers. Aramis opened the gate and
faced around in order that D'Artagnan
and Porthos might enter. In passing
through the gate, the hilt of the
lieutenant's sword was caught in the
grating and he was obliged to pull off
his cloak; in doing so he showed the
butt end of his pistols and a ray of the
moon was reflected on the shining metal.

"Do you see?" whispered Aramis to Athos,
touching his shoulder with one hand and
pointing with the other to the arms
which the Gascon wore under his belt.

"Alas! I do!" replied Athos, with a deep
sigh.

He entered third, and Aramis, who shut
the gate after him, last. The two
serving-men waited without; but as if
they likewise mistrusted each other,
they kept their respective distances.



28

The Place Royale.



They proceeded silently to the centre of
the Place, but as at this very moment
the moon had just emerged from behind a
cloud, they thought they might be
observed if they remained on that spot
and therefore regained the shade of the
lime-trees.

There were benches here and there; the
four gentlemen stopped near them; at a
sign from Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan
sat down, the two others stood in front
of them.

After a few minutes of silent
embarrassment, Athos spoke.

"Gentlemen," he said, "our presence here
is the best proof of former friendship;
not one of us has failed the others at
this rendezvous; not one has, therefore,
to reproach himself."

"Hear me, count," replied D'Artagnan;
"instead of making compliments to each
other, let us explain our conduct to
each other, like men of right and honest
hearts."

"I wish for nothing more; have you any
cause of complaint against me or
Monsieur d'Herblay? If so, speak out,"
answered Athos.

"I have," replied D'Artagnan. "When I
saw you at your chateau at Bragelonne, I
made certain proposals to you which you
perfectly understood; instead of
answering me as a friend, you played
with me as a child; the friendship,
therefore, that you boast of was not
broken yesterday by the shock of swords,
but by your dissimulation at your
castle."

"D'Artagnan!" said Athos, reproachfully.

"You asked for candor and you have it.
You ask what I have against you; I tell
you. And I have the same sincerity to
show you, if you wish, Monsieur
d'Herblay; I acted in a similar way to
you and you also deceived me."

"Really, monsieur, you say strange
things," said Aramis. "You came seeking
me to make to me certain proposals, but
did you make them? No, you sounded me,
nothing more. Very well what did I say
to you? that Mazarin was contemptible
and that I wouldn't serve Mazarin. But
that is all. Did I tell you that I
wouldn't serve any other? On the
contrary, I gave you to understand, I
think, that I adhered to the princes. We
even joked very pleasantly, if I
remember rightly, on the very probable
contingency of your being charged by the
cardinal with my arrest. Were you a
party man? There is no doubt of that.
Well, why should not we, too, belong to
a party? You had your secret and we had
ours; we didn't exchange them. So much
the better; it proves that we know how
to keep our secrets."

"I do not reproach you, monsieur," said
D'Artagnan; "'tis only because Monsieur
de la Fere has spoken of friendship that
I question your conduct."

"And what do you find in it that is
worthy of blame?" asked Aramis,
haughtily.

The blood mounted instantly to the
temples of D'Artagnan, who arose, and
replied:

"I consider it worthy conduct of a pupil
of Jesuits."

On seeing D'Artagnan rise, Porthos rose
also; these four men were therefore all
standing at the same time, with a
menacing aspect, opposite to each other.

Upon hearing D'Artagnan's reply, Aramis
seemed about to draw his sword, when
Athos prevented him.

"D'Artagnan," he said, "you are here
to-night, still infuriated by
yesterday's adventure. I believed your
heart noble enough to enable a
friendship of twenty years to overcome
an affront of a quarter of an hour.
Come, do you really think you have
anything to say against me? Say it then;
if I am in fault I will avow the error."

The grave and harmonious tones of that
beloved voice seemed to have still its
ancient influence, whilst that of
Aramis, which had become harsh and
tuneless in his moments of ill-humor,
irritated him. He answered therefore:

"I think, monsieur le comte, that you
had something to communicate to me at
your chateau of Bragelonne, and that
gentleman" -- he pointed to Aramis --
"had also something to tell me when I
was in his convent. At that time I was
not concerned in the adventure, in the
course of which you have so successfully
estopped me! However, because I was
prudent you must not take me for a fool.
If I had wished to widen the breach
between those whom Monsieur d'Herblay
chooses to receive with a rope ladder
and those whom he receives with a wooden
ladder, I could have spoken out."

"What are you meddling with?" cried
Aramis, pale with anger, suspecting that
D'Artagnan had acted as a spy on him and
had seen him with Madame de Longueville.

"I never meddle save with what concerns
me, and I know how to make believe that
I haven't seen what does not concern me;
but I hate hypocrites, and among that
number I place musketeers who are abbes
and abbes who are musketeers; and," he
added, turning to Porthos "here's a
gentleman who's of the same opinion as
myself."

Porthos, who had not spoken one word,
answered merely by a word and a gesture.

He said "yes" and he put his hand on his
sword.

Aramis started back and drew his.
D'Artagnan bent forward, ready either to
attack or to stand on his defense.

Athos at that moment extended his hand
with the air of supreme command which
characterized him alone, drew out his
sword and the scabbard at the same time,
broke the blade in the sheath on his
knee and threw the pieces to his right.
Then turning to Aramis:

"Aramis," he said, "break your sword."

Aramis hesitated.

"It must be done," said Athos; then in a
lower and more gentle voice, he added.
"I wish it."

Then Aramis, paler than before, but
subdued by these words, snapped the
serpent blade between his hands, and
then folding his arms, stood trembling
with rage.

These proceedings made D'Artagnan and
Porthos draw back. D'Artagnan did not
draw his sword; Porthos put his back
into the sheath.

"Never!" exclaimed Athos, raising his
right hand to Heaven, "never! I swear
before God, who seeth us, and who, in
the darkness of this night heareth us,
never shall my sword cross yours, never
my eye express a glance of anger, nor my
heart a throb of hatred, at you. We
lived together, we loved, we hated
together; we shed, we mingled our blood
together, and too probably, I may still
add, that there may be yet a bond
between us closer even than that of
friendship; perhaps there may be the
bond of crime; for we four, we once did
condemn, judge and slay a human being
whom we had not any right to cut off
from this world, although apparently
fitter for hell than for this life.
D'Artagnan, I have always loved you as
my son; Porthos, we slept six years side
by side; Aramis is your brother as well
as mine, and Aramis has once loved you,
as I love you now and as I have ever
loved you. What can Cardinal Mazarin be
to us, to four men who compelled such a
man as Richelieu to act as we pleased?
What is such or such a prince to us, who
fixed the diadem upon a great queen's
head? D'Artagnan, I ask your pardon for
having yesterday crossed swords with
you; Aramis does the same to Porthos;
now hate me if you can; but for my own
part, I shall ever, even if you do hate
me, retain esteem and friendship for
you. I repeat my words, Aramis, and
then, if you desire it, and if they
desire it, let us separate forever from
our old friends."

There was a solemn, though momentary
silence, which was broken by Aramis.

"I swear," he said, with a calm brow and
kindly glance, but in a voice still
trembling with recent emotion, "I swear
that I no longer bear animosity to those
who were once my friends. I regret that
I ever crossed swords with you, Porthos;
I swear not only that it shall never
again be pointed at your breast, but
that in the bottom of my heart there
will never in future be the slightest
hostile sentiment; now, Athos, come."

Athos was about to retire.

"Oh! no! no! do not go away!" exclaimed
D'Artagnan, impelled by one of those
irresistible impulses which showed the
nobility of his nature, the native
brightness of his character; "I swear
that I would give the last drop of my
blood and the last fragment of my limbs
to preserve the friendship of such a
friend as you, Athos -- of such a man as
you, Aramis." And he threw himself into
the arms of Athos.

"My son!" exclaimed Athos, pressing him
in his arms.

"And as for me," said Porthos, "I swear
nothing, but I'm choked. Forsooth! If I
were obliged to fight against you, I
think I should allow myself to be
pierced through and through, for I never
loved any one but you in the wide
world;" and honest Porthos burst into
tears as he embraced Athos.

"My friends," said Athos, "this is what
I expected from such hearts as yours.
Yes, I have said it and I now repeat it:
our destinies are irrevocably united,
although we now pursue divergent roads.
I respect your convictions, and whilst
we fight for opposite sides, let us
remain friends. Ministers, princes,
kings, will pass away like mountain
torrents; civil war, like a forest
flame; but we -- we shall remain; I have
a presentiment that we shall."

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "let us still
be musketeers, and let us retain as our
battle-standard that famous napkin of
the bastion St. Gervais, on which the
great cardinal had three fleurs-de-lis
embroidered."

"Be it so," cried Aramis. "Cardinalists
or Frondeurs, what matters it? Let us
meet again as capital seconds in a duel,
devoted friends in business, merry
companions in our ancient pleasures."

"And whenever," added Athos, "we meet in
battle, at this word, `Place Royale!'
let us put our swords into our left
hands and shake hands with the right,
even in the very lust and music of the
hottest carnage."

"You speak charmingly," said Porthos.

"And are the first of men!" added
D'Artagnan. "You excel us all."

Athos smiled with ineffable pleasure.

"'Tis then all settled. Gentlemen, your
hands; are we not pretty good
Christians?"

"Egad!" said D'Artagnan, "by Heaven!
yes."

"We should be so on this occasion, if
only to be faithful to our oath," said
Aramis.

"Ah, I'm ready to do what you will,"
cried Porthos; "even to swear by
Mahomet. Devil take me if I've ever been
so happy as at this moment."

And he wiped his eyes, still moist.

"Has not one of you a cross?" asked
Athos.

Aramis smiled and drew from his vest a
cross of diamonds, which was hung around
his neck by a chain of pearls. "Here is
one," he said.

"Well," resumed Athos, "swear on this
cross, which, in spite of its
magnificent material, is still a cross;
swear to be united in spite of
everything, and forever, and may this
oath bind us to each other, and even,
also, our descendants! Does this oath
satisfy you?"

"Yes," said they all, with one accord.

"Ah, traitor!" muttered D'Artagnan,
leaning toward Aramis and whispering in
his ear, "you have made us swear on the
crucifix of a Frondeuse."



29

The Ferry across the Oise.



We hope that the reader has not quite
forgotten the young traveler whom we
left on the road to Flanders.

In losing sight of his guardian, whom he
had quitted, gazing after him in front
of the royal basilican, Raoul spurred on
his horse, in order not only to escape
from his own melancholy reflections, but
also to hide from Olivain the emotion
his face might betray.

One hour's rapid progress, however,
sufficed to disperse the gloomy fancies
that had clouded the young man's bright
anticipations; and the hitherto unfelt
pleasure of freedom -- a pleasure which
is sweet even to those who have never
known dependence -- seemed to Raoul to
gild not only Heaven and earth, but
especially that blue but dim horizon of
life we call the future.

Nevertheless, after several attempts at
conversation with Olivain he foresaw
that many days passed thus would prove
exceedingly dull; and the count's
agreeable voice, his gentle and
persuasive eloquence, recurred to his
mind at the various towns through which
they journeyed and about which he had no
longer any one to give him those
interesting details which he would have
drawn from Athos, the most amusing and
the best informed of guides. Another
recollection contributed also to sadden
Raoul: on their arrival at Sonores he
had perceived, hidden behind a screen of
poplars, a little chateau which so
vividly recalled that of La Valliere to
his mind that he halted for nearly ten
minutes to gaze at it, and resumed his
journey with a sigh too abstracted even
to reply to Olivain's respectful inquiry
about the cause of so much fixed
attention. The aspect of external
objects is often a mysterious guide
communicating with the fibres of memory,
which in spite of us will arouse them at
times; this thread, like that of
Ariadne, when once unraveled will
conduct one through a labyrinth of
thought, in which one loses one's self
in endeavoring to follow that phantom of
the past which is called recollection.

Now the sight of this chateau had taken
Raoul back fifty leagues westward and
had caused him to review his life from
the moment when he had taken leave of
little Louise to that in which he had
seen her for the first time; and every
branch of oak, every gilded weathercock
on roof of slates, reminded him that,
instead of returning to the friends of
his childhood, every instant estranged
him further and that perhaps he had even
left them forever.

With a full heart and burning head he
desired Olivain to lead on the horses to
a wayside inn, which he observed within
gunshot range, a little in advance of
the place they had reached.

As for himself, he dismounted and
remained under a beautiful group of
chestnuts in flower, amidst which were
murmuring a multitude of happy bees, and
bade Olivain send the host to him with
writing paper and ink, to be placed on a
table which he found there, conveniently
ready. Olivain obeyed and continued on
his way, whilst Raoul remained sitting,
with his elbow leaning on the table,
from time to time gently shaking the
flowers from his head, which fell upon
him like snow, and gazing vaguely on the
charming landscape spread out before
him, dotted over with green fields and
groups of trees. Raoul had been there
about ten minutes, during five of which
he was lost in reverie, when there
appeared within the circle comprised in
his rolling gaze a man with a rubicund
face, who, with a napkin around his
body, another under his arm, and a white
cap upon his head, approached him,
holding paper, pen and ink in hand.

"Ha! ha!" laughed the apparition, "every
gentleman seems to have the same fancy,
for not a quarter of an hour ago a young
lad, well mounted like you, as tall as
you and of about your age, halted before
this clump of trees and had this table
and this chair brought here, and dined
here, with an old gentleman who seemed
to be his tutor, upon a pie, of which
they haven't left a mouthful, and two
bottles of Macon wine, of which they
haven't left a drop, but fortunately we
have still some of the same wine and
some of the same pies left, and if your
worship will but give your orders ---- "

"No, friend " replied Raoul, smiling, "I
am obliged to you, but at this moment I
want nothing but the things for which I
have asked -- only I shall be very glad
if the ink prove black and the pen good;
upon these conditions I will pay for the
pen the price of the bottle, and for the
ink the price of the pie."

"Very well, sir," said the host, "I'll
give the pie and the bottle of wine to
your servant, and in this way you will
have the pen and ink into the bargain."

"Do as you like," said Raoul, who was
beginning his apprenticeship with that
particular class of society, who, when
there were robbers on the highroads,
were connected with them, and who, since
highwaymen no longer exist, have
advantageously and aptly filled their
vacant place.

The host, his mind at ease about his
bill, placed pen, ink and paper upon the
table. By a lucky chance the pen was
tolerably good and Raoul began to write.
The host remained standing in front of
him, looking with a kind of involuntary
admiration at his handsome face,
combining both gravity and sweetness of
expression. Beauty has always been and
always will be all-powerful.

"He's not a guest like the other one
here just now," observed mine host to
Olivain, who had rejoined his master to
see if he wanted anything, "and your
young master has no appetite."

"My master had appetite enough three
days ago, but what can one do? he lost
it the day before yesterday."

And Olivain and the host took their way
together toward the inn, Olivain,
according to the custom of serving-men
well pleased with their place, relating
to the tavern-keeper all that he could
say in favor of the young gentleman;
whilst Raoul wrote on thus:



"Sir, -- After a four hours' march I
stop to write to you, for I miss you
every moment, and I am always on the
point of turning my head as if to reply
when you speak to me. I was so
bewildered by your departure and so
overcome with grief at our separation,
that I am sure I was able to but very
feebly express all the affection and
gratitude I feel toward you. You will
forgive me, sir, for your heart is of
such a generous nature that you can well
understand all that has passed in mine.
I entreat you to write to me, for you
form a part of my existence, and, if I
may venture to tell you so, I also feel
anxious. It seemed to me as if you were
yourself preparing for some dangerous
undertaking, about which I did not dare
to question you, since you told me
nothing. I have, therefore, as you see,
great need of hearing from you. Now that
you are no longer beside me I am afraid
every moment of erring. You sustained me
powerfully, sir, and I protest to you
that to-day I feel very lonely. Will you
have the goodness, sir, should you
receive news from Blois, to send me a
few lines about my little friend
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, about whose
health, when we left, so much anxiety
was felt? You can understand, honored
and dear guardian, how precious and
indispensable to me is the remembrance
of the years that I have passed with
you. I hope that you will sometimes,
too, think of me, and if at certain
hours you should miss me, if you should
feel any slight regret at my absence, I
shall be overwhelmed with joy at the
thought that you appreciate my affection
for and my devotion to yourself, and
that I have been able to prove them to
you whilst I had the happiness of living
with you."



After finishing this letter Raoul felt
more composed; he looked well around him
to see if Olivain and the host might not
be watching him, whilst he impressed a
kiss upon the paper, a mute and touching
caress, which the heart of Athos might
well divine on opening the letter.

During this time Olivain had finished
his bottle and eaten his pie; the horses
were also refreshed. Raoul motioned to
the host to approach, threw a crown upon
the table, mounted his horse, and posted
his letter at Senlis. The rest that had
been thus afforded to men and horses
enabled them to continue their journey
at a good round pace. At Verberie, Raoul
desired Olivain to make some inquiry
about the young man who was preceding
them; he had been observed to pass only
three-quarters of an hour previously,
but he was well mounted, as the
tavern-keeper had already said, and rode
at a rapid pace.

"Let us try and overtake this
gentleman," said Raoul to Olivain; "like
ourselves he is on his way to join the
army and may prove agreeable company."

It was about four o'clock in the
afternoon when Raoul arrived at
Compiegne; there he dined heartily and
again inquired about the young gentleman
who was in advance of them. He had
stopped, like Raoul, at the Hotel of the
Bell and Bottle, the best at Compiegne;
and had started again on his journey,
saying that he should sleep at Noyon.

"Well, let us sleep at Noyon," said
Raoul.

"Sir," replied Olivain, respectfully,
"allow me to remark that we have already
much fatigued the horses this morning. I
think it would be well to sleep here and
to start again very early to-morrow.
Eighteen leagues is enough for the first
stage."

"The Comte de la Fere wished me to
hasten on," replied Raoul, "that I might
rejoin the prince on the morning of the
fourth day; let us push on, then, to
Noyon; it will be a stage similar to
those we traveled from Blois to Paris.
We shall arrive at eight o'clock. The
horses will have a long night's rest,
and at five o'clock to-morrow morning we
can be again on the road."

Olivain dared offer no opposition to
this determination but he followed his
master, grumbling.

"Go on, go on," said he, between his
teeth, "expend your ardor the first day;
to-morrow, instead of journeying twenty
leagues, you will travel ten, the day
after to-morrow, five, and in three days
you will be in bed. There you must rest;
young people are such braggarts."

It was easy to see that Olivain had not
been taught in the school of the
Planchets and the Grimauds. Raoul really
felt tired, but he was desirous of
testing his strength, and, brought up in
the principles of Athos and certain of
having heard him speak a thousand times
of stages of twenty-five leagues, he did
not wish to fall far short of his model.
D'Artagnan, that man of iron, who seemed
to be made of nerve and muscle only, had
struck him with admiration. Therefore,
in spite of Olivain's remarks, he
continued to urge his steed more and
more, and following a pleasant little
path, leading to a ferry, and which he
had been assured shortened the journey
by the distance of one league, he
arrived at the summit of a hill and
perceived the river flowing before him.
A little troop of men on horseback were
waiting on the edge of the stream, ready
to embark. Raoul did not doubt this was
the gentleman and his escort; he called
out to him, but they were too distant to
be heard; then, in spite of the
weariness of his beast, he made it
gallop but the rising ground soon
deprived him of all sight of the
travelers, and when he had again
attained a new height, the ferryboat had
left the shore and was making for the
opposite bank. Raoul, seeing that he
could not arrive in time to cross the
ferry with the travelers, halted to wait
for Olivain. At this moment a shriek was
heard that seemed to come from the
river. Raoul turned toward the side
whence the cry had sounded, and shaded
his eyes from the glare of the setting
sun with his hand.

"Olivain!" he exclaimed, "what do I see
below there?"

A second scream, more piercing than the
first, now sounded.

"Oh, sir!" cried Olivain, "the rope
which holds the ferryboat has broken and
the boat is drifting. But what do I see
in the water -- something struggling?"

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Raoul, fixing his
glance on one point in the stream,
splendidly illumined by the setting sun,
"a horse, a rider!"

"They are sinking!" cried Olivain in his
turn.

It was true, and Raoul was convinced
that some accident had happened and that
a man was drowning; he gave his horse
its head, struck his spurs into its
sides, and the animal, urged by pain and
feeling that he had space open before
him, bounded over a kind of paling which
inclosed the landing place, and fell
into the river, scattering to a distance
waves of white froth.

"Ah, sir!" cried Olivain, "what are you
doing? Good God!"

Raoul was directing his horse toward the
unhappy man in danger. This was, in
fact, a custom familiar to him. Having
been brought up on the banks of the
Loire, he might have been said to have
been cradled on its waves; a hundred
times he had crossed it on horseback, a
thousand times had swum across. Athos,
foreseeing the period when he should
make a soldier of the viscount, had
inured him to all kinds of arduous
undertakings.

"Oh, heavens!" continued Olivain, in
despair, "what would the count say if he
only saw you now!"

"The count would do as I do," replied
Raoul, urging his horse vigorously
forward.

"But I -- but I," cried Olivain, pale
and disconsolate rushing about on the
shore, "how shall I cross?"

"Leap, coward!" cried Raoul, swimming
on; then addressing the traveler, who
was struggling twenty yards in front of
him: "Courage, sir!" said he, "courage!
we are coming to your aid."

Olivain advanced, retired, then made his
horse rear -- turned it and then, struck
to the core by shame, leaped, as Raoul
had done, only repeating:

"I am a dead man! we are lost!"

In the meantime, the ferryboat had
floated away, carried down by the
stream, and the shrieks of those whom it
contained resounded more and more. A man
with gray hair had thrown himself from
the boat into the river and was swimming
vigorously toward the person who was
drowning; but being obliged to go
against the current he advanced but
slowly. Raoul continued his way and was
visibly gaining ground; but the horse
and its rider, of whom he did not lose
sight, were evidently sinking. The
nostrils of the horse were no longer
above water, and the rider, who had lost
the reins in struggling, fell with his
head back and his arms extended. One
moment longer and all would disappear.

"Courage!" cried Raoul, "courage!"

"Too late!" murmured the young man, "too
late!"

The water closed above his head and
stifled his voice.

Raoul sprang from his horse, to which he
left the charge of its own preservation,
and in three or four strokes was at the
gentleman's side; he seized the horse at
once by the curb and raised its head
above water; the animal began to breathe
again and, as if he comprehended that
they had come to his aid, redoubled his
efforts. Raoul at the same time seized
one of the young man's hands and placed
it on the mane, which it grasped with
the tenacity of a drowning man. Thus,
sure that the rider would not release
his hold, Raoul now only directed his
attention to the horse, which he guided
to the opposite bank, helping it to cut
through the water and encouraging it
with words.

All at once the horse stumbled against a
ridge and then placed its foot on the
sand.

"Saved!" exclaimed the man with gray
hair, who also touched bottom.

"Saved!" mechanically repeated the young
gentleman, releasing the mane and
sliding from the saddle into Raoul's
arms; Raoul was but ten yards from the
shore; there he bore the fainting man,
and laying him down upon the grass,
unfastened the buttons of his collar and
unhooked his doublet. A moment later the
gray-headed man was beside him. Olivain
managed in his turn to land, after
crossing himself repeatedly; and the
people in the ferryboat guided
themselves as well as they were able
toward the bank, with the aid of a pole
which chanced to be in the boat.

Thanks to the attentions of Raoul and
the man who accompanied the young
gentleman, the color gradually returned
to the pale cheeks of the dying man, who
opened his eyes, at first entirely
bewildered, but who soon fixed his gaze
upon the person who had saved him.

"Ah, sir," he exclaimed, "it was you!
Without you I was a dead man -- thrice
dead."

"But one recovers, sir, as you
perceive," replied Raoul, "and we have
but had a little bath."

"Oh! sir, what gratitude I feel!"
exclaimed the man with gray hair.

"Ah, there you are, my good D'Arminges;
I have given you a great fright, have I
not? but it is your own fault. You were
my tutor, why did you not teach me to
swim?"

"Oh, monsieur le comte," replied the old
man, "had any misfortune happened to
you, I should never have dared to show
myself to the marshal again."

"But how did the accident happen?" asked
Raoul.

"Oh, sir, in the most natural way
possible," replied he to whom they had
given the title of count. "We were about
a third of the way across the river when
the cord of the ferryboat broke. Alarmed
by the cries and gestures of the
boatmen, my horse sprang into the water.
I cannot swim, and dared not throw
myself into the river. Instead of aiding
the movements of my horse, I paralyzed
them; and I was just going to drown
myself with the best grace in the world,
when you arrived just in time to pull me
out of the water; therefore, sir, if you
will agree, henceforward we are friends
until death."

"Sir," replied Raoul, bowing, "I am
entirely at your service, I assure you."

"I am called the Count de Guiche,"
continued the young man; "my father is
the Marechal de Grammont; and now that
you know who I am, do me the honor to
inform me who you are."

"I am the Viscount de Bragelonne,"
answered Raoul, blushing at being unable
to name his father, as the Count de
Guiche had done.

"Viscount, your countenance, your
goodness and your courage incline me
toward you; my gratitude is already due.
Shake hands -- I crave your friendship."

"Sir," said Raoul, returning the count's
pressure of the hand, "I like you
already, from my heart; pray regard me
as a devoted friend, I beseech you."

And now, where are you going, viscount?"
inquired De Guiche.

"To join the army, under the prince,
count."

"And I, too!" exclaimed the young man,
in a transport of joy. "Oh, so much the
better, we will fire the first shot
together."

"It is well; be friends," said the
tutor; "young as you both are, you were
perhaps born under the same star and
were destined to meet. And now,"
continued he, "you must change your
clothes; your servants, to whom I gave
directions the moment they had left the
ferryboat, ought to be already at the
inn. Linen and wine are both being
warmed; come."

The young men had no objection to this
proposition; on the contrary, they
thought it very timely.

They mounted again at once, whilst looks
of admiration passed between them. They
were indeed two elegant horsemen, with
figures slight and upright, noble faces,
bright and proud looks, loyal and
intelligent smiles.

De Guiche might have been about eighteen
years of age, but he was scarcely taller
than Raoul, who was only fifteen.



30

Skirmishing.



The halt at Noyon was but brief, every
one there being wrapped in profound
sleep. Raoul had desired to be awakened
should Grimaud arrive, but Grimaud did
not arrive. Doubtless, too, the horses
on their part appreciated the eight
hours of repose and the abundant
stabling which was granted them. The
Count de Guiche was awakened at five
o'clock in the morning by Raoul, who
came to wish him good-day. They
breakfasted in haste, and at six o'clock
had already gone ten miles.

The young count's conversation was most
interesting to Raoul, therefore he
listened much, whilst the count talked
well and long. Brought up in Paris,
where Raoul had been but once; at the
court, which Raoul had never seen; his
follies as page; two duels, which he had
already found the means of fighting, in
spite of the edicts against them and,
more especially, in spite of his tutor's
vigilance -- these things excited the
greatest curiosity in Raoul. Raoul had
only been at M. Scarron's house; he
named to Guiche the people whom he had
seen there. Guiche knew everybody --
Madame de Neuillan, Mademoiselle
d'Aubigne, Mademoiselle de Scudery,
Mademoiselle Paulet, Madame de
Chevreuse. He criticised everybody
humorously. Raoul trembled, lest he
should laugh among the rest at Madame de
Chevreuse, for whom he entertained deep
and genuine sympathy, but either
instinctively, or from affection for the
duchess, he said everything in her
favor. His praises increased Raoul's
friendship twofold. Then came the
question of gallantry and love affairs.
Under this head, also, Bragelonne had
much more to hear than to tell. He
listened attentively and fancied that he
discovered through three or four rather
frivolous adventures, that the count,
like himself, had a secret to hide in
the depths of his heart.

De Guiche, as we have said before, had
been educated at the court, and the
intrigues of this court were not unknown
to him. It was the same court of which
Raoul had so often heard the Comte de la
Fere speak, except that its aspect had
much changed since the period when Athos
had himself been part of it; therefore
everything which the Count de Guiche
related was new to his traveling
companion. The young count, witty and
caustic, passed all the world in review;
the queen herself was not spared, and
Cardinal Mazarin came in for his share
of ridicule.

The day passed away as rapidly as an
hour. The count's tutor, a man of the
world and a bon vivant, up to his eyes
in learning, as his pupil described him,
often recalled the profound erudition,
the witty and caustic satire of Athos to
Raoul; but as regarded grace, delicacy,
and nobility of external appearance, no
one in these points was to be compared
to the Comte de la Fere.

The horses, which were more kindly used
than on the previous day, stopped at
Arras at four o'clock in the evening.
They were approaching the scene of war;
and as bands of Spaniards sometimes took
advantage of the night to make
expeditions even as far as the
neighborhood of Arras, they determined
to remain in the town until the morrow.
The French army held all between
Pont-a-Marc as far as Valenciennes,
falling back upon Douai. The prince was
said to be in person at Bethune.

The enemy's army extended from Cassel to
Courtray; and as there was no species of
violence or pillage it did not commit,
the poor people on the frontier quitted
their isolated dwellings and fled for
refuge into the strong cities which held
out a shelter to them. Arras was
encumbered with fugitives. An
approaching battle was much spoken of,
the prince having manoeuvred, until that
movement, only in order to await a
reinforcement that had just reached him.

The young men congratulated themselves
on having arrived so opportunely. The
evening was employed in discussing the
war; the grooms polished their arms; the
young men loaded the pistols in case of
a skirmish, and they awoke in despair,
having both dreamed that they had
arrived too late to participate in the
battle. In the morning it was rumored
that Prince de Conde had evacuated
Bethune and fallen back on Carvin,
leaving, however, a strong garrison in
the former city.

But as there was nothing positively
certain in this report, the young
warriors decided to continue their way
toward Bethune, free on the road to
diverge to the right and march to Carvin
if necessary.

The count's tutor was well acquainted
with the country; he consequently
proposed to take a crossroad, which lay
between that of Lens and that of
Bethune. They obtained information at
Ablain, and a statement of their route
was left for Grimaud. About seven
o'clock in the morning they set out. De
Guiche, who was young and impulsive,
said to Raoul, "Here we are, three
masters and three servants. Our valets
are well armed and yours seems to be
tough enough."

"I have never seen him put to the test,"
replied Raoul, "but he is a Breton,
which promises something."

"Yes, yes," resumed De Guiche; "I am
sure he can fire a musket when required.
On my side I have two sure men, who have
been in action with my father. We
therefore represent six fighting men; if
we should meet a little troop of
enemies, equal or even superior in
number to our own, shall we charge them,
Raoul?"

"Certainly, sir," replied the viscount.

"Holloa! young people -- stop there!"
said the tutor, joining in the
conversation. "Zounds! how you manoeuvre
my instructions, count! You seem to
forget the orders I received to conduct
you safe and sound to his highness the
prince! Once with the army you may be
killed at your good pleasure; but until
that time, I warn you that in my
capacity of general of the army I shall
order a retreat and turn my back on the
first red coat we come across." De
Guiche and Raoul glanced at each other,
smiling.

They arrived at Ablain without accident.
There they inquired and learned that the
prince had in reality quitted Bethune
and stationed himself between Cambria
and La Venthie. Therefore, leaving
directions at every place for Grimaud,
they took a crossroad which conducted
the little troop by the bank of a small
stream flowing into the Lys. The country
was beautiful, intersected by valleys as
green as the emerald. Here and there
they passed little copses crossing the
path which they were following. In
anticipation of some ambuscade in each
of these little woods the tutor placed
his two servants at the head of the
band, thus forming the advance guard.
Himself and the two young men
represented the body of the army, whilst
Olivain, with his rifle upon his knee
and his eyes upon the watch, protected
the rear.

They had observed for some time before
them, on the horizon, a rather thick
wood; and when they had arrived at a
distance of a hundred steps from it,
Monsieur d'Arminges took his usual
precautions and sent on in advance the
count's two grooms. The servants had
just disappeared under the trees,
followed by the tutor, and the young men
were laughing and talking about a
hundred yards off. Olivain was at the
same distance in the rear, when suddenly
there resounded five or six
musket-shots. The tutor cried halt; the
young men obeyed, pulling up their
steeds, and at the same moment the two
valets were seen returning at a gallop.

The young men, impatient to learn the
cause of the firing, spurred on toward
the servants. The tutor followed them.

"Were you stopped?" eagerly inquired the
two youths.

"No," replied the servants, "it is even
probable that we have not been seen; the
shots were fired about a hundred paces
in advance of us, in the thickest part
of the wood, and we returned to ask your
advice."

"My advice is this," said Monsieur
d'Arminges, "and if needs be, my will,
that we beat a retreat. There may be an
ambuscade concealed in this wood."

"Did you see nothing there?" asked the
count.

"I thought I saw," said one of the
servants, "horsemen dressed in yellow,
creeping along the bed of the stream.

"That's it," said the tutor. "We have
fallen in with a party of Spaniards.
Come back, sirs, back."

The two youths looked at each other, and
at this moment a pistol-shot and cries
for help were heard. Another glance
between the young men convinced them
both that neither had any wish to go
back, and as the tutor had already
turned his horse's head, they both
spurred forward, Raoul crying: "Follow
me, Olivain!" and the Count de Guiche:
"Follow, Urban and Planchet!" And before
the tutor could recover from his
surprise they had both disappeared into
the forest. Whilst they spurred their
steeds they held their pistols ready
also. In five minutes they arrived at
the spot whence the noise had proceeded,
and then restraining their horses, they
advanced cautiously.

"Hush," whispered De Guiche, "these are
cavaliers."

"Yes, three on horseback and three who
have dismounted."

"Can you see what they are doing?"

"Yes, they appear to be searching a
wounded or dead man."

"It is some cowardly assassination,"
said De Guiche.

"They are soldiers, though," resumed De
Bragelonne.

"Yes, skirmishers; that is to say,
highway robbers."

"At them!" cried Raoul. "At them!"
echoed De Guiche.

"Oh! gentlemen! gentlemen! in the name
of Heaven!" cried the poor tutor.

But he was not listened to, and his
cries only served to arouse the
attention of the Spaniards.

The men on horseback at once rushed at
the two youths, leaving the three others
to complete the plunder of the dead or
wounded travelers; for on approaching
nearer, instead of one extended figure,
the young men discovered two. De Guiche
fired the first shot at ten paces and
missed his man; and the Spaniard, who
had advanced to meet Raoul, aimed in his
turn, and Raoul felt a pain in the left
arm, similar to that of a blow from a
whip. He let off his fire at but four
paces. Struck in the breast and
extending his arms, the Spaniard fell
back on the crupper, and the terrified
horse, turning around, carried him off.

Raoul at this moment perceived the
muzzle of a gun pointed at him, and
remembering the recommendation of Athos,
he, with the rapidity of lightning, made
his horse rear as the shot was fired.
His horse bounded to one side, losing
its footing, and fell, entangling
Raoul's leg under its body. The Spaniard
sprang forward and seized the gun by its
muzzle, in order to strike Raoul on the
head with the butt. In the position in
which Raoul lay, unfortunately, he could
neither draw his sword from the
scabbard, nor his pistols from their
holsters. The butt end of the musket
hovered over his head, and he could
scarcely restrain himself from closing
his eyes, when with one bound Guiche
reached the Spaniard and placed a pistol
at his throat. "Yield!" he cried, "or
you are a dead man!" The musket fell
from the soldier's hands, who yielded on
the instant. Guiche summoned one of his
grooms, and delivering the prisoner into
his charge, with orders to shoot him
through the head if he attempted to
escape, he leaped from his horse and
approached Raoul.

"Faith, sir," said Raoul, smiling,
although his pallor betrayed the
excitement consequent on a first affair,
"you are in a great hurry to pay your
debts and have not been long under any
obligation to me. Without your aid,"
continued he, repeating the count's
words "I should have been a dead man --
thrice dead."

"My antagonist took flight," replied De
Guiche "and left me at liberty to come
to your assistance. But are you
seriously wounded? I see you are covered
with blood!"

"I believe," said Raoul, "that I have
got something like a scratch on the arm.
If you will help me to drag myself from
under my horse I hope nothing need
prevent us continuing our journey."

Monsieur d'Arminges and Olivain had
already dismounted and were attempting
to raise the struggling horse. At last
Raoul succeeded in drawing his foot from
the stirrup and his leg from under the
animal, and in a second he was on his
feet again.

"Nothing broken?" asked De Guiche.

"Faith, no, thank Heaven!" replied
Raoul; "but what has become of the poor
wretches whom these scoundrels were
murdering?"

"I fear we arrived too late. They have
killed them, I think, and taken flight,
carrying off their booty. My servants
are examining the bodies."

"Let us go and see whether they are
quite dead, or if they can still be
helped," suggested Raoul. "Olivain, we
have come into possession of two horses,
but I have lost my own. Take for
yourself the better of the two and give
me yours."

They approached the spot where the
unfortunate victims lay.



31

The Monk.



Two men lay prone upon the ground, one
bathed in blood and motionless, with his
face toward the earth; this one was
dead. The other leaned against a tree,
supported there by the two valets, and
was praying fervently, with clasped
hands and eyes raised to Heaven. He had
received a ball in his thigh, which had
broken the bone. The young men first
approached the dead man.

"He is a priest," said Bragelonne, "he
has worn the tonsure. Oh, the
scoundrels! to lift their hands against
a minister of God."

"Come here, sir," said Urban, an old
soldier who had served under the
cardinal duke in all his campaigns;
"come here, there is nothing to be done
with him, whilst we may perhaps be able
to save the other."

The wounded man smiled sadly. "Save me!
Oh, no!" said he, "but help me to die,
if you can."

"Are you a priest?" asked Raoul.

"No sir."

"I ask, as your unfortunate companion
appeared to me to belong to the church."

"He is the curate of Bethune, sir, and
was carrying the holy vessels belonging
to his church, and the treasure of the
chapter, to a safe place, the prince
having abandoned our town yesterday; and
as it was known that bands of the enemy
were prowling about the country, no one
dared to accompany the good man, so I
offered to do so.

"And, sir," continued the wounded man,
"I suffer much and would like, if
possible, to be carried to some house."

"Where you can be relieved?" asked De
Guiche.

"No, where I can confess."

"But perhaps you are not so dangerously
wounded as you think," said Raoul.

"Sir," replied the wounded man, "believe
me, there is no time to lose; the ball
has broken the thigh bone and entered
the intestines."

"Are you a surgeon?" asked De Guiche.

"No, but I know a little about wounds,
and mine, I know, is mortal. Try,
therefore, either to carry me to some
place where I may see a priest or take
the trouble to send one to me here. It
is my soul that must be saved; as for my
body, it is lost."

"To die whilst doing a good deed! It is
impossible. God will help you."

"Gentlemen, in the name of Heaven!" said
the wounded man, collecting all his
forces, as if to get up, "let us not
lose time in useless words. Either help
me to gain the nearest village or swear
to me on your salvation that you will
send me the first monk, the first cure,
the first priest you may meet. But," he
added in a despairing tone, "perhaps no
one will dare to come for it is known
that the Spaniards are ranging through
the country, and I shall die without
absolution. My God! my God! Good God!
good God!" added the wounded man, in an
accent of terror which made the young
men shudder; "you will not allow that?
that would be too terrible!"

"Calm yourself, sir," replied De Guiche.
"I swear to you, you shall receive the
consolation that you ask. Only tell us
where we shall find a house at which we
can demand aid and a village from which
we can fetch a priest."

"Thank you, and God reward you! About
half a mile from this, on the same road,
there is an inn, and about a mile
further on, after leaving the inn, you
will reach the village of Greney. There
you must find the curate, or if he is
not at home, go to the convent of the
Augustines, which is the last house on
the right, and bring me one of the
brothers. Monk or priest, it matters
not, provided only that he has received
from holy church the power of absolving
in articulo mortis."

"Monsieur d'Arminges," said De Guiche,
"remain beside this unfortunate man and
see that he is removed as gently as
possible. The vicomte and myself will go
and find a priest."

"Go, sir," replied the tutor; "but in
Heaven's name do not expose yourself to
danger!"

"Do not fear. Besides, we are safe for
to-day; you know the axiom, `Non bis in
idem.'"

"Courage, sir," said Raoul to the
wounded man. "We are going to execute
your wishes."

"May Heaven prosper you!" replied the
dying man, with an accent of gratitude
impossible to describe.

The two young men galloped off in the
direction mentioned and in ten minutes
reached the inn. Raoul, without
dismounting, called to the host and
announced that a wounded man was about
to be brought to his house and begged
him in the meantime to prepare
everything needful. He desired him also,
should he know in the neighborhood any
doctor or chirurgeon, to fetch him,
taking on himself the payment of the
messenger.

The host, who saw two young noblemen,
richly clad, promised everything they
required, and our two cavaliers, after
seeing that preparations for the
reception were actually begun, started
off again and proceeded rapidly toward
Greney.

They had gone rather more than a league
and had begun to descry the first houses
of the village, the red-tiled roofs of
which stood out from the green trees
which surrounded them, when, coming
toward them mounted on a mule, they
perceived a poor monk, whose large hat
and gray worsted dress made them take
him for an Augustine brother. Chance for
once seemed to favor them in sending
what they were so assiduously seeking.
He was a man about twenty-two or
twenty-three years old, but who appeared
much older from ascetic exercises. His
complexion was pale, not of that deadly
pallor which is a kind of neutral
beauty, but of a bilious, yellow hue;
his colorless hair was short and
scarcely extended beyond the circle
formed by the hat around his head, and
his light blue eyes seemed destitute of
any expression.

"Sir," began Raoul, with his usual
politeness, "are you an ecclesiastic?"

"Why do you ask me that?" replied the
stranger, with a coolness which was
barely civil.

"Because we want to know," said De
Guiche, haughtily.

The stranger touched his mule with his
heel and continued his way.

In a second De Guiche had sprung before
him and barred his passage. "Answer,
sir," exclaimed he; "you have been asked
politely, and every question is worth an
answer."

"I suppose I am free to say or not to
say who I am to two strangers who take a
fancy to ask me."

It was with difficulty that De Guiche
restrained the intense desire he had of
breaking the monk's bones.

"In the first place," he said, making an
effort to control himself, "we are not
people who may be treated anyhow; my
friend there is the Viscount of
Bragelonne and I am the Count de Guiche.
Nor was it from caprice we asked the
question, for there is a wounded and
dying man who demands the succor of the
church. If you be a priest, I conjure
you in the name of humanity to follow me
to aid this man; if you be not, it is a
different matter, and I warn you in the
name of courtesy, of which you appear
profoundly ignorant, that I shall
chastise you for your insolence."

The pale face of the monk became so
livid and his smile so strange, that
Raoul, whose eyes were still fixed upon
him, felt as if this smile had struck to
his heart like an insult.

"He is some Spanish or Flemish spy,"
said he, putting his hand to his pistol.
A glance, threatening and transient as
lightning, replied to Raoul.

"Well, sir," said De Guiche, "are you
going to reply?"

"I am a priest," said the young man.

"Then, father," said Raoul, forcing
himself to convey a respect by speech
that did not come from his heart, "if
you are a priest you have an
opportunity, as my friend has told you,
of exercising your vocation. At the next
inn you will find a wounded man, now
being attended by our servants, who has
asked the assistance of a minister of
God."

"I will go," said the monk.

And he touched his mule.

"If you do not go, sir," said De Guiche,
"remember that we have two steeds able
to catch your mule and the power of
having you seized wherever you may be;
and then I swear your trial will be
summary; one can always find a tree and
a cord."

The monk's eye again flashed, but that
was all; he merely repeated his phrase,
"I will go," -- and he went.

"Let us follow him," said De Guiche; "it
will be the surest plan."

"I was about to propose so doing,"
answered De Bragelonne.

In the space of five minutes the monk
turned around to ascertain whether he
was followed or not.

"You see," said Raoul, "we have done
wisely."

"What a horrible face that monk has,"
said De Guiche.

"Horrible!" replied Raoul, "especially
in expression."

"Yes, yes," said De Guiche, "a strange
face; but these monks are subject to
such degrading practices; their fasts
make them pale, the blows of the
discipline make them hypocrites, and
their eyes become inflamed through
weeping for the good things of this life
we common folk enjoy, but they have
lost."

"Well," said Raoul, "the poor man will
get his priest, but, by Heaven, the
penitent appears to me to have a better
conscience than the confessor. I confess
I am accustomed to priests of a very
different appearance."

"Ah!" exclaimed De Guiche, "you must
understand that this is one of those
wandering brothers, who go begging on
the high road until some day a benefice
falls down from Heaven on them; they are
mostly foreigners -- Scotch, Irish or
Danish. I have seen them before."

"As ugly?"

"No, but reasonably hideous."

"What a misfortune for the wounded man
to die under the hands of such a friar!"

"Pshaw!" said De Guiche. "Absolution
comes not from him who administers it,
but from God. However, for my part, I
would rather die unshriven than have
anything to say to such a confessor. You
are of my opinion, are you not,
viscount? and I see you playing with the
pommel of your sword, as if you had a
great inclination to break the holy
father's head."

"Yes, count, it is a strange thing and
one which might astonish you, but I feel
an indescribable horror at the sight of
yonder man. Have you ever seen a snake
rise up on your path?"

"Never," answered De Guiche.

"Well, it has happened to me to do so in
our Blaisois forests, and I remember
that the first time I encountered one
with its eyes fixed upon me, curled up,
swinging its head and pointing its
tongue, I remained fixed, pale and as
though fascinated, until the moment when
the Comte de la Fere ---- "

"Your father?" asked De Guiche.

"No, my guardian," replied Raoul,
blushing.

"Very well ---- "

"Until the moment when the Comte de la
Fere," resumed Raoul, "said, `Come,
Bragelonne, draw your sword;' then only
I rushed upon the reptile and cut it in
two, just at the moment when it was
rising on its tail and hissing, ere it
sprang upon me. Well, I vow I felt
exactly the same sensation at sight of
that man when he said, `Why do you ask
me that?' and looked so strangely at
me."

"Then you regret that you did not cut
your serpent in two morsels?"

"Faith, yes, almost," said Raoul.

They had now arrived within sight of the
little inn and could see on the opposite
side the procession bearing the wounded
man and guided by Monsieur d'Arminges.
The youths spurred on.

"There is the wounded man," said De
Guiche, passing close to the Augustine
brother. "Be good enough to hurry
yourself a little, monsieur monk."

As for Raoul, he avoided the monk by the
whole width of the road and passed him,
turning his head away in repulsion.

The young men rode up to the wounded man
to announce that they were followed by
the priest. He raised himself to glance
in the direction which they pointed out,
saw the monk, and fell back upon the
litter, his face illumined by joy.

"And now," said the youths, "we have
done all we can for you; and as we are
in haste to rejoin the prince's army we
must continue our journey. You will
excuse us, sir, but we are told that a
battle is expected and we do not wish to
arrive the day after it."

"Go, my young sirs," said the sick man,
"and may you both be blessed for your
piety. You have done for me, as you
promised, all that you could do. As for
me I can only repeat, may God protect
you and all dear to you!"

"Sir," said De Guiche to his tutor, "we
will precede you, and you can rejoin us
on the road to Cambrin."

The host was at his door and everything
was prepared -- bed, bandages, and lint;
and a groom had gone to Lens, the
nearest village, for a doctor.

"Everything," said he to Raoul, "shall
be done as you desire; but you will not
stop to have your wound dressed?"

"Oh, my wound -- mine -- 'tis nothing,"
replied the viscount; "it will be time
to think about it when we next halt;
only have the goodness, should you see a
cavalier who makes inquiries about a
young man on a chestnut horse followed
by a servant, to tell him, in fact, that
you have seen me, but that I have
continued my journey and intend to dine
at Mazingarbe and to stop at Cambrin.
This cavalier is my attendant."

"Would it not be safer and more certain
if I should ask him his name and tell
him yours?" demanded the host.

"There is no harm in over-precaution. I
am the Viscount de Bragelonne and he is
called Grimaud."

At this moment the wounded man arrived
from one direction and the monk from the
other, the latter dismounting from his
mule and desiring that it should be
taken to the stables without being
unharnessed.

"Sir monk," said De Guiche, "confess
well that brave man; and be not
concerned for your expenses or for those
of your mule; all is paid."

"Thanks, monsieur," said the monk, with
one of those smiles that made Bragelonne
shudder.

"Come, count," said Raoul, who seemed
instinctively to dislike the vicinity of
the Augustine; "come, I feel ill here,"
and the two young men spurred on.

The litter, borne by two servants, now
entered the house. The host and his wife
were standing on the steps, whilst the
unhappy man seemed to suffer dreadful
pain and yet to be concerned only to
know if he was followed by the monk. At
sight of this pale, bleeding man, the
wife grasped her husband's arm.

"Well, what's the matter?" asked the
latter, "are you going to be ill just
now?"

"No, but look," replied the hostess,
pointing to the wounded man; "I ask you
if you recognize him?"

"That man -- wait a bit."

"Ah! I see you know him," exclaimed the
wife; "for you have become pale in your
turn."

"Truly," cried the host, "misfortune is
coming on our house; it is the former
executioner of Bethune."

"The former executioner of Bethune!"
murmured the young monk, shrinking back
and showing on his countenance the
feeling of repugnance which his penitent
inspired.

Monsieur d'Arminges, who was at the
door, perceived his hesitation.

"Sir monk," said he, "whether he is now
or has been an executioner, this
unfortunate being is none the less a
man. Render to him, then, the last
service he can by any possibility ask of
you, and your work will be all the more
meritorious."

The monk made no reply, but silently
wended his way to the room where the two
valets had deposited the dying man on a
bed. D'Arminges and Olivain and the two
grooms then mounted their horses, and
all four started off at a quick trot to
rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as
the tutor and his escort disappeared in
their turn, a new traveler stopped on
the threshold of the inn.

"What does your worship want?" demanded
the host, pale and trembling from the
discovery he had just made.

The traveler made a sign as if he wished
to drink, and then pointed to his horse
and gesticulated like a man who is
brushing something.

"Ah, diable!" said the host to himself;
"this man seems dumb. And where will
your worship drink?"

"There," answered the traveler, pointing
to the table.

"I was mistaken," said the host, "he's
not quite dumb. And what else does your
worship wish for?"

"To know if you have seen a young man
pass, fifteen years of age, mounted on a
chestnut horse and followed by a groom?"

"The Viscount de Bragelonne?

"Just so."

"Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?"

The traveler made a sign of assent.

"Well, then," said the host, "your young
master was here a quarter of an hour
ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and
sleep at Cambrin."

"How far is Mazingarbe?"

"Two miles and a half."

"Thank you."

Grimaud was drinking his wine silently
and had just placed his glass on the
table to be filled a second time, when a
terrific scream resounded from the room
occupied by the monk and the dying man.
Grimaud sprang up.

"What is that?" said he; "whence comes
that cry?"

"From the wounded man's room," replied
the host.

"What wounded man?"

"The former executioner of Bethune, who
has just been brought in here,
assassinated by Spaniards, and who is
now being confessed by an Augustine
friar."

"The old executioner of Bethune,"
muttered Grimaud; "a man between
fifty-five and sixty, tall, strong,
swarthy, black hair and beard?"

"That is he, except that his beard has
turned gray and his hair is white; do
you know him?" asked the host.

"I have seen him once," replied Grimaud,
a cloud darkening his countenance at the
picture so suddenly summoned to the bar
of recollection.

At this instant a second cry, less
piercing than the first, but followed by
prolonged groaning, was heard.

The three listeners looked at one
another in alarm.

"We must see what it is," said Grimaud.

"It sounds like the cry of one who is
being murdered," murmured the host.

"Mon Dieu!" said the woman, crossing
herself.

If Grimaud was slow in speaking, we know
that he was quick to act; he sprang to
the door and shook it violently, but it
was bolted on the other side.

"Open the door!" cried the host; "open
it instantly, sir monk!"

No reply.

"Unfasten it, or I will break it in!"
said Grimaud.

The same silence, and then, ere the host
could oppose his design, Grimaud seized
a pair of pincers he perceived in a
corner and forced the bolt. The room was
inundated with blood, dripping from the
mattresses upon which lay the wounded
man, speechless; the monk had
disappeared.

"The monk!" cried the host; "where is
the monk?"

Grimaud sprang toward an open window
which looked into the courtyard.

"He has escaped by this means,"
exclaimed he.

"Do you think so?" said the host,
bewildered; "boy, see if the mule
belonging to the monk is still in the
stable."

"There is no mule," cried he to whom
this question was addressed.

The host clasped his hands and looked
around him suspiciously, whilst Grimaud
knit his brows and approached the
wounded man, whose worn, hard features
awoke in his mind such awful
recollections of the past.

"There can be no longer any doubt but
that it is himself," said he.

"Does he still live?" inquired the
innkeeper.

Making no reply, Grimaud opened the poor
man's jacket to feel if the heart beat,
whilst the host approached in his turn;
but in a moment they both fell back, the
host uttering a cry of horror and
Grimaud becoming pallid. The blade of a
dagger was buried up to the hilt in the
left side of the executioner.

"Run! run for help!" cried Grimaud, "and
I will remain beside him here."

The host quitted the room in agitation,
and as for his wife, she had fled at the
sound of her husband's cries.



32

The Absolution.



This is what had taken place: We have
seen that it was not of his own free
will, but, on the contrary, very
reluctantly, that the monk attended the
wounded man who had been recommended to
him in so strange a manner. Perhaps he
would have sought to escape by flight
had he seen any possibility of doing so.
He was restrained by the threats of the
two gentlemen and by the presence of
their attendants, who doubtless had
received their instructions. And
besides, he considered it most
expedient, without exhibiting too much
ill-will, to follow to the end his role
as confessor.

The monk entered the chamber and
approached the bed of the wounded man.
The executioner searched his face with
the quick glance peculiar to those who
are about to die and have no time to
lose. He made a movement of surprise and
said:

"Father, you are very young."

"Men who bear my robe have no, age,"
replied the monk, dryly.

"Alas, speak to me more gently, father;
in my last moments I need a friend."

"Do you suffer much?" asked the monk.

"Yes, but in my soul much more than in
my body."

"We will save your soul," said the young
man; "but are you really the executioner
of Bethune, as these people say?"

"That is to say," eagerly replied the
wounded man, who doubtless feared that
the name of executioner would take from
him the last help that he could claim --
"that is to say, I was, but am no
longer; it is fifteen years since I gave
up the office. I still assist at
executions, but no longer strike the
blow myself -- no, indeed."

"You have, then, a repugnance to your
profession?"

"So long as I struck in the name of the
law and of justice my profession allowed
me to sleep quietly, sheltered as I was
by justice and law; but since that
terrible night when I became an
instrument of private vengeance and when
with personal hatred I raised the sword
over one of God's creatures -- since
that day ---- "

The executioner paused and shook his
head with an expression of despair.

"Tell me about it," said the monk, who,
sitting on the foot of the bed, began to
be interested in a story so strangely
introduced.

"Ah!" cried the dying man, with all the
effusiveness of a grief declared after
long suppression, "ah! I have sought to
stifle remorse by twenty years of good
deeds; I have assuaged the natural
ferocity of those who shed blood; on
every occasion I have exposed my life to
save those who were in danger, and I
have preserved lives in exchange for
that I took away. That is not all; the
money gained in the exercise of my
profession I have distributed to the
poor; I have been assiduous in attending
church and those who formerly fled from
me have become accustomed to seeing me.
All have forgiven me, some have even
loved me; but I think that God has not
pardoned me, for the memory of that
execution pursues me constantly and
every night I see that woman's ghost
rising before me."

"A woman! You have assassinated a woman,
then?" cried the monk.

"You also!" exclaimed the executioner,
"you use that word which sounds ever in
my ears -- `assassinated!' I have
assassinated, then, and not executed! I
am an assassin, then, and not an officer
of justice!" and he closed his eyes with
a groan.

The monk doubtless feared that he would
die without saying more, for he
exclaimed eagerly:

"Go on, I know nothing, as yet; when you
have finished your story, God and I will
judge."

"Oh, father," continued the executioner,
without opening his eyes, as if he
feared on opening them to see some
frightful object, "it is especially when
night comes on and when I have to cross
a river, that this terror which I have
been unable to conquer comes upon me; it
then seems as if my hand grew heavy, as
if the cutlass was still in its grasp,
as if the water had the color of blood,
and all the voices of nature -- the
whispering of the trees, the murmur of
the wind, the lapping of the wave --
united in a voice tearful, despairing,
terrible, crying to me, `Place for the
justice of God!'"

"Delirium!" murmured the monk, shaking
his head.

The executioner opened his eyes, turned
toward the young man and grasped his
arm.

"`Delirium,'" he repeated; "`delirium,'
do you say? Oh, no! I remember too well.
It was evening; I had thrown the body
into the river and those words which my
remorse repeats to me are those which I
in my pride pronounced. After being the
instrument of human justice I aspired to
be that of the justice of God."

"But let me see, how was it done?
Speak," said the monk.

"It was at night. A man came to me and
showed me an order and I followed him.
Four other noblemen awaited me. They led
me away masked. I reserved the right of
refusing if the office they required of
me should seem unjust. We traveled five
or six leagues, serious, silent, and
almost without speaking. At length,
through the window of a little hut, they
showed me a woman sitting, leaning on a
table, and said, `there is the person to
be executed.'"

"Horrible!" said the monk. "And you
obeyed?"

"Father, that woman was a monster. It
was said that she had poisoned her
second husband; she had tried to
assassinate her brother-in-law; she had
just poisoned a young woman who was her
rival, and before leaving England she
had, it was believed, caused the
favorite of the king to be murdered."

"Buckingham?" cried the monk.

"Yes, Buckingham."

"The woman was English, then?"

"No, she was French, but she had married
in England."

The monk turned pale, wiped his brow and
went and bolted the door. The
executioner thought that he had
abandoned him and fell back, groaning,
upon his bed.

"No, no; I am here," said the monk,
quickly coming back to him. "Go on; who
were those men?"

"One of them was a foreigner, English, I
think. The four others were French and
wore the uniform of musketeers."

"Their names?" asked the monk.

"I don't know them, but the four other
noblemen called the Englishman `my
lord.'"

"Was the woman handsome?"

"Young and beautiful. Oh, yes,
especially beautiful. I see her now, as
on her knees at my feet, with her head
thrown back, she begged for life. I have
never understood how I could have laid
low a head so beautiful, with a face so
pale."

The monk seemed agitated by a strange
emotion; he trembled all over; he seemed
eager to put a question which yet he
dared not ask. At length, with a violent
effort at self-control:

"The name of that woman?" he said.

"I don't know what it was. As I have
said, she was twice married, once in
France, the second time in England."

"She was young, you say?"

"Twenty-five years old."

"Beautiful?"

"Ravishingly."

"Blond?"

"Yes."

"Abundance of hair -- falling over her
shoulders?"

"Yes."

"Eyes of an admirable expression?"

"When she chose. Oh, yes, it is she!"

"A voice of strange sweetness?"

"How do you know it?"

The executioner raised himself on his
elbow and gazed with a frightened air at
the monk, who became livid.

"And you killed her?" the monk
exclaimed. "You were the tool of those
cowards who dared not kill her
themselves? You had no pity for that
youthfulness, that beauty, that
weakness? you killed that woman?"

"Alas! I have already told you, father,
that woman, under that angelic
appearance, had an infernal soul, and
when I saw her, when I recalled all the
evil she had done to me ---- "

"To you? What could she have done to
you? Come, tell me!"

"She had seduced and ruined my brother,
a priest. She had fled with him from her
convent."

"With your brother?"

"Yes, my brother was her first lover,
and she caused his death. Oh, father, do
not look in that way at me! Oh, I am
guilty, then; you will not pardon me?"

The monk recovered his usual expression.

"Yes, yes," he said, "I will pardon you
if you tell me all."

"Oh!" cried the executioner, "all! all!
all!"

"Answer, then. If she seduced your
brother -- you said she seduced him, did
you not?"

"Yes."

"If she caused his death -- you said
that she caused his death?"

"Yes," repeated the executioner.

"Then you must know what her name was as
a young girl."

"Oh, mon Dieu!" cried the executioner,
"I think I am dying. Absolution, father!
absolution."

"Tell me her name and I will give it."

"Her name was ---- My God, have pity on
me!" murmured the executioner; and he
fell back on the bed, pale, trembling,
and apparently about to die.

"Her name!" repeated the monk, bending
over him as if to tear from him the name
if he would not utter it; "her name!
Speak, or no absolution!"

The dying man collected all his forces.

The monk's eyes glittered.

"Anne de Bueil," murmured the wounded
man.

"Anne de Bueil!" cried the monk,
standing up and lifting his hands to
Heaven. "Anne de Bueil! You said Anne de
Bueil, did you not?"

"Yes, yes, that was her name; and now
absolve me, for I am dying."

"I, absolve you!" cried the priest, with
a laugh which made the dying man's hair
stand on end; "I, absolve you? I am not
a priest."

"You are not a priest!" cried the
executioner. "What, then, are you?"

"I am about to tell you, wretched man."

"Oh, mon Dieu!"

"I am John Francis de Winter."

"I do not know you," said the
executioner.

"Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I
am John Francis de Winter," he repeated,
"and that woman ---- "

"Well, that woman?"

"Was my mother!"

The executioner uttered the first cry,
that terrible cry which had been first
heard.

"Oh, pardon me, pardon me!" he murmured;
"if not in the name of God, at least in
your own name; if not as priest, then as
son."

"Pardon you!" cried the pretended monk,
"pardon you! Perhaps God will pardon
you, but I, never!"

"For pity's sake," said the executioner,
extending his arms.

"No pity for him who had no pity! Die,
impenitent, die in despair, die and be
damned!" And drawing a poniard from
beneath his robe he thrust it into the
breast of the wounded man, saying, "Here
is my absolution!"

Then was heard that second cry, not so
loud as the first and followed by a long
groan.

The executioner, who had lifted himself
up, fell back upon his bed. As to the
monk, without withdrawing the poniard
from the wound, he ran to the window,
opened it, leaped out into the flowers
of a small garden, glided onward to the
stable, took out his mule, went out by a
back gate, ran to a neighbouring
thicket, threw off his monkish garb,
took from his valise the complete
habiliment of a cavalier, clothed
himself in it, went on foot to the first
post, secured there a horse and
continued with a loose rein his journey
to Paris.



33

Grimaud Speaks.



Grimaud was left alone with the
executioner, who in a few moments opened
his eyes.

"Help, help," he murmured; "oh, God!
have I not a single friend in the world
who will aid me either to live or to
die?"

"Take courage," said Grimaud; "they are
gone to find assistance."

"Who are you?" asked the wounded man,
fixing his half opened eyes on Grimaud.

"An old acquaintance," replied Grimaud.

"You?" and the wounded man sought to
recall the features of the person now
before him.

"Under what circumstances did we meet?"
he asked again.

"One night, twenty years ago, my master
fetched you from Bethune and conducted
you to Armentieres."

"I know you well now," said the
executioner; "you were one of the four
grooms."

"Just so."

"Where do you come from now?"

"I was passing by and drew up at this
inn to rest my horse. They told me the
executioner of Bethune was here and
wounded, when you uttered two piercing
cries. At the first we ran to the door
and at the second forced it open."

"And the monk?" exclaimed the
executioner, "did you see the monk?"

"What monk?"

"The monk that was shut in with me."

"No, he was no longer here; he appears
to have fled by the window. Was he the
man that stabbed you?"

"Yes," said the executioner.

Grimaud moved as if to leave the room.

"What are you going to do?" asked the
wounded man.

"He must be apprehended."

"Do not attempt it; he has revenged
himself and has done well. Now I may
hope that God will forgive me, since my
crime is expiated."

"Explain yourself." said Grimaud.

"The woman whom you and your masters
commanded me to kill ---- "

"Milady?"

"Yes, Milady; it is true you called her
thus."

"What has the monk to do with this
Milady?"

"She was his mother."

Grimaud trembled and stared at the dying
man in a dull and leaden manner.

"His mother!" he repeated.

"Yes, his mother."

"But does he know this secret, then?"

"I mistook him for a monk and revealed
it to him in confession."

"Unhappy man!" cried Grimaud, whose face
was covered with sweat at the bare idea
of the evil results such a revelation
might cause; "unhappy man, you named no
one, I hope?"

"I pronounced no name, for I knew none,
except his mother's, as a young girl,
and it was by this name that he
recognized her, but he knows that his
uncle was among her judges."

Thus speaking, he fell back exhausted.
Grimaud, wishing to relieve him,
advanced his hand toward the hilt of the
dagger.

"Touch me not!" said the executioner;
"if this dagger is withdrawn I shall
die."

Grimaud remained with his hand extended;
then, striking his forehead, he
exclaimed:

"Oh! if this man should ever discover
the names of the others, my master is
lost."

"Haste! haste to him and warn him,"
cried the wounded man, "if he still
lives; warn his friends, too. My death,
believe me, will not be the end of this
atrocious misadventure."

"Where was the monk going?" asked
Grimaud.

"Toward Paris."

"Who stopped him?"

"Two young gentlemen, who were on their
way to join the army and the name of one
of whom I heard his companion mention --
the Viscount de Bragelonne."

"And it was this young man who brought
the monk to you? Then it was the will of
God that it should be so and this it is
which makes it all so awful," continued
Grimaud. "And yet that woman deserved
her fate; do you not think so?"

"On one's death-bed the crimes of others
appear very small in comparison with
one's own," said the executioner; and
falling back exhausted he closed his
eyes.

Grimaud was reluctant to leave the man
alone and yet he perceived the necessity
of starting at once to bear these
tidings to the Comte de la Fere. Whilst
he thus hesitated the host re-entered
the room, followed not only by a
surgeon, but by many other persons, whom
curiosity had attracted to the spot. The
surgeon approached the dying man, who
seemed to have fainted.

"We must first extract the steel from
the side," said he, shaking his head in
a significant manner.

The prophecy which the wounded man had
just uttered recurred to Grimaud, who
turned away his head. The weapon, as we
have already stated, was plunged into
the body to the hilt, and as the
surgeon, taking it by the end, drew it
forth, the wounded man opened his eyes
and fixed them on him in a manner truly
frightful. When at last the blade had
been entirely withdrawn, a red froth
issued from the mouth of the wounded man
and a stream of blood spouted afresh
from the wound when he at length drew
breath; then, fixing his eyes upon
Grimaud with a singular expression, the
dying man uttered the last death-rattle
and expired.

Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from
the pool of blood which was gliding
along the room, to the horror of all
present, made a sign to the host to
follow him, paid him with a generosity
worthy of his master and again mounted
his horse. Grimaud's first intention had
been to return to Paris, but he
remembered the anxiety which his
prolonged absence might occasion Raoul,
and reflecting that there were now only
two miles between the vicomte and
himself and a quarter of an hour's
riding would unite them, and that the
going, returning and explanation would
not occupy an hour, he put spurs to his
horse and a few minutes after had
reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.

Raoul was seated at table with the Count
de Guiche and his tutor, when all at
once the door opened and Grimaud
presented himself, travel-stained,
dirty, and sprinkled with the blood of
the unhappy executioner.

"Grimaud, my good Grimaud!" exclaimed
Raoul "here you are at last! Excuse me,
sirs, this is not a servant, but a
friend. How did you leave the count?"
continued he. "Does he regret me a
little? Have you seen him since I left
him? Answer, for I have many things to
tell you, too; indeed, the last three
days some odd adventures have
happened -- but what is the matter? how
pale you are! and blood, too! What is
this?"

"It is the blood of the unfortunate man
whom you left at the inn and who died in
my arms."

"In your arms? -- that man! but know you
who he was?"

"He used to be the headsman of Bethune."

"You knew him? and he is dead?"

"Yes."

"Well, sir," said D'Arminges, "it is the
common lot; even an executioner is not
exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the
moment I saw his wound, and since he
asked for a monk you know that it was
his opinion, too, that death would
follow."

At the mention of the monk, Grimaud
became pale.

"Come, come," continued D'Arminges, "to
dinner;" for like most men of his age
and generation he did not allow
sentiment or sensibility to interfere
with a repast.

"You are right, sir," said Raoul. "Come,
Grimaud, order dinner for yourself and
when you have rested a little we can
talk."

"No, sir, no," said Grimaud. "I cannot
stop a moment; I must start for Paris
again immediately."

"What? You start for Paris? You are
mistaken; it is Olivain who leaves me;
you are to remain."

"On the contrary, Olivain is to stay and
I am to go. I have come for nothing else
but to tell you so."

"But what is the meaning of this
change?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Explain yourself."

"I cannot explain myself."

"Come, tell me, what is the joke?"

"Monsieur le vicomte knows that I never
joke."

"Yes, but I know also that Monsieur le
Comte de la Fere arranged that you were
to remain with me and that Olivain
should return to Paris. I shall follow
the count's directions."

"Not under present circumstances,
monsieur."

"Perhaps you mean to disobey me?"

"Yes, monsieur, I must."

"You persist, then?"

"Yes, I am going; may you be happy,
monsieur," and Grimaud saluted and
turned toward the door to go out.

Raoul, angry and at the same time
uneasy, ran after him and seized him by
the arm. "Grimaud!" he cried; "remain; I
wish it."

"Then," replied Grimaud, "you wish me to
allow monsieur le comte to be killed."
He saluted and made a movement to
depart.

"Grimaud, my friend," said the viscount,
"will you leave me thus, in such
anxiety? Speak, speak, in Heaven's
name!" And Raoul fell back trembling
upon his chair.

"I can tell you but one thing, sir, for
the secret you wish to know is not my
own. You met a monk, did you not?"

"Yes."

The young men looked at each other with
an expression of fear.

"You conducted him to the wounded man
and you had time to observe him, and
perhaps you would know him again were
you to meet him."

"Yes, yes!" cried both young men.

"Very well; if ever you meet him again,
wherever it may be, whether on the high
road or in the street or in a church,
anywhere that he or you may be, put your
foot on his neck and crush him without
pity, without mercy, as you would crush
a viper or a scorpion! destroy him
utterly and quit him not until he is
dead; the lives of five men are not
safe, in my opinion, as long as he is on
the earth."

And without adding another word,
Grimaud, profiting by the astonishment
and terror into which he had thrown his
auditors, rushed from the room. Two
minutes later the thunder of a horse's
hoofs was heard upon the road; it was
Grimaud, on his way to Paris. When once
in the saddle Grimaud reflected on two
things; first, that at the pace he was
going his horse would not carry him ten
miles, and secondly, that he had no
money. But Grimaud's ingenuity was more
prolific than his speech, and therefore
at the first halt he sold his steed and
with the money obtained from the
purchase took post horses.



34

On the Eve of Battle.



Raoul was aroused from his sombre
reflections by his host, who rushed into
the apartment crying out, "The
Spaniards! the Spaniards!"

That cry was of such importance as to
overcome all preoccupation. The young
men made inquiries and ascertained that
the enemy was advancing by way of Houdin
and Bethune.

While Monsieur d'Arminges gave orders
for the horses to be made ready for
departure, the two young men ascended to
the upper windows of the house and saw
in the direction of Marsin and of Lens a
large body of infantry and cavalry. This
time it was not a wandering troop of
partisans; it was an entire army. There
was therefore nothing for them to do but
to follow the prudent advice of Monsieur
d'Arminges and beat a retreat. They
quickly went downstairs. Monsieur
d'Arminges was already mounted. Olivain
had ready the horses of the young men,
and the lackeys of the Count de Guiche
guarded carefully between them the
Spanish prisoner, mounted on a pony
which had been bought for his use. As a
further precaution they had bound his
hands.

The little company started off at a trot
on the road to Cambrin, where they
expected to find the prince. But he was
no longer there, having withdrawn on the
previous evening to La Bassee, misled by
false intelligence of the enemy's
movements. Deceived by this intelligence
he had concentrated his forces between
Vieille-Chapelle and La Venthie; and
after a reconnoissance along the entire
line, in company with Marshal de
Grammont, he had returned and seated
himself before a table, with his
officers around him. He questioned them
as to the news they had each been
charged to obtain, but nothing positive
had been learned. The hostile army had
disappeared two days before and seemed
to have gone out of existence.

Now an enemy is never so near and
consequently so threatening, as when he
has completely disappeared. The prince
was, therefore, contrary to his custom,
gloomy and anxious, when an officer
entered and announced to Marshal de
Grammont that some one wished to see
him.

The Duc de Grammont received permission
from the prince by a glance and went
out. The prince followed him with his
eyes and continued looking at the door;
no one ventured to speak, for fear of
disturbing him.

Suddenly a dull and heavy noise was
heard. The prince leaped to his feet,
extending his hand in the direction
whence came the sound, there was no
mistaking it -- it was the noise of
cannon. Every one stood up.

At that moment the door opened.

"Monseigneur," said Marshal de Grammont,
with a radiant face, "will your highness
permit my son, Count de Guiche, and his
traveling companion, Viscount de
Bragelonne, to come in and give news of
the enemy, whom they have found while we
were looking for him?"

"What!" eagerly replied the prince,
"will I permit? I not only permit, I
desire; let them come in."

The marshal introduced the two young men
and placed them face to face with the
prince.

"Speak, gentlemen," said the prince,
saluting them; "first speak; we shall
have time afterward for the usual
compliments. The most urgent thing now
is to learn where the enemy is and what
he is doing."

It fell naturally to the Count de Guiche
to make reply; not only was he the
elder, but he had been presented to the
prince by his father. Besides, he had
long known the prince, whilst Raoul now
saw him for the first time. He therefore
narrated to the prince what they had
seen from the inn at Mazingarbe.

Meanwhile Raoul closely observed the
young general, already made so famous by
the battles of Rocroy, Fribourg, and
Nordlingen.

Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Conde, who,
since the death of his father, Henri de
Bourbon, was called, in accordance with
the custom of that period, Monsieur le
Prince, was a young man, not more than
twenty-six or twenty-seven years old,
with the eye of an eagle -- agl' occhi
grifani, as Dante says -- aquiline nose,
long, waving hair, of medium height,
well formed, possessed of all the
qualities essential to the successful
soldier -- that is to say, the rapid
glance, quick decision, fabulous
courage. At the same time he was a man
of elegant manners and strong mind, so
that in addition to the revolution he
had made in war, by his new
contributions to its methods, he had
also made a revolution at Paris, among
the young noblemen of the court, whose
natural chief he was and who, in
distinction from the social leaders of
the ancient court, modeled after
Bassompierre, Bellegarde and the Duke
d'Angouleme, were called the
petits-maitres.

At the first words of the Count de
Guiche, the prince, having in mind the
direction whence came the sound of
cannon, had understood everything. The
enemy was marching upon Lens, with the
intention, doubtless, of securing
possession of that town and separating
from France the army of France. But in
what force was the enemy? Was it a corps
sent out to make a diversion? Was it an
entire army? To this question De Guiche
could not respond.

Now, as these questions involved matters
of gravest consequence, it was these to
which the prince had especially desired
an answer, exact, precise, positive.

Raoul conquered the very natural feeling
of timidity he experienced and
approaching the prince:

"My lord," he said, "will you permit me
to hazard a few words on that subject,
which will perhaps relieve you of your
uncertainty?"

The prince turned and seemed to cover
the young man with a single glance; he
smiled on perceiving that he was a child
hardly fifteen years old.

"Certainly, monsieur, speak," he said,
softening his stern, accented tones, as
if he were speaking to a woman.

"My lord," said Raoul, blushing, "might
examine the Spanish prisoner."

"Have you a Spanish prisoner?" cried the
prince.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ah, that is true," said De Guiche; "I
had forgotten it."

"That is easily understood; it was you
who took him, count," said Raoul,
smiling.

The old marshal turned toward the
viscount, grateful for that praise of
his son, whilst the prince exclaimed:

"The young man is right; let the
prisoner be brought in."

Meanwhile the prince took De Guiche
aside and asked him how the prisoner had
been taken and who this young man was.

"Monsieur," said the prince, turning
toward Raoul, "I know that you have a
letter from my sister, Madame de
Longueville; but I see that you have
preferred commending yourself to me by
giving me good counsel."

"My lord," said Raoul, coloring up, "I
did not wish to interrupt your highness
in a conversation so important as that
in which you were engaged with the
count. But here is the letter."

"Very well," said the prince; "give it
to me later. Here is the prisoner; let
us attend to what is most pressing."

The prisoner was one of those military
adventurers who sold their blood to
whoever would buy, and grew old in
stratagems and spoils. Since he had been
taken he had not uttered a word, so that
it was not known to what country he
belonged. The prince looked at him with
unspeakable distrust.

"Of what country are you?" asked the
prince.

The prisoner muttered a few words in a
foreign tongue.

"Ah! ah! it seems that he is a Spaniard.
Do you speak Spanish, Grammont?"

"Faith, my lord, but indifferently."

"And I not at all," said the prince,
laughing. "Gentlemen," he said, turning
to those who were near him "can any one
of you speak Spanish and serve me as
interpreter?"

"I can, my lord," said Raoul.

"Ah, you speak Spanish?"

"Enough, I think, to fulfill your
highness's wishes on this occasion."

Meanwhile the prisoner had remained
impassive and as if he had no
understanding of what was taking place.

"My lord asks of what country you are,"
said the young man, in the purest
Castilian.

"Ich bin ein Deutscher," replied the
prisoner.

"What in the devil does he say?" asked
the prince. "What new gibberish is
that?"

"He says he is German, my lord," replied
Raoul; "but I doubt it, for his accent
is bad and his pronunciation defective."

"Then you speak German, also?" asked the
prince.

"Yes, my lord."

"Well enough to question him in that
language?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Question him, then."

Raoul began the examination, but the
result justified his opinion. The
prisoner did not understand, or seemed
not to understand, what Raoul said to
him; and Raoul could hardly understand
his replies, containing a mixture of
Flemish and Alsatian. However, amidst
all the prisoner's efforts to elude a
systematic examination, Raoul had
recognized his natural accent.

"Non siete Spagnuolo," he said; "non
siete Tedesco; siete Italiano."

The prisoner started and bit his lips.

"Ah, that," said the prince, "I
understand that language thoroughly; and
since he is Italian I will myself
continue the examination. Thank you,
viscount," continued the prince,
laughing, "and I appoint you from this
moment my interpreter."

But the prisoner was not less unwilling
to respond in Italian than in the other
languages; his aim was to elude the
examination. Therefore, he knew nothing
either of the enemy's numbers, or of
those in command, or of the purpose of
the army.

"Very good," said the prince,
understanding the reason of that
ignorance; "the man was caught in the
act of assassination and robbery; he
might have purchased his life by
speaking; he doesn't wish to speak. Take
him out and shoot him."

The prisoner turned pale. The two
soldiers who had brought him in took
him, each by one arm, and led him toward
the door, whilst the prince, turning to
Marshal de Grammont, seemed to have
already forgotten the order he had
given.

When he reached the threshold of the
door the prisoner stopped. The soldiers,
who knew only their orders, attempted to
force him along.

"One moment," said the prisoner, in
French. "I am ready to speak, my lord."

"Ah! ah!" said the prince, laughing, "I
thought we should come to that. I have a
sure method of limbering tongues. Young
men, take advantage of it against the
time when you may be in command."

"But on condition," continued the
prisoner, "that your highness will swear
that my life shall be safe."

"Upon my honor," said the prince.

"Question, then, my lord."

"Where did the army cross the Lys?"

"Between Saint-Venant and Aire."

"By whom is it commanded?"

"By Count de Fuonsaldagna, General Beck
and the archduke."

"Of how many does it consist?"

"Eighteen thousand men and thirty-six
cannon."

"And its aim is?"

"Lens."

"You see; gentlemen!" said the prince,
turning with a triumphant air toward
Marshal de Grammont and the other
officers.

"Yes, my lord," said the marshal, "you
have divined all that was possible to
human genius."

"Recall Le Plessis, Bellievre,
Villequier and D'Erlac," said the
prince, "recall all the troops that are
on this side of the Lys. Let them hold
themselves in readiness to march
to-night. To-morrow, according to all
probability, we shall attack the enemy."

"But, my lord," said Marshal de
Grammont, "consider that when we have
collected all our forces we shall have
hardly thirteen thousand men."

"Monsieur le marechal," said the prince,
with that wonderful glance that was
peculiar to him, "it is with small
armies that great battles are won."

Then turning toward the prisoner, "Take
away that man," he said, "and keep him
carefully in sight. His life is
dependent on the information he has
given us; if it is true, he shall be
free; if false, let him be shot."

The prisoner was led away.

"Count de Guiche," said the prince, "it
is a long time since you saw your
father, remain here with him. Monsieur,"
he continued, addressing Raoul, "if you
are not too tired, follow me."

"To the end of the world, my lord!"
cried Raoul, feeling an unknown
enthusiasm for that young general, who
seemed to him so worthy of his renown.

The prince smiled; he despised
flatterers, but he appreciated
enthusiasts.

"Come, monsieur," he said, "you are good
in council, as we have already
discovered; to-morrow we shall know if
you are good in action."

"And I," said the marshal, "what am I to
do?"

"Wait here to receive the troops. I
shall either return for them myself or
shall send a courier directing you to
bring them to me. Twenty guards, well
mounted, are all that I shall need for
my escort."

"That is very few," said the marshal.

"It is enough," replied the prince.
"Have you a good horse, Monsieur de
Bragelonne?"

"My horse was killed this morning, my
lord, and I am mounted provisionally on
my lackey's."

"Choose for yourself in my stables the
horse you like best. No false modesty;
take the best horse you can find. You
will need it this evening, perhaps; you
will certainly need it to-morrow."

Raoul didn't wait to be told twice; he
knew that with superiors, especially
when those superiors are princes, the
highest politeness is to obey without
delay or argument; he went down to the
stables, picked out a pie-bald
Andalusian horse, saddled and bridled it
himself, for Athos had advised him to
trust no one with those important
offices at a time of danger, and went to
rejoin the prince, who at that moment
mounted his horse.

"Now, monsieur," he said to Raoul, "will
you give me the letter you have
brought?"

Raoul handed the letter to the prince.

"Keep near me," said the latter.

The prince threw his bridle over the
pommel of the saddle, as he was wont to
do when he wished to have both hands
free, unsealed the letter of Madame de
Longueville and started at a gallop on
the road to Lens, attended by Raoul and
his small escort, whilst messengers sent
to recall the troops set out with a
loose rein in other directions. The
prince read as he hastened on.

"Monsieur," he said, after a moment,
"they tell me great things of you. I
have only to say, after the little that
I have seen and heard, that I think even
better of you than I have been told.'

Raoul bowed.

Meanwhile, as the little troop drew
nearer to Lens, the noise of the cannon
sounded louder. The prince kept his gaze
fixed in the direction of the sound with
the steadfastness of a bird of prey. One
would have said that his gaze could
pierce the branches of trees which
limited his horizon. From time to time
his nostrils dilated as if eager for the
smell of powder, and he panted like a
horse.

At length they heard the cannon so near
that it was evident they were within a
league of the field of battle, and at a
turn of the road they perceived the
little village of Aunay.

The peasants were in great commotion.
The report of Spanish cruelty had gone
out and every one was frightened. The
women had already fled, taking refuge in
Vitry; only a few men remained. On
seeing the prince they hastened to meet
him. One of them recognized him.

"Ah, my lord," he said, "have you come
to drive away those rascal Spaniards and
those Lorraine robbers?"

"Yes," said the prince, "if you will
serve me as guide."

"Willingly, my lord. Where does your
highness wish to go?"

"To some elevated spot whence I can look
down on Lens and the surrounding
country ---- "

"In that case, I'm your man."

"I can trust you -- you are a true
Frenchman?"

"I am an old soldier of Rocroy, my
lord."

"Here," said the prince, handing him a
purse, "here is for Rocroy. Now, do you
want a horse, or will you go afoot?"

"Afoot, my lord; I have served always in
the infantry. Besides, I expect to lead
your highness into places where you will
have to walk."

"Come, then," said the prince; "let us
lose no time."

The peasant started off, running before
the prince's horse; then, a hundred
steps from the village, he took a narrow
road hidden at the bottom of the valley.
For a half league they proceeded thus,
the cannon-shot sounding so near that
they expected at each discharge to hear
the hum of the balls. At length they
entered a path which, going out from the
road, skirted the mountainside. The
prince dismounted, ordered one of his
aids and Raoul to follow his example,
and directed the others to await his
orders, keeping themselves meanwhile on
the alert. He then began to ascend the
path.

In about ten minutes they reached the
ruins of an old chateau; those ruins
crowned the summit of a hill which
overlooked the surrounding country. At a
distance of hardly a quarter of a league
they looked down on Lens, at bay, and
before Lens the enemy's entire army.

With a single glance the prince took in
the extent of country that lay before
him, from Lens as far as Vimy. In a
moment the plan of the battle which on
the following day was to save France the
second time from invasion was unrolled
in his mind. He took a pencil, tore a
page from his tablets and wrote:



My Dear Marshal, -- In an hour Lens will
be in the enemy's possession. Come and
rejoin me; bring with you the whole
army. I shall be at Vendin to place it
in position. To-morrow we shall retake
Lens and beat the enemy."



Then, turning toward Raoul: "Go,
monsieur," he said; "ride fast and give
this letter to Monsieur de Grammont."

Raoul bowed, took the letter, went
hastily down the mountain, leaped on his
horse and set out at a gallop. A quarter
of an hour later he was with the
marshal.

A portion of the troops had already
arrived and the remainder was expected
from moment to moment. Marshal de
Grammont put himself at the head of all
the available cavalry and infantry and
took the road to Vendin, leaving the Duc
de Chatillon to await and bring on the
rest. All the artillery was ready to
move, and started off at a moment's
notice.

It was seven o'clock in the evening when
the marshal arrived at the appointed
place. The prince awaited him there. As
he had foreseen, Lens had fallen into
the hands of the enemy immediately after
Raoul's departure. The event was
announced by the cessation of the
firing.

As the shadows of night deepened the
troops summoned by the prince arrived in
successive detachments. Orders were
given that no drum should be beaten, no
trumpet sounded.

At nine o'clock the night had fully
come. Still a last ray of twilight
lighted the plain. The army marched
silently, the prince at the head of the
column. Presently the army came in sight
of Lens; two or three houses were in
flames and a dull noise was heard which
indicated what suffering was endured by
a town taken by assault.

The prince assigned to every one his
post. Marshal de Grammont was to hold
the extreme left, resting on Mericourt.
The Duc de Chatillon commanded the
centre. Finally, the prince led the
right wing, resting on Aunay. The order
of battle on the morrow was to be that
of the positions taken in the evening.
Each one, on awaking, would find himself
on the field of battle.

The movement was executed in silence and
with precision. At ten o'clock every one
was in his appointed position; at
half-past ten the prince visited the
posts and gave his final orders for the
following day.

Three things were especially urged upon
the officers, who were to see that the
soldiers observed them scrupulously: the
first, that the different corps should
so march that cavalry and infantry
should be on the same line and that each
body should protect its gaps; the
second, to go to the charge no faster
than a walk; the third, to let the enemy
fire first.

The prince assigned the Count de Guiche
to his father and kept Bragelonne near
his own person; but the two young men
sought the privilege of passing the
night together and it was accorded them.
A tent was erected for them near that of
the marshal.

Although the day had been fatiguing,
neither of them was inclined to sleep.
And besides, even for old soldiers the
evening before a battle is a serious
time; it was so with greater reason to
two young men who were about to witness
for the first time that terrible
spectacle. On the evening before a
battle one thinks of a thousand things
forgotten till then; those who are
indifferent to one another become
friends and those who are friends become
brothers. It need not be said that if in
the depths of the heart there is a
sentiment more tender, it reaches then,
quite naturally, the highest exaltation
of which it is capable. Some sentiment
of this kind must have been cherished by
each one of these two friends, for each
of them almost immediately sat down by
himself at an end of the tent and began
to write.

The letters were long -- the four pages
were covered with closely written words.
The writers sometimes looked up at each
other and smiled; they understood
without speaking, their organizations
were so delicate and sympathetic. The
letters being finished, each put his own
into two envelopes, so that no one,
without tearing the first envelope,
could discover to whom the second was
addressed; then they drew near to each
other and smilingly exchanged their
letters.

"In case any evil should happen to me,"
said Bragelonne.

"In case I should be killed," said De
Guiche.

They then embraced each other like two
brothers, and each wrapping himself in
his cloak they soon passed into that
kindly sleep of youth which is the
prerogative of birds, flowers and
infants.



35

A Dinner in the Old Style.



The second interview between the former
musketeers was not so formal and
threatening as the first. Athos, with
his superior understanding, wisely
deemed that the supper table would be
the most complete and satisfactory point
of reunion, and at the moment when his
friends, in deference to his deportment
and sobriety, dared scarcely speak of
some of their former good dinners, he
was the first to propose that they
should all assemble around some well
spread table and abandon themselves
unreservedly to their own natural
character and manners -- a freedom which
had formerly contributed so much to that
good understanding between them which
gave them the name of the inseparables.
For different reasons this was an
agreeable proposition to them all, and
it was therefore agreed that each should
leave a very exact address and that upon
the request of any of the associates a
meeting should be convoked at a famous
eating house in the Rue de la Monnaie,
of the sign of the Hermitage. The first
rendezvous was fixed for the following
Wednesday, at eight o'clock in the
evening precisely.

On that day, in fact, the four friends
arrived punctually at the hour, each
from his own abode or occupation.
Porthos had been trying a new horse;
D'Artagnan was on guard at the Louvre;
Aramis had been to visit one of his
penitents in the neighborhood; and
Athos, whose domicile was established in
the Rue Guenegaud, found himself close
at hand. They were, therefore, somewhat
surprised to meet altogether at the door
of the Hermitage, Athos starting out
from the Pont Neuf, Porthos by the Rue
de la Roule, D'Artagnan by the Rue des
Fosse Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, and
Aramis by the Rue de Bethisy.

The first words exchanged between the
four friends, on account of the ceremony
which each of them mingled with their
demonstration, were somewhat forced and
even the repast began with a kind of
stiffness. Athos perceived this
embarrassment, and by way of supplying
an effectual remedy, called for four
bottles of champagne.

At this order, given in Athos's
habitually calm manner, the face of the
Gascon relaxed and Porthos's brow grew
smooth. Aramis was astonished. He knew
that Athos not only never drank, but
more, that he had a kind of repugnance
to wine. This astonishment was doubled
when Aramis saw Athos fill a bumper and
toss it off with all his former
enthusiasm. His companions followed his
example. In a very few minutes the four
bottles were empty and this excellent
specific succeeded in dissipating even
the slightest cloud that might have
rested on their spirits. Now the four
friends began to speak loud, scarcely
waiting till one had finished before
another began, and each assumed his
favorite attitude on or at the table.
Soon -- strange fact -- Aramis undid two
buttons of his doublet, seeing which,
Porthos unfastened his entirely.

Battles, long journeys, blows given and
received, sufficed for the first themes
of conversation, which turned upon the
silent struggles sustained against him
who was now called the great cardinal.

"Faith," said Aramis, laughing, "we have
praised the dead enough, let us revile
the living a little; I should like to
say something evil of Mazarin; is it
permissible?"

"Go on, go on," replied D'Artagnan,
laughing heartily; "relate your story
and I will applaud it if it is a good
one."

"A great prince," said Aramis, "with
whom Mazarin sought an alliance, was
invited by him to send him a list of the
conditions on which he would do him the
honor to negotiate with him. The prince,
who had a great repugnance to treat with
such an ill-bred fellow, made out a
list, against the grain, and sent it. In
this list there were three conditions
which displeased Mazarin and he offered
the prince ten thousand crowns to
renounce them."

"Ah, ha, ha!" laughed the three friends,
"not a bad bargain; and there was no
fear of being taken at his word; what
did the prince do then?"

"The prince immediately sent fifty
thousand francs to Mazarin, begging him
never to write to him again, and offered
twenty thousand francs more, on
condition that he would never speak to
him. What did Mazarin do?"

"Stormed!" suggested Athos.

"Beat the messenger!" cried Porthos.

"Accepted the money!" said D'Artagnan.

"You have guessed it," answered Aramis;
and they all laughed so heartily that
the host appeared in order to inquire
whether the gentlemen wanted anything;
he thought they were fighting.

At last their hilarity calmed down and:

"Faith!" exclaimed D'Artagnan to the two
friends, "you may well wish ill to
Mazarin; for I assure you, on his side
he wishes you no good."

"Pooh! really?" asked Athos. "If I
thought the fellow knew me by my name I
would be rebaptized, for fear it might
be thought I knew him."

"He knows you better by your actions
than your name; he is quite aware that
there are two gentlemen who greatly
aided the escape of Monsieur de
Beaufort, and he has instigated an
active search for them, I can answer for
it."

"By whom?"

"By me; and this morning he sent for me
to ask me if I had obtained any
information."

"And what did you reply?"

"That I had none as yet; but that I was
to dine to-day with two gentlemen, who
would be able to give me some."

"You told him that?" said Porthos, a
broad smile spreading over his honest
face. "Bravo! and you are not afraid of
that, Athos?"

"No," replied Athos, "it is not the
search of Mazarin that I fear."

"Now," said Aramis, "tell me a little
what you do fear."

"Nothing for the present; at least,
nothing in good earnest."

"And with regard to the past?" asked
Porthos.

"Oh! the past is another thing," said
Athos, sighing; "the past and the
future."

"Are you afraid for your young Raoul?"
asked Aramis.

"Well," said D'Artagnan, "one is never
killed in a first engagement."

"Nor in the second," said Aramis

"Nor in the third," returned Porthos;
"and even when one is killed, one rises
again, the proof of which is, that here
we are!"

"No," said Athos, "it is not Raoul about
whom I am anxious, for I trust he will
conduct himself like a gentleman; and if
he is killed -- well, he will die
bravely; but hold -- should such a
misfortune happen -- well -- " Athos
passed his hand across his pale brow.

"Well?" asked Aramis.

"Well, I shall look upon it as an
expiation."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan; "I know what you
mean."

"And I, too," added Aramis; "but you
must not think of that, Athos; what is
past, is past."

"I don't understand," said Porthos.

"The affair at Armentieres," whispered
D'Artagnan.

"The affair at Armentieres?" asked he
again.

"Milady."

"Oh, yes!" said Porthos; "true, I had
forgotten it!"

Athos looked at him intently.

"You have forgotten it, Porthos?" said
he.

"Faith! yes, it is so long ago,"
answered Porthos.

"This affair does not, then, weigh upon
your conscience?"

"Faith, no."

"And you, D'Artagnan?"

"I -- I own that when my mind returns to
that terrible period I have no
recollection of anything but the rigid
corpse of poor Madame Bonancieux. Yes,
yes," murmured he, "I have often felt
regret for the victim, but never the
very slightest remorse for the
assassin."

Athos shook his dead doubtfully.

"Consider," said Aramis, "if you admit
divine justice and its participation in
the things of this world, that woman was
punished by the will of heaven. We were
but the instruments, that is all."

"But as to free will, Aramis?"

"How acts the judge? He has a free will,
yet he fearlessly condemns. What does
the executioner? He is master of his
arm, yet he strikes without remorse."

"The executioner!" muttered Athos, as if
arrested by some recollection.

"I know that it is terrible," said
D'Artagnan; "but when I reflect that we
have killed English, Rochellais,
Spaniards, nay, even French, who never
did us any other harm but to aim at and
to miss us, whose only fault was to
cross swords with us and to be unable to
ward off our blows -- I can, on my
honor, find an excuse for my share in
the murder of that woman."

"As for me," said Porthos, "now that you
have reminded me of it, Athos, I have
the scene again before me, as if I now
were there. Milady was there, as it
were, where you sit." (Athos changed
color.) "I -- I was where D'Artagnan
stands. I wore a long sword which cut
like a Damascus -- you remember it,
Aramis for you always called it
Balizarde. Well, I swear to you, all
three, that had the executioner of
Bethune -- was he not of Bethune? --
yes, egad! of Bethune! -- not been
there, I would have cut off the head of
that infamous being without thinking of
it, or even after thinking of it. She
was a most atrocious woman."

"And then," said Aramis, with the tone
of philosophical indifference which he
had assumed since he had belonged to the
church and in which there was more
atheism than confidence in God, "what is
the use of thinking of it all? At the
last hour we must confess this action
and God knows better than we can whether
it is a crime, a fault, or a meritorious
deed. I repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my
honor and by the holy cross; I only
regret it because she was a woman."

"The most satisfactory part of the
matter," said D'Artagnan, "is that there
remains no trace of it."

"She had a son," observed Athos.

"Oh! yes, I know that," said D'Artagnan,
"and you mentioned it to me; but who
knows what has become of him? If the
serpent be dead, why not its brood? Do
you think his uncle De Winter would have
brought up that young viper? De Winter
probably condemned the son as he had
done the mother."

"Then," said Athos, "woe to De Winter,
for the child had done no harm."

"May the devil take me, if the child be
not dead," said Porthos. "There is so
much fog in that detestable country, at
least so D'Artagnan declares."

Just as the quaint conclusion reached by
Porthos was about to bring back hilarity
to faces now more or less clouded, hasty
footsteps were heard upon the stair and
some one knocked at the door.

"Come in," cried Athos.

"Please your honors," said the host, "a
person in a great hurry wishes to speak
to one of you."

"To which of us?" asked all the four
friends.

"To him who is called the Comte de la
Fere."

"It is I," said Athos, "and what is the
name of the person?"

"Grimaud."

"Ah!" exclaimed Athos, turning pale.
"Back already! What can have happened,
then, to Bragelonne?"

"Let him enter," cried D'Artagnan; "let
him come up."

But Grimaud had already mounted the
staircase and was waiting on the last
step; so springing into the room he
motioned the host to leave it. The door
being closed, the four friends waited in
expectation. Grimaud's agitation, his
pallor, the sweat which covered his
face, the dust which soiled his clothes,
all indicated that he was the messenger
of some important and terrible news.

"Your honors," said he, "that woman had
a child; that child has become a man;
the tigress had a little one, the tiger
has roused himself; he is ready to
spring upon you -- beware!"

Athos glanced around at his friends with
a melancholy smile. Porthos turned to
look at his sword, which was hanging on
the wall; Aramis seized his knife;
D'Artagnan arose.

"What do you mean, Grimaud?" he
exclaimed.

"That Milady's son has left England,
that he is in France, on his road to
Paris, if he be not here already."

"The devil he is!" said Porthos. "Are
you sure of it?"

"Certain," replied Grimaud.

This announcement was received in
silence. Grimaud was so breathless, so
exhausted, that he had fallen back upon
a chair. Athos filled a beaker with
champagne and gave it to him.

"Well, after all," said D'Artagnan,
"supposing that he lives, that he comes
to Paris; we have seen many other such.
Let him come."

"Yes," echoed Porthos, glancing
affectionately at his sword, still
hanging on the wall; "we can wait for
him; let him come."

"Moreover, he is but a child," said
Aramis.

Grimaud rose.

"A child!" he exclaimed. "Do you know
what he has done, this child? Disguised
as a monk he discovered the whole
history in confession from the
executioner of Bethune, and having
confessed him, after having learned
everything from him, he gave him
absolution by planting this dagger into
his heart. See, it is on fire yet with
his hot blood, for it is not thirty
hours since it was drawn from the
wound."

And Grimaud threw the dagger on the
table.

D'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis rose and
in one spontaneous motion rushed to
their swords. Athos alone remained
seated, calm and thoughtful.

"And you say he is dressed as a monk,
Grimaud?"

"Yes, as an Augustine monk."

"What sized man is he?"

"About my height; thin, pale, with light
blue eyes and tawny flaxen hair."

"And he did not see Raoul?" asked Athos.

"Yes, on the contrary, they met, and it
was the viscount himself who conducted
him to the bed of the dying man."

Athos, in his turn, rising without
speaking, went and unhooked his sword.

"Heigh, sir," said D'Artagnan, trying to
laugh, "do you know we look very much
like a flock of silly, mouse-evading
women! How is it that we, four men who
have faced armies without blinking,
begin to tremble at the mention of a
child?"

"It is true," said Athos, "but this
child comes in the name of Heaven."

And very soon they left the inn.



36

A Letter from Charles the First.



The reader must now cross the Seine with
us and follow us to the door of the
Carmelite Convent in the Rue Saint
Jacques. It is eleven o'clock in the
morning and the pious sisters have just
finished saying mass for the success of
the armies of King Charles I. Leaving
the church, a woman and a young girl
dressed in black, the one as a widow and
the other as an orphan, have re-entered
their cell.

The woman kneels on a prie-dieu of
painted wood and at a short distance
from her stands the young girl, leaning
against a chair, weeping.

The woman must have once been handsome,
but traces of sorrow have aged her. The
young girl is lovely and her tears only
embellish her; the lady appears to be
about forty years of age, the girl about
fourteen.

"Oh, God!" prayed the kneeling
suppliant, "protect my husband, guard my
son, and take my wretched life instead!"

"Oh, God!" murmured the girl, "leave me
my mother!"

"Your mother can be of no use to you in
this world, Henrietta," said the lady,
turning around. "Your mother has no
longer either throne or husband; she has
neither son, money nor friends; the
whole world, my poor child, has
abandoned your mother!" And she fell
back, weeping, into her daughter's arms.

"Courage, take courage, my dear mother!"
said the girl.

"Ah! 'tis an unfortunate year for
kings," said the mother. "And no one
thinks of us in this country, for each
must think about his own affairs. As
long as your brother was with me he kept
me up; but he is gone and can no longer
send us news of himself, either to me or
to your father. I have pledged my last
jewels, sold your clothes and my own to
pay his servants, who refused to
accompany him unless I made this
sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at
the expense of these daughters of
Heaven; we are the poor, succored by
God."

"But why not address yourself to your
sister, the queen?" asked the girl.

"Alas! the queen, my sister, is no
longer queen, my child. Another reigns
in her name. One day you will be able to
understand how all this is."

"Well, then, to the king, your nephew.
Shall I speak to him? You know how much
he loves me, my mother.

"Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and
you know Laporte has told us twenty
times that he himself is in need of
almost everything."

"Then let us pray to Heaven," said the
girl.

The two women who thus knelt in united
prayer were the daughter and
grand-daughter of Henry IV., the wife
and daughter of Charles I.

They had just finished their double
prayer, when a nun softly tapped at the
door of the cell.

"Enter, my sister," said the queen.

"I trust your majesty will pardon this
intrusion on her meditations, but a
foreign lord has arrived from England
and waits in the parlor, demanding the
honor of presenting a letter to your
majesty."

"Oh, a letter! a letter from the king,
perhaps. News from your father, do you
hear, Henrietta? And the name of this
lord?"

"Lord de Winter."

"Lord de Winter!" exclaimed the queen,
"the friend of my husband. Oh, bid him
enter!"

And the queen advanced to meet the
messenger, whose hand she seized
affectionately, whilst he knelt down and
presented a letter to her, contained in
a case of gold.

"Ah! my lord!" said the queen, "you
bring us three things which we have not
seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted
friend, and a letter from the king, our
husband and master."

De Winter bowed again, unable to reply
from excess of emotion.

On their side the mother and daughter
retired into the embrasure of a window
to read eagerly the following letter:



Dear Wife, -- We have now reached the
moment of decision. I have concentrated
here at Naseby camp all the resources
Heaven has left me, and I write to you
in haste from thence. Here I await the
army of my rebellious subjects. I am
about to struggle for the last time with
them. If victorious, I shall continue
the struggle; if beaten, I am lost. I
shall try, in the latter case (alas! in
our position, one must provide for
everything), I shall try to gain the
coast of France. But can they, will they
receive an unhappy king, who will bring
such a sad story into a country already
agitated by civil discord? Your wisdom
and your affection must serve me as
guides. The bearer of this letter will
tell you, madame, what I dare not trust
to pen and paper and the risks of
transit. He will explain to you the
steps that I expect you to pursue. I
charge him also with my blessing for my
children and with the sentiments of my
soul for yourself, my dearest
sweetheart."



The letter bore the signature, not of
"Charles, King," but of "Charles --
still king."

"And let him be no longer king," cried
the queen. "Let him be conquered,
exiled, proscribed, provided he still
lives. Alas! in these days the throne is
too dangerous a place for me to wish him
to retain it. But my lord, tell me," she
continued, "hide nothing from me -- what
is, in truth, the king's position? Is it
as hopeless as he thinks?"

"Alas! madame, more hopeless than he
thinks. His majesty has so good a heart
that he cannot understand hatred; is so
loyal that he does not suspect treason!
England is torn in twain by a spirit of
disturbance which, I greatly fear, blood
alone can exorcise."

"But Lord Montrose," replied the queen,
"I have heard of his great and rapid
successes of battles gained. I heard it
said that he was marching to the
frontier to join the king."

"Yes, madame; but on the frontier he was
met by Lesly; he had tried victory by
means of superhuman undertakings. Now
victory has abandoned him. Montrose,
beaten at Philiphaugh, was obliged to
disperse the remains of his army and to
fly, disguised as a servant. He is at
Bergen, in Norway."

"Heaven preserve him!" said the queen.
"It is at least a consolation to know
that some who have so often risked their
lives for us are safe. And now, my lord,
that I see how hopeless the position of
the king is, tell me with what you are
charged on the part of my royal
husband."

"Well, then, madame," said De Winter,
"the king wishes you to try and discover
the dispositions of the king and queen
toward him."

"Alas! you know that even now the king
is but a child and the queen a woman
weak enough. Here, Monsieur Mazarin is
everything."

"Does he desire to play the part in
France that Cromwell plays in England?"

"Oh, no! He is a subtle, conscienceless
Italian, who though he very likely
dreams of crime, dares not commit it;
and unlike Cromwell, who disposes of
both Houses, Mazarin has had the queen
to support him in his struggle with the
parliament."

"More reason, then, he should protect a
king pursued by parliament."

The queen shook her head despairingly.

"If I judge for myself, my lord," she
said, "the cardinal will do nothing, and
will even, perhaps, act against us. The
presence of my daughter and myself in
France is already irksome to him; much
more so would be that of the king. My
lord," added Henrietta, with a
melancholy smile, "it is sad and almost
shameful to be obliged to say that we
have passed the winter in the Louvre
without money, without linen, almost
without bread, and often not rising from
bed because we wanted fire."

"Horrible!" cried De Winter; "the
daughter of Henry IV., and the wife of
King Charles! Wherefore did you not
apply, then, madame, to the first person
you saw from us?"

"Such is the hospitality shown to a
queen by the minister from whom a king
demands it."

"But I heard that a marriage between the
Prince of Wales and Mademoiselle
d'Orleans was spoken of," said De
Winter.

"Yes, for an instant I hoped it was so.
The young people felt a mutual esteem;
but the queen, who at first sanctioned
their affection, changed her mind, and
Monsieur, the Duc d'Orleans, who had
encouraged the familiarity between them,
has forbidden his daughter to think any
more about the union. Oh, my lord!"
continued the queen, without restraining
her tears, "it is better to fight as the
king has done, and to die, as perhaps he
will, than live in beggary like me."

"Courage, madame! courage! Do not
despair! The interests of the French
crown, endangered at this moment, are to
discountenance rebellion in a
neighboring nation. Mazarin, as a
statesman, will understand the politic
necessity."

"Are you sure," said the queen
doubtfully, "that you have not been
forestalled?"

"By whom?"

"By the Joices, the Prinns, the
Cromwells?"

"By a tailor, a coachmaker, a brewer!
Ah! I hope, madame, that the cardinal
will not enter into negotiations with
such men!"

"Ah! what is he himself?" asked Madame
Henrietta.

"But for the honor of the king -- of the
queen."

"Well, let us hope he will do something
for the sake of their honor," said the
queen. "A true friend's eloquence is so
powerful, my lord, that you have
reassured me. Give me your hand and let
us go to the minister; and yet," she
added, "suppose he should refuse and
that the king loses the battle?"

"His majesty will then take refuge in
Holland, where I hear his highness the
Prince of Wales now is."

"And can his majesty count upon many
such subjects as yourself for his
flight?"

"Alas! no, madame," answered De Winter;
"but the case is provided for and I am
come to France to seek allies."

"Allies!" said the queen, shaking her
head.

"Madame," replied De Winter, "provided I
can find some of my good old friends of
former times I will answer for
anything."

"Come then, my lord," said the queen,
with the painful doubt that is felt by
those who have suffered much; "come, and
may Heaven hear you."



37

Cromwell's Letter.



At the very moment when the queen
quitted the convent to go to the Palais
Royal, a young man dismounted at the
gate of this royal abode and announced
to the guards that he had something of
importance to communicate to Cardinal
Mazarin. Although the cardinal was often
tormented by fear, he was more often in
need of counsel and information, and he
was therefore sufficiently accessible.
The true difficulty of being admitted
was not to be found at the first door,
and even the second was passed easily
enough; but at the third watched,
besides the guard and the doorkeepers,
the faithful Bernouin, a Cerberus whom
no speech could soften, no wand, even of
gold, could charm.

It was therefore at the third door that
those who solicited or were bidden to an
audience underwent their formal
interrogatory.

The young man having left his horse tied
to the gate in the court, mounted the
great staircase and addressed the guard
in the first chamber.

"Cardinal Mazarin?" said he.

"Pass on," replied the guard.

The cavalier entered the second hall,
which was guarded by the musketeers and
doorkeepers.

"Have you a letter of audience?" asked a
porter, advancing to the new arrival.

"I have one, but not one from Cardinal
Mazarin."

"Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin,"
said the porter, opening the door of the
third room. Whether he only held his
usual post or whether it was by
accident, Monsieur Bernouin was found
standing behind the door and must have
heard all that had passed.

"You seek me, sir," said he. "From whom
may the letter be you bear to his
eminence?"

"From General Oliver Cromwell," said the
new comer. "Be so good as to mention
this name to his eminence and to bring
me word whether he will receive me --
yes or no."

Saying which, he resumed the proud and
sombre bearing peculiar at that time to
Puritans. Bernouin cast an inquisitorial
glance at the person of the young man
and entered the cabinet of the cardinal,
to whom he transmitted the messenger's
words.

"A man bringing a letter from Oliver
Cromwell?" said Mazarin. "And what kind
of a man?"

"A genuine Englishman, your eminence.
Hair sandy-red -- more red than sandy;
gray-blue eyes -- more gray than blue;
and for the rest, stiff and proud."

"Let him give in his letter."

"His eminence asks for the letter," said
Bernouin, passing back into the
ante-chamber.

"His eminence cannot see the letter
without the bearer of it," replied the
young man; "but to convince you that I
am really the bearer of a letter, see,
here it is; and kindly add," continued
he, "that I am not a simple messenger,
but an envoy extraordinary."

Bernouin re-entered the cabinet,
returning in a few seconds. "Enter,
sir," said he.

The young man appeared on the threshold
of the minister's closet, in one hand
holding his hat, in the other the
letter. Mazarin rose. "Have you, sir,"
asked he, "a letter accrediting you to
me?"

"There it is, my lord," said the young
man.

Mazarin took the letter and read it
thus:



"Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries,
will remit this letter of introduction
to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin,
in Paris. He is also the bearer of a
second confidential epistle for his
eminence.

"Oliver Cromwell.



"Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt," said
Mazarin, "give me this second letter and
sit down."

The young man drew from his pocket a
second letter, presented it to the
cardinal, and took his seat. The
cardinal, however, did not unseal the
letter at once, but continued to turn it
again and again in his hand; then, in
accordance with his usual custom and
judging from experience that few people
could hide anything from him when he
began to question them, fixing his eyes
upon them at the same time, he thus
addressed the messenger:

"You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt,
for this difficult task of ambassador,
in which the oldest diplomatists often
fail."

"My lord, I am twenty-three years of
age; but your eminence is mistaken in
saying that I am young. I am older than
your eminence, although I possess not
your wisdom. Years of suffering, in my
opinion, count double, and I have
suffered for twenty years."

"Ah, yes, I understand," said Mazarin;
"want of fortune, perhaps. You are poor,
are you not?" Then he added to himself:
"These English Revolutionists are all
beggars and ill-bred."

"My lord, I ought to have a fortune of
six millions, but it has been taken from
me."

"You are not, then, a man of the
people?" said Mazarin, astonished.

"If I bore my proper title I should be a
lord. If I bore my name you would have
heard one of the most illustrious names
of England."

"What is your name, then?" asked
Mazarin.

"My name is Mordaunt," replied the young
man, bowing.

Mazarin now understood that Cromwell's
envoy desired to retain his incognito.
He was silent for an instant, and during
that time he scanned the young man even
more attentively than he had done at
first. The messenger was unmoved.

"Devil take these Puritans," said
Mazarin aside; "they are carved from
granite." Then he added aloud, "But you
have relations left you?"

"I have one remaining. Three times I
presented myself to ask his support and
three times he ordered his servants to
turn me away."

"Oh, mon Dieu! my dear Mr. Mordaunt,"
said Mazarin, hoping by a display of
affected pity to catch the young man in
a snare, "how extremely your history
interests me! You know not, then,
anything of your birth -- you have never
seen your mother?"

"Yes, my lord; she came three times,
whilst I was a child, to my nurse's
house; I remember the last time she came
as well as if it were to-day."

"You have a good memory," said Mazarin.

"Oh! yes, my lord," said the young man,
with such peculiar emphasis that the
cardinal felt a shudder run through
every vein.

"And who brought you up?" he asked
again.

"A French nurse, who sent me away when I
was five years old because no one paid
her for me, telling me the name of a
relation of whom she had heard my mother
often speak."

"What became of you?"

"As I was weeping and begging on the
high road, a minister from Kingston took
me in, instructed me in the Calvinistic
faith, taught me all he knew himself and
aided me in my researches after my
family."

"And these researches?"

"Were fruitless; chance did everything."

"You discovered what had become of your
mother?"

"I learned that she had been
assassinated by my relation, aided by
four friends, but I was already aware
that I had been robbed of my wealth and
degraded from my nobility by King
Charles I."

"Oh! I now understand why you are in the
service of Cromwell; you hate the king."

"Yes, my lord, I hate him!" said the
young man.

Mazarin marked with surprise the
diabolical expression with which the
young man uttered these words. Just as,
ordinarily, faces are colored by blood,
his face seemed dyed by hatred and
became livid.

"Your history is a terrible one, Mr.
Mordaunt, and touches me keenly; but
happily for you, you serve an
all-powerful master; he ought to aid you
in your search; we have so many means of
gaining information."

"My lord, to a well-bred dog it is only
necessary to show one end of a track; he
is certain to reach the other."

"But this relation you mentioned -- do
you wish me to speak to him?" said
Mazarin, who was anxious to make a
friend about Cromwell's person.

"Thanks, my lord, I will speak to him
myself. He will treat me better the next
time I see him."

"You have the means, then, of touching
him?"

"I have the means of making myself
feared."

Mazarin looked at the young man, but at
the fire which shot from his glance he
bent his head; then, embarrassed how to
continue such a conversation, he opened
Cromwell's letter.

The young man's eyes gradually resumed
their dull and glassy appearance and he
fell into a profound reverie. After
reading the first lines of the letter
Mazarin gave a side glance at him to see
if he was watching the expression of his
face as he read. Observing his
indifference, he shrugged his shoulders,
saying:

"Send on your business those who do
theirs at the same time! Let us see what
this letter contains."

We here present the letter verbatim:



"To his Eminence, Monseigneur le
Cardinal Mazarini:

"I have wished, monseigneur, to learn
your intentions relating to the existing
state of affairs in England. The two
kingdoms are so near that France must be
interested in our situation, as we are
interested in that of France. The
English are almost of one mind in
contending against the tyranny of
Charles and his adherents. Placed by
popular confidence at the head of that
movement, I can appreciate better than
any other its significance and its
probable results. I am at present in the
midst of war, and am about to deliver a
decisive battle against King Charles. I
shall gain it, for the hope of the
nation and the Spirit of the Lord are
with me. This battle won by me, the king
will have no further resources in
England or in Scotland; and if he is not
captured or killed, he will endeavor to
pass over into France to recruit
soldiers and to refurnish himself with
arms and money. France has already
received Queen Henrietta, and,
unintentionally, doubtless, has
maintained a centre of inextinguishable
civil war in my country. But Madame
Henrietta is a daughter of France and
was entitled to the hospitality of
France. As to King Charles, the question
must be viewed differently; in receiving
and aiding him, France will censure the
acts of the English nation, and thus so
essentially harm England, and especially
the well-being of the government, that
such a proceeding will be equivalent to
pronounced hostilities."



At this moment Mazarin became very
uneasy at the turn which the letter was
taking and paused to glance under his
eyes at the young man. The latter
continued in thought. Mazarin resumed
his reading:



"It is important, therefore,
monseigneur, that I should be informed
as to the intentions of France. The
interests of that kingdom and those of
England, though taking now diverse
directions, are very nearly the same.
England needs tranquillity at home, in
order to consummate the expulsion of her
king; France needs tranquillity to
establish on solid foundations the
throne of her young monarch. You need,
as much as we do, that interior
condition of repose which, thanks to the
energy of our government, we are about
to attain.

"Your quarrels with the parliament, your
noisy dissensions with the princes, who
fight for you to-day and to-morrow will
fight against you, the popular following
directed by the coadjutor, President
Blancmesnil, and Councillor Broussel --
all that disorder, in short, which
pervades the several departments of the
state, must lead you to view with
uneasiness the possibility of a foreign
war; for in that event England, exalted
by the enthusiasm of new ideas, will
ally herself with Spain, already seeking
that alliance. I have therefore
believed, monseigneur, knowing your
prudence and your personal relation to
the events of the present time, that you
will choose to hold your forces
concentrated in the interior of the
French kingdom and leave to her own the
new government of England. That
neutrality consists simply in excluding
King Charles from the territory of
France and in refraining from helping
him -- a stranger to your country --
with arms, with money or with troops.

"My letter is private and confidential,
and for that reason I send it to you by
a man who shares my most intimate
counsels. It anticipates, through a
sentiment which your eminence will
appreciate, measures to be taken after
the events. Oliver Cromwell considered
it more expedient to declare himself to
a mind as intelligent as Mazarin's than
to a queen admirable for firmness,
without doubt, but too much guided by
vain prejudices of birth and of divine
right.

"Farewell, monseigneur; should I not
receive a reply in the space of fifteen
days, I shall presume my letter will
have miscarried.

"Oliver Cromwell."



"Mr. Mordaunt," said the cardinal,
raising his voice, as if to arouse the
dreamer, "my reply to this letter will
be more satisfactory to General Cromwell
if I am convinced that all are ignorant
of my having given one; go, therefore,
and await it at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and
promise me to set out to-morrow
morning."

"I promise, my lord," replied Mordaunt;
"but how many days does your eminence
expect me to await your reply?"

"If you do not receive it in ten days
you can leave."

Mordaunt bowed.

"That is not all, sir," continued
Mazarin; "your private adventures have
touched me to the quick; besides, the
letter from Mr. Cromwell makes you an
important person as ambassador; come,
tell me, what can I do for you?"

Mordaunt reflected a moment and, after
some hesitation, was about to speak,
when Bernouin entered hastily and
bending down to the ear of the cardinal,
whispered:

"My lord, the Queen Henrietta Maria,
accompanied by an English noble, is
entering the Palais Royal at this
moment."

Mazarin made a bound from his chair,
which did not escape the attention of
the young man and suppressed the
confidence he was about to make.

"Sir," said the cardinal, "you have
heard me? I fix on Boulogne because I
presume that every town in France is
indifferent to you; if you prefer
another, name it; but you can easily
conceive that, surrounded as I am by
influences I can only muzzle by
discretion, I desire your presence in
Paris to be unknown."

"I go, sir," said Mordaunt, advancing a
few steps to the door by which he had
entered.

"No, not that way, I beg, sir," quickly
exclaimed the cardinal, "be so good as
to pass by yonder gallery, by which you
can regain the hall. I do not wish you
to be seen leaving; our interview must
be kept secret."

Mordaunt followed Bernouin, who led him
through the adjacent chamber and left
him with a doorkeeper, showing him the
way out.



38

Henrietta Maria and Mazarin.



The cardinal rose, and advanced in haste
to receive the queen of England. He
showed the more respect to this queen,
deprived of every mark of pomp and
stripped of followers, as he felt some
self-reproach for his own want of heart
and his avarice. But supplicants for
favor know how to accommodate the
expression of their features, and the
daughter of Henry IV. smiled as she
advanced to meet a man she hated and
despised.

"Ah!" said Mazarin to himself, "what a
sweet face; does she come to borrow
money of me?"

And he threw an uneasy glance at his
strong box; he even turned inside the
bevel of the magnificent diamond ring,
the brilliancy of which drew every eye
upon his hand, which indeed was white
and handsome.

"Your eminence," said the august
visitor, "it was my first intention to
speak of the matters that have brought
me here to the queen, my sister, but I
have reflected that political affairs
are more especially the concern of men."

"Madame," said Mazarin, "your majesty
overwhelms me with flattering
distinction."

"He is very gracious," thought the
queen; "can he have guessed my errand?"

"Give," continued the cardinal, "your
commands to the most respectful of your
servants."

"Alas, sir," replied the queen, "I have
lost the habit of commanding and have
adopted instead that of making
petitions. I am here to petition you,
too happy should my prayer be favorably
heard."

"I am listening, madame, with the
greatest interest," said Mazarin.

"Your eminence, it concerns the war
which the king, my husband, is now
sustaining against his rebellious
subjects. You are perhaps ignorant that
they are fighting in England," added
she, with a melancholy smile, "and that
in a short time they will fight in a
much more decided fashion than they have
done hitherto."

"I am completely ignorant of it,
madame," said the cardinal, accompanying
his words with a slight shrug of the
shoulders; "alas, our own wars quite
absorb the time and the mind of a poor,
incapable, infirm old minister like me."

"Well, then, your eminence," said the
queen, "I must inform you that Charles
I., my husband, is on the eve of a
decisive engagement. In case of a check"
(Mazarin made a slight movement), "one
must foresee everything; in the case of
a check, he desires to retire into
France and to live here as a private
individual. What do you say to this
project?"

The cardinal had listened without
permitting a single fibre of his face to
betray what he felt, and his smile
remained as it ever was -- false and
flattering; and when the queen finished
speaking, he said:

"Do you think, madame, that France,
agitated and disturbed as it is, would
be a safe retreat for a dethroned king?
How will the crown, which is scarce
firmly set on the head of Louis XIV.,
support a double weight?"

"The weight was not so heavy when I was
in peril," interrupted the queen, with a
sad smile, "and I ask no more for my
husband than has been done for me; you
see that we are very humble monarchs,
sir."

"Oh, you, madame," the cardinal hastened
to say, in order to cut short the
explanation he foresaw was coming, "with
regard to you, that is another thing. A
daughter of Henry IV., of that great,
that sublime sovereign ---- "

"All which does not prevent you refusing
hospitality to his son-in-law, sir!
Nevertheless, you ought to remember that
that great, that sublime monarch, when
proscribed at one time, as my husband
may be, demanded aid from England and
England accorded it to him; and it is
but just to say that Queen Elizabeth was
not his niece."

"Peccato!" said Mazarin, writhing
beneath this simple eloquence, "your
majesty does not understand me; you
judge my intentions wrongly, and that is
partly because, doubtless, I explain
myself in French."

"Speak Italian, sir. Ere the cardinal,
your predecessor, sent our mother, Marie
de Medicis, to die in exile, she taught
us that language. If anything yet
remains of that great, that sublime
king, Henry, of whom you have just
spoken, he would be much surprised at so
little pity for his family being united
to such a profound admiration of
himself."

The perspiration stood in large drops on
Mazarin's brow.

"That admiration is, on the contrary, so
great, so real, madame," returned
Mazarin, without noticing the change of
language offered to him by the queen,
"that if the king, Charles I. -- whom
Heaven protect from evil! -- came into
France, I would offer him my house -- my
own house; but, alas! it would be but an
unsafe retreat. Some day the people will
burn that house, as they burned that of
the Marechal d'Ancre. Poor Concino
Concini! And yet he but desired the good
of the people."

"Yes, my lord, like yourself!" said the
queen, ironically.

Mazarin pretended not to understand the
double meaning of his own sentence, but
continued to compassionate the fate of
Concino Concini.

"Well then, your eminence," said the
queen, becoming impatient, "what is your
answer?"

"Madame," cried Mazarin, more and more
moved, "will your majesty permit me to
give you counsel?"

"Speak, sir," replied the queen; "the
counsels of so prudent a man as yourself
ought certainly to be available."

"Madame, believe me, the king ought to
defend himself to the last."

"He has done so, sir, and this last
battle, which he encounters with
resources much inferior to those of the
enemy, proves that he will not yield
without a struggle; but in case he is
beaten?"

"Well, madame, in that case, my
advice -- I know that I am very bold to
offer advice to your majesty -- my
advice is that the king should not leave
his kingdom. Absent kings are very soon
forgotten; if he passes over into France
his cause is lost."

"But," persisted the queen, "if such be
your advice and you have his interest at
heart, send him help of men and money,
for I can do nothing for him; I have
sold even to my last diamond to aid him.
If I had had a single ornament left, I
should have bought wood this winter to
make a fire for my daughter and myself."

"Oh, madame," said Mazarin, "your
majesty knows not what you ask. On the
day when foreign succor follows in the
train of a king to replace him on his
throne, it is an avowal that he no
longer possesses the help and love of
his own subjects."

"To the point, sir," said the queen, "to
the point, and answer me, yes or no; if
the king persists in remaining in
England will you send him succor? If he
comes to France will you accord him
hospitality? What do you intend to do?
Speak."

"Madame," said the cardinal, affecting
an effusive frankness of speech, "I
shall convince your majesty, I trust, of
my devotion to you and my desire to
terminate an affair which you have so
much at heart. After which your majesty
will, I think, no longer doubt my zeal
in your behalf."

The queen bit her lips and moved
impatiently on her chair.

"Well, what do you propose to do?" she,
said at length; "come, speak."

"I will go this instant and consult the
queen, and we will refer the affair at
once to parliament."

"With which you are at war -- is it not
so? You will charge Broussel to report
it. Enough, sir, enough. I understand
you or rather, I am wrong. Go to the
parliament, for it was from this
parliament, the enemy of monarchs, that
the daughter of the great, the sublime
Henry IV., whom you so much admire,
received the only relief this winter
which prevented her from dying of hunger
and cold!"

And with these words Henrietta rose in
majestic indignation, whilst the
cardinal, raising his hands clasped
toward her, exclaimed, "Ah, madame,
madame, how little you know me, mon
Dieu!"

But Queen Henrietta, without even
turning toward him who made these
hypocritical pretensions, crossed the
cabinet, opened the door for herself and
passing through the midst of the
cardinal's numerous guards, courtiers
eager to pay homage, the luxurious show
of a competing royalty, she went and
took the hand of De Winter, who stood
apart in isolation. Poor queen, already
fallen! Though all bowed before her, as
etiquette required, she had now but a
single arm on which she could lean.

"It signifies little," said Mazarin,
when he was alone. "It gave me pain and
it was an ungracious part to play, but I
have said nothing either to the one or
to the other. Bernouin!"

Bernouin entered.

"See if the young man with the black
doublet and the short hair, who was with
me just now, is still in the palace."

Bernouin went out and soon returned with
Comminges, who was on guard.

"Your eminence," said Comminges, "as I
was re-conducting the young man for whom
you have asked, he approached the glass
door of the gallery, and gazed intently
upon some object, doubtless the picture
by Raphael, which is opposite the door.
He reflected for a second and then
descended the stairs. I believe I saw
him mount a gray horse and leave the
palace court. But is not your eminence
going to the queen?"

"For what purpose?"

"Monsieur de Guitant, my uncle, has just
told me that her majesty had received
news of the army."

"It is well; I will go."

Comminges had seen rightly, and Mordaunt
had really acted as he had related. In
crossing the gallery parallel to the
large glass gallery, he perceived De
Winter, who was waiting until the queen
had finished her negotiation.

At this sight the young man stopped
short, not in admiration of Raphael's
picture, but as if fascinated at the
sight of some terrible object. His eyes
dilated and a shudder ran through his
body. One would have said that he longed
to break through the wall of glass which
separated him from his enemy; for if
Comminges had seen with what an
expression of hatred the eyes of this
young man were fixed upon De Winter, he
would not have doubted for an instant
that the Englishman was his eternal foe.

But he stopped, doubtless to reflect;
for instead of allowing his first
impulse, which had been to go straight
to Lord de Winter, to carry him away, he
leisurely descended the staircase, left
the palace with his head down, mounted
his horse, which he reined in at the
corner of the Rue Richelieu, and with
his eyes fixed on the gate, waited until
the queen's carriage had left the court.

He had not long to wait, for the queen
scarcely remained a quarter of an hour
with Mazarin, but this quarter of an
hour of expectation appeared a century
to him. At last the heavy machine, which
was called a chariot in those days, came
out, rumbling against the gates, and De
Winter, still on horseback, bent again
to the door to converse with her
majesty.

The horses started on a trot and took
the road to the Louvre, which they
entered. Before leaving the convent of
the Carmelites, Henrietta had desired
her daughter to attend her at the
palace, which she had inhabited for a
long time and which she had only left
because their poverty seemed to them
more difficult to bear in gilded
chambers.

Mordaunt followed the carriage, and when
he had watched it drive beneath the
sombre arches he went and stationed
himself under a wall over which the
shadow was extended, and remained
motionless, amidst the moldings of Jean
Goujon, like a bas-relievo, representing
an equestrian statue.



39

How, sometimes, the Unhappy mistake
Chance for Providence.



"Well, madame," said De Winter, when the
queen had dismissed her attendants.

"Well, my lord, what I foresaw has come
to pass."

"What? does the cardinal refuse to
receive the king? France refuse
hospitality to an unfortunate prince?
Ay, but it is for the first time,
madame!"

"I did not say France, my lord; I said
the cardinal, and the cardinal is not
even a Frenchman."

"But did you see the queen?"

"It is useless," replied Henrietta, "the
queen will not say yes when the cardinal
says no. Are you not aware that this
Italian directs everything, both indoors
and out? And moreover, I should not be
surprised had we been forestalled by
Cromwell. He was embarrassed whilst
speaking to me and yet quite firm in his
determination to refuse. Then did you
not observe the agitation in the Palais
Royal, the passing to and fro of busy
people? Can they have received any news,
my lord?"

"Not from England, madame. I made such
haste that I am certain of not having
been forestalled. I set out three days
ago, passing miraculously through the
Puritan army, and I took post horses
with my servant Tony; the horses upon
which we were mounted were bought in
Paris. Besides, the king, I am certain,
awaits your majesty's reply before
risking anything."

"You will tell him, my lord," resumed
the queen, despairingly, "that I can do
nothing; that I have suffered as much as
himself -- more than he has -- obliged
as I am to eat the bread of exile and to
ask hospitality from false friends who
smile at my tears; and as regards his
royal person, he must sacrifice it
generously and die like a king. I shall
go and die by his side."

"Madame, madame," exclaimed De Winter,
"your majesty abandons yourself to
despair; and yet, perhaps, there still
remains some hope."

"No friends left, my lord; no other
friends left in the wide world but
yourself! Oh, God!" exclaimed the poor
queen, raising her eyes to Heaven, "have
You indeed taken back all the generous
hearts that once existed in the world?"

"I hope not, madame," replied De Winter,
thoughtfully; "I once spoke to you of
four men."

"What can be done with four?"

"Four devoted, resolute men can do much,
assure yourself, madame; and those of
whom I speak performed great things at
one time."

"And where are these four men?"

"Ah, that is what I do not know. It is
twenty years since I saw them, and yet
whenever I have seen the king in danger
I have thought of them."

"And these men were your friends?"

"One of them held my life in his hands
and gave it to me. I know not whether he
is still my friend, but since that time
I have remained his."

"And these men are in France, my lord?"

"I believe so."

"Tell me their names; perhaps I may have
heard them mentioned and might be able
to aid you in finding them."

"One of them was called the Chevalier
d'Artagnan."

"Ah, my lord, if I mistake not, the
Chevalier d'Artagnan is lieutenant of
royal guards; but take care, for I fear
that this man is entirely devoted to the
cardinal."

"That would be a misfortune," said De
Winter, "and I shall begin to think that
we are really doomed."

"But the others," said the queen, who
clung to this last hope as a shipwrecked
man clings to the hull of his vessel.
"The others, my lord!"

"The second -- I heard his name by
chance; for before fighting us, these
four gentlemen told us their names; the
second was called the Comte de la Fere.
As for the two others, I had so much the
habit of calling them by nicknames that
I have forgotten their real ones."

"Oh, mon Dieu, it is a matter of the
greatest urgency to find them out," said
the queen, "since you think these worthy
gentlemen might be so useful to the
king."

"Oh, yes," said De Winter, "for they are
the same men. Listen, madame, and recall
your remembrances. Have you never heard
that Queen Anne of Austria was once
saved from the greatest danger ever
incurred by a queen?"

"Yes, at the time of her relations with
Monsieur de Buckingham; it had to do in
some way with certain studs and
diamonds."

"Well, it was that affair, madame; these
men are the ones who saved her; and I
smile with pity when I reflect that if
the names of those gentlemen are unknown
to you it is because the queen has
forgotten them, who ought to have made
them the first noblemen of the realm."

"Well, then, my lord, they must be
found; but what can four men, or rather
three men do -- for I tell you, you must
not count on Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"It will be one valiant sword the less,
but there will remain still three,
without reckoning my own; now four
devoted men around the king to protect
him from his enemies, to be at his side
in battle, to aid him with counsel, to
escort him in flight, are sufficient,
not to make the king a conqueror, but to
save him if conquered; and whatever
Mazarin may say, once on the shores of
France your royal husband may find as
many retreats and asylums as the seabird
finds in a storm."

"Seek, then, my lord, seek these
gentlemen; and if they will consent to
go with you to England, I will give to
each a duchy the day that we reascend
the throne, besides as much gold as
would pave Whitehall. Seek them, my
lord, and find them, I conjure you."

"I will search for them, madame," said
De Winter "and doubtless I shall find
them; but time fails me. Has your
majesty forgotten that the king expects
your reply and awaits it in agony?"

"Then indeed we are lost!" cried the
queen, in the fullness of a broken
heart.

At this moment the door opened and the
young Henrietta appeared; then the
queen, with that wonderful strength
which is the privilege of parents,
repressed her tears and motioned to De
Winter to change the subject.

But that act of self-control, effective
as it was, did not escape the eyes of
the young princess. She stopped on the
threshold, breathed a sigh, and
addressing the queen:

"Why, then, do you always weep, mother,
when I am away from you?" she said.

The queen smiled, but instead of
answering:

"See, De Winter," she said, "I have at
least gained one thing in being only
half a queen; and that is that my
children call me `mother' instead of
`madame.'"

Then turning toward her daughter:

"What do you want, Henrietta?" she
demanded.

"My mother," replied the young princess,
"a cavalier has just entered the Louvre
and wishes to present his respects to
your majesty; he arrives from the army
and has, he says, a letter to remit to
you, on the part of the Marechal de
Grammont, I think."

"Ah!" said the queen to De Winter, "he
is one of my faithful adherents; but do
you not observe, my dear lord, that we
are so poorly served that it is left to
my daughter to fill the office of
doorkeeper?"

"Madame, have pity on me," exclaimed De
Winter; "you wring my heart!"

"And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?"
asked the queen.

"I saw him from the window, madame; he
is a young man that appears scarce
sixteen years of age, and is called the
Viscount de Bragelonne."

The queen, smiling, made a sign with her
head; the young princess opened the door
and Raoul appeared on the threshold.

Advancing a few steps toward the queen,
he knelt down.

"Madame," said he, "I bear to your
majesty a letter from my friend the
Count de Guiche, who told me he had the
honor of being your servant; this letter
contains important news and the
expression of his respect."

At the name of the Count de Guiche a
blush spread over the cheeks of the
young princess and the queen glanced at
her with some degree of severity.

"You told me that the letter was from
the Marechal de Grammont, Henrietta!"
said the queen.

"I thought so, madame," stammered the
young girl.

"It is my fault, madame," said Raoul. "I
did announce myself, in truth, as coming
on the part of the Marechal de Grammont;
but being wounded in the right arm he
was unable to write and therefore the
Count de Guiche acted as his secretary."

"There has been fighting, then?" asked
the queen, motioning to Raoul to rise.

"Yes, madame," said the young man.

At this announcement of a battle having
taken place, the princess opened her
mouth as though to ask a question of
interest; but her lips closed again
without articulating a word, while the
color gradually faded from her cheeks.

The queen saw this, and doubtless her
maternal heart translated the emotion,
for addressing Raoul again:

"And no evil has happened to the young
Count de Guiche?" she asked; "for not
only is he our servant, as you say, sir,
but more -- he is one of our friends."

"No, madame," replied Raoul; "on the
contrary, he gained great glory and had
the honor of being embraced by his
highness, the prince, on the field of
battle."

The young princess clapped her hands;
and then, ashamed of having been
betrayed into such a demonstration of
joy, she half turned away and bent over
a vase of roses, as if to inhale their
odor.

"Let us see," said the queen, "what the
count says." And she opened the letter
and read:



"Madame, -- Being unable to have the
honor of writing to you myself, by
reason of a wound I have received in my
right hand, I have commanded my son, the
Count de Guiche, who, with his father,
is equally your humble servant, to write
to tell you that we have just gained the
battle of Lens, and that this victory
cannot fail to give great power to
Cardinal Mazarin and to the queen over
the affairs of Europe. If her majesty
will have faith in my counsels she ought
to profit by this event to address at
this moment, in favor of her august
husband, the court of France. The
Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the
honor of remitting this letter to your
majesty, is the friend of my son, who
owes to him his life; he is a gentleman
in whom your majesty may confide
entirely, in case your majesty may have
some verbal or written order to remit to
me.

"I have the honor to be, with respect,
etc.,

"Marechal de Grammont."



At the moment mention occurred of his
having rendered a service to the count,
Raoul could not help turning his glance
toward the young princess, and then he
saw in her eyes an expression of
infinite gratitude to the young man; he
no longer doubted that the daughter of
King Charles I. loved his friend.

"The battle of Lens gained!" said the
queen; "they are lucky here indeed; they
can gain battles! Yes, the Marechal de
Grammont is right; this will change the
aspect of French affairs, but I much
fear it will do nothing for English,
even if it does not harm them. This is
recent news, sir," continued she, "and I
thank you for having made such haste to
bring it to me; without this letter I
should not have heard till to-morrow,
perhaps after to-morrow -- the last of
all Paris."

"Madame," said Raoul, "the Louvre is but
the second palace this news has reached;
it is as yet unknown to all, and I had
sworn to the Count de Guiche to remit
this letter to your majesty before even
I should embrace my guardian."

"Your guardian! is he, too, a
Bragelonne?" asked Lord de Winter. "I
once knew a Bragelonne -- is he still
alive?"

"No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it
is from him my guardian, whose near
relation he was, inherited the estate
from which I take my name."

"And your guardian, sir," asked the
queen, who could not help feeling some
interest in the handsome young man
before her, "what is his name?"

"The Comte de la Fere, madame," replied
the young man, bowing.

De Winter made a gesture of surprise and
the queen turned to him with a start of
joy.

"The Comte de la Fere!" she cried. "Have
you not mentioned that name to me?"

As for De Winter he could scarcely
believe that he had heard aright. "The
Comte de la Fere!" he cried in his turn.
"Oh, sir, reply, I entreat you -- is not
the Comte de la Fere a noble whom I
remember, handsome and brave, a
musketeer under Louis XIII., who must be
now about forty-seven or forty-eight
years of age?"

"Yes, sir, you are right in every
particular!"

"And who served under an assumed name?"

"Under the name of Athos. Latterly I
heard his friend, Monsieur d'Artagnan,
give him that name."

"That is it, madame, that is the same.
God be praised! And he is in Paris?"
continued he, addressing Raoul; then
turning to the queen: "We may still
hope. Providence has declared for us,
since I have found this brave man again
in so miraculous a manner. And, sir,
where does he reside, pray?"

"The Comte de la Fere lodges in the Rue
Guenegaud, Hotel du Grand Roi
Charlemagne."

"Thanks, sir. Inform this dear friend
that he may remain within, that I shall
go and see him immediately."

"Sir, I obey with pleasure, if her
majesty will permit me to depart."

"Go, Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the
queen, "and rest assured of our
affection."

Raoul bent respectfully before the two
princesses, and bowing to De Winter,
departed.

The queen and De Winter continued to
converse for some time in low voices, in
order that the young princess should not
overhear them; but the precaution was
needless: she was in deep converse with
her own thoughts.

Then, when De Winter rose to take leave:

"Listen, my lord," said the queen; "I
have preserved this diamond cross which
came from my mother, and this order of
St. Michael which came from my husband.
They are worth about fifty thousand
pounds. I had sworn to die of hunger
rather than part with these precious
pledges; but now that this ornament may
be useful to him or his defenders,
everything must be sacrificed. Take
them, and if you need money for your
expedition, sell them fearlessly, my
lord. But should you find the means of
retaining them, remember, my lord, that
I shall esteem you as having rendered
the greatest service that a gentleman
can render to a queen; and in the day of
my prosperity he who brings me this
order and this cross shall be blessed by
me and my children."

"Madame," replied De Winter, "your
majesty will be served by a man devoted
to you. I hasten to deposit these two
objects in a safe place, nor should I
accept them if the resources of our
ancient fortune were left to us, but our
estates are confiscated, our ready money
is exhausted, and we are reduced to turn
to service everything we possess. In an
hour hence I shall be with the Comte de
la Fere, and to-morrow your majesty
shall have a definite reply."

The queen tendered her hand to Lord de
Winter, who, kissing it respectfully,
went out and traversed alone and
unconducted those large, dark and
deserted apartments, brushing away tears
which, blase as he was by fifty years
spent as a courtier, he could not
withhold at the spectacle of royal
distress so dignified, yet so intense.



40

Uncle and Nephew.



The horse and servant belonging to De
Winter were waiting for him at the door;
he proceeded toward his abode very
thoughtfully, looking behind him from
time to him to contemplate the dark and
silent frontage of the Louvre. It was
then that he saw a horseman, as it were,
detach himself from the wall and follow
him at a little distance. In leaving the
Palais Royal he remembered to have
observed a similar shadow.

"Tony," he said, motioning to his groom
to approach.

"Here I am, my lord."

"Did you remark that man who is
following us?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Who is he?"

"I do not know, only he has followed
your grace from the Palais Royal,
stopped at the Louvre to wait for you,
and now leaves the Louvre with you."

"Some spy of the cardinal," said De
Winter to him, aside. "Let us pretend
not to notice that he is watching us."

And spurring on he plunged into the
labyrinth of streets which led to his
hotel, situated near the Marais, for
having for so long a time lived near the
Place Royale, Lord de Winter naturally
returned to lodge near his ancient
dwelling.

The unknown spurred his horse to a
gallop.

De Winter dismounted at his hotel and
went up into his apartment, intending to
watch the spy; but as he was about to
place his gloves and hat on a table, he
saw reflected in a glass opposite to him
a figure which stood on the threshold of
the room. He turned around and Mordaunt
stood before him.

There was a moment of frozen silence
between these two.

"Sir," said De Winter, "I thought I had
already made you aware that I am weary
of this persecution; withdraw, then, or
I shall call and have you turned out as
you were in London. I am not your uncle,
I know you not."

"My uncle," replied Mordaunt, with his
harsh and bantering tone, "you are
mistaken; you will not have me turned
out this time as you did in London --
you dare not. As for denying that I am
your nephew, you will think twice about
it, now that I have learned some things
of which I was ignorant a year ago."

"And how does it concern me what you
have learned?" said De Winter.

"Oh, it concerns you very closely, my
uncle, I am sure, and you will soon be
of my opinion," added he, with a smile
which sent a shudder through the veins
of him he thus addressed. "When I
presented myself before you for the
first time in London, it was to ask you
what had become of my fortune; the
second time it was to demand who had
sullied my name; and this time I come
before you to ask a question far more
terrible than any other, to say to you
as God said to the first murderer:
`Cain, what hast thou done to thy
brother Abel?' My lord, what have you
done with your sister -- your sister,
who was my mother?"

De Winter shrank back from the fire of
those scorching eyes.

"Your mother?" he said.

"Yes, my lord, my mother," replied the
young man, advancing into the room until
he was face to face with Lord de Winter,
and crossing his arms. "I have asked the
headsman of Bethune," he said, his voice
hoarse and his face livid with passion
and grief. "And the headsman of Bethune
gave me a reply."

De Winter fell back in a chair as though
struck by a thunderbolt and in vain
attempted a reply.

"Yes," continued the young man; "all is
now explained; with this key I open the
abyss. My mother inherited an estate
from her husband, you have assassinated
her; my name would have secured me the
paternal estate, you have deprived me of
it; you have despoiled me of my fortune.
I am no longer astonished that you knew
me not. I am not surprised that you
refused to recognize me. When a man is a
robber it is hard to call him nephew
whom he has impoverished; when one is a
murderer, to recognize the man whom one
has made an orphan."

These words produced a contrary effect
to that which Mordaunt had anticipated.
De Winter remembered the monster that
Milady had been; he rose, dignified and
calm, restraining by the severity of his
look the wild glance of the young man.

"You desire to fathom this horrible
secret?" said De Winter; "well, then, so
be it. Know, then, what manner of woman
it was for whom to-day you call me to
account. That woman had, in all
probability, poisoned my brother, and in
order to inherit from me she was about
to assassinate me in my turn. I have
proof of it. What say you to that?"

"I say that she was my mother."

"She caused the unfortunate Duke of
Buckingham to be stabbed by a man who
was, ere that, honest, good and pure.
What say you to that crime, of which I
have the proof?"

"She was my mother."

"On our return to France she had a young
woman who was attached to one of her
opponents poisoned in the convent of the
Augustines at Bethune. Will this crime
persuade you of the justice of her
punishment -- for of all this I have the
proofs?"

"She was my mother!" cried the young
man, who uttered these three successive
exclamations with constantly increasing
force.

"At last, charged with murders, with
debauchery, hated by every one and yet
threatening still, like a panther
thirsting for blood, she fell under the
blows of men whom she had rendered
desperate, though they had never done
her the least injury; she met with
judges whom her hideous crimes had
evoked; and that executioner you saw --
that executioner who you say told you
everything -- that executioner, if he
told you everything, told you that he
leaped with joy in avenging on her his
brother's shame and suicide. Depraved as
a girl, adulterous as a wife, an
unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner,
execrated by all who knew her, by every
nation that had been visited by her, she
died accursed by Heaven and earth."

A sob which Mordaunt could not repress
burst from his throat and his livid face
became suffused with blood; he clenched
his fists, sweat covered his face, his
hair, like Hamlet's, stood on end, and
racked with fury he cried out:

"Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her
crimes, I know them not; her disorders,
I know them not; her vices, I know them
not. But this I know, that I had a
mother, that five men leagued against
one woman, murdered her clandestinely by
night -- silently -- like cowards. I
know that you were one of them, my
uncle, and that you cried louder than
the others: `She must die.' Therefore I
warn you, and listen well to my words,
that they may be engraved upon your
memory, never to be forgotten: this
murder, which has robbed me of
everything -- this murder, which has
deprived me of my name -- this murder,
which has impoverished me -- this
murder, which has made me corrupt,
wicked, implacable -- I shall summon you
to account for it first and then those
who were your accomplices, when I
discover them!"

With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his
mouth, and his fist extended, Mordaunt
had advanced one more step, a
threatening, terrible step, toward De
Winter. The latter put his hand to his
sword, and said, with the smile of a man
who for thirty years has jested with
death:

"Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I
shall recognize you as my nephew, for
you would be a worthy son of such a
mother."

"No," replied Mordaunt, forcing his
features and the muscles of his body to
resume their usual places and be calm;
"no, I shall not kill you; at least not
at this moment, for without you I could
not discover the others. But when I have
found them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed
to the heart the headsman of Bethune,
without mercy or pity, and he was the
least guilty of you all."

With these words the young man went out
and descended the stairs with sufficient
calmness to pass unobserved; then upon
the lowest landing place he passed Tony,
leaning over the balustrade, waiting
only for a call from his master to mount
to his room.

But De Winter did not call; crushed,
enfeebled, he remained standing and with
listening ear; then only when he had
heard the step of the horse going away
he fell back on a chair, saying:

"My God, I thank Thee that he knows me
only."



41

Paternal Affection.



Whilst this terrible scene was passing
at Lord de Winter's, Athos, seated near
his window, his elbow on the table and
his head supported on his hand, was
listening intently to Raoul's account of
the adventures he met with on his
journey and the details of the battle.

Listening to the relation of those
emotions so fresh and pure, the fine,
noble face of Athos betrayed
indescribable pleasure; he inhaled the
tones of that young voice, as harmonious
music. He forgot all that was dark in
the past and that was cloudy in the
future. It almost seemed as if the
return of this much loved boy had
changed his fears to hopes. Athos was
happy -- happy as he had never been
before.

"And you assisted and took part in this
great battle, Bragelonne!" cried the
former musketeer.

"Yes, sir."

"And it was a fierce one?"

"His highness the prince charged eleven
times in person."

"He is a great commander, Bragelonne."

"He is a hero, sir. I did not lose sight
of him for an instant. Oh! how fine it
is to be called Conde and to be so
worthy of such a name!"

"He was calm and radiant, was he not?"

"As calm as at parade, radiant as at a
fete. When we went up to the enemy it
was slowly; we were forbidden to draw
first and we were marching toward the
Spaniards, who were on a height with
lowered muskets. When we arrived about
thirty paces from them the prince turned
around to the soldiers: `Comrades,' he
said, `you are about to suffer a furious
discharge; but after that you will make
short work with those fellows.' There
was such dead silence that friends and
enemies could have heard these words;
then raising his sword, `Sound
trumpets!' he cried."

"Well, very good; you will do as much
when the opportunity occurs, will you,
Raoul?"

"I know not, sir, but I thought it
really very fine and grand!"

"Were you afraid, Raoul?" asked the
count.

"Yes, sir," replied the young man
naively; "I felt a great chill at my
heart, and at the word `fire,' which
resounded in Spanish from the enemy's
ranks, I closed my eyes and thought of
you."

"In honest truth, Raoul?" said Athos,
pressing his hand.

"Yes, sir; at that instant there was
such a rataplan of musketry that one
might have imagined the infernal regions
had opened. Those who were not killed
felt the heat of the flames. I opened my
eyes, astonished to find myself alive
and even unhurt; a third of the squadron
were lying on the ground, wounded, dead
or dying. At that moment I encountered
the eye of the prince. I had but one
thought and that was that he was
observing me. I spurred on and found
myself in the enemy's ranks."

"And the prince was pleased with you?"

"He told me so, at least, sir, when he
desired me to return to Paris with
Monsieur de Chatillon, who was charged
to carry the news to the queen and to
bring the colors we had taken. `Go,'
said he; `the enemy will not rally for
fifteen days and until that time I have
no need of your service. Go and see
those whom you love and who love you,
and tell my sister De Longueville that I
thank her for the present that she made
me of you.' And I came, sir," added
Raoul, gazing at the count with a smile
of real affection, "for I thought you
would be glad to see me again."

Athos drew the young man toward him and
pressed his lips to his brow, as he
would have done to a young daughter.

"And now, Raoul," said he, "you are
launched; you have dukes for friends, a
marshal of France for godfather, a
prince of the blood as commander, and on
the day of your return you have been
received by two queens; it is not so bad
for a novice."

"Oh sir," said Raoul, suddenly, "you
recall something, which, in my haste to
relate my exploits, I had forgotten; it
is that there was with Her Majesty the
Queen of England, a gentleman who, when
I pronounced your name, uttered a cry of
surprise and joy; he said he was a
friend of yours, asked your address, and
is coming to see you."

"What is his name?"

"I did not venture to ask, sir; he spoke
elegantly, although I thought from his
accent he was an Englishman."

"Ah!" said Athos, leaning down his head
as if to remember who it could be. Then,
when he raised it again, he was struck
by the presence of a man who was
standing at the open door and was gazing
at him with a compassionate air.

"Lord de Winter!" exclaimed the count.

"Athos, my friend!"

And the two gentlemen were for an
instant locked in each other's arms;
then Athos, looking into his friend's
face and taking him by both hands, said:

"What ails you, my lord? you appear as
unhappy as I am the reverse."

"Yes, truly, dear friend; and I may even
say the sight of you increases my
dismay."

And De Winter glancing around him, Raoul
quickly understood that the two friends
wished to be alone and he therefore left
the room unaffectedly.

"Come, now that we are alone," said
Athos, "let us talk of yourself."

"Whilst we are alone let us speak of
ourselves," replied De Winter. "He is
here."

"Who?"

"Milady's son."

Athos, again struck by this name, which
seemed to pursue him like an echo,
hesitated for a moment, then slightly
knitting his brows, he calmly said:

"I know it, Grimaud met him between
Bethune and Arras and then came here to
warn me of his presence."

"Does Grimaud know him, then?"

"No; but he was present at the deathbed
of a man who knew him."

"The headsman of Bethune?" exclaimed De
Winter.

"You know about that?" cried Athos,
astonished.

"He has just left me," replied De
Winter, "after telling me all. Ah! my
friend! what a horrible scene! Why did
we not destroy the child with the
mother?"

"What need you fear?" said Athos,
recovering from the instinctive fear he
had at first experienced, by the aid of
reason; "are we not men accustomed to
defend ourselves? Is this young man an
assassin by profession -- a murderer in
cold blood? He has killed the
executioner of Bethune in an access of
passion, but now his fury is assuaged."

De Winter smiled sorrowfully and shook
his head.

"Do you not know the race?" said he.

"Pooh!" said Athos, trying to smile in
his turn. "It must have lost its
ferocity in the second generation.
Besides, my friend, Providence has
warned us, that we may be on our guard.
All we can now do is to wait. Let us
wait; and, as I said before, let us
speak of yourself. What brings you to
Paris?"

"Affairs of importance which you shall
know later. But what is this that I hear
from Her Majesty the Queen of England?
Monsieur d'Artagnan sides with Mazarin!
Pardon my frankness, dear friend. I
neither hate nor blame the cardinal, and
your opinions will be held ever sacred
by me. But do you happen to belong to
him?"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," replied Athos,
"is in the service; he is a soldier and
obeys all constitutional authority.
Monsieur d'Artagnan is not rich and has
need of his position as lieutenant to
enable him to live. Millionaires like
yourself, my lord, are rare in France."

"Alas!" said De Winter, "I am at this
moment as poor as he is, if not poorer.
But to return to our subject."

"Well, then, you wish to know if I am of
Mazarin's party? No. Pardon my
frankness, too, my lord."

"I am obliged to you, count, for this
pleasing intelligence! You make me young
and happy again by it. Ah! so you are
not a Mazarinist? Delightful! Indeed,
you could not belong to him. But pardon
me, are you free? I mean to ask if you
are married?"

"Ah! as to that, no," replied Athos,
laughing.

"Because that young man, so handsome, so
elegant, so polished ---- "

"Is a child I have adopted and who does
not even know who was his father."

"Very well; you are always the same,
Athos, great and generous. Are you still
friends with Monsieur Porthos and
Monsieur Aramis?"

"Add Monsieur d'Artagnan, my lord. We
still remain four friends devoted to
each other; but when it becomes a
question of serving the cardinal or of
fighting him, of being Mazarinists or
Frondists, then we are only two."

"Is Monsieur Aramis with D'Artagnan?"
asked Lord de Winter.

"No," said Athos; "Monsieur Aramis does
me the honor to share my opinions."

"Could you put me in communication with
your witty and agreeable friend? Is he
much changed?"

"He has become an abbe, that is all."

"You alarm me; his profession must have
made him renounce any great
undertakings."

"On the contrary," said Athos, smiling,
"he has never been so much a musketeer
as since he became an abbe, and you will
find him a veritable soldier."

"Could you engage to bring him to me
to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, on the
Pont du Louvre?"

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Athos, smiling, "you
have a duel in prospect."

"Yes, count, and a splendid duel, too; a
duel in which I hope you will take your
part."

"Where are we to go, my lord?"

"To Her Majesty the Queen of England,
who has desired me to present you to
her."

"This is an enigma," said Athos, "but it
matters not; since you know the solution
of it I ask no further. Will your
lordship do me the honor to sup with
me?"

"Thanks, count, no," replied De Winter.
"I own to you that that young man's
visit has subdued my appetite and
probably will rob me of my sleep. What
undertaking can have brought him to
Paris? It was not to meet me that he
came, for he was ignorant of my journey.
This young man terrifies me, my lord;
there lies in him a sanguinary
predisposition."

"What occupies him in England?"

"He is one of Cromwell's most
enthusiastic disciples."

"But what attached him to the cause? His
father and mother were Catholics, I
believe?"

"His hatred of the king, who deprived
him of his estates and forbade him to
bear the name of De Winter."

"And what name does he now bear?"

"Mordaunt."

"A Puritan, yet disguised as a monk he
travels alone in France."

"Do you say as a monk?"

"It was thus, and by mere accident --
may God pardon me if I blaspheme -- that
he heard the confession of the
executioner of Bethune."

"Then I understand it all! he has been
sent by Cromwell to Mazarin, and the
queen guessed rightly; we have been
forestalled. Everything is clear to me
now. Adieu, count, till to-morrow."

"But the night is dark," said Athos,
perceiving that Lord de Winter seemed
more uneasy than he wished to appear;
"and you have no servant."

"I have Tony, a safe if simple youth."

"Halloo, there, Grimaud, Olivain, and
Blaisois! call the viscount and take the
musket with you."

Blaisois was the tall youth, half groom,
half peasant, whom we saw at the Chateau
de Bragelonne, whom Athos had christened
by the name of his province.

"Viscount," said Athos to Raoul, as he
entered, "you will conduct my lord as
far as his hotel and permit no one to
approach him."

"Oh! count," said De Winter, "for whom
do you take me?"

"For a stranger who does not know
Paris," said Athos, "and to whom the
viscount will show the way."

De Winter shook him by the hand.

"Grimaud," said Athos, "put yourself at
the head of the troop and beware of the
monk."

Grimaud shuddered, and nodding, awaited
the departure, regarding the butt of his
musket with silent eloquence. Then
obeying the orders given him by Athos,
he headed the small procession, bearing
the torch in one hand and the musket in
the other, until it reached De Winter's
inn, when pounding on the portal with
his fist, he bowed to my lord and faced
about without a word.

The same order was followed in
returning, nor did Grimaud's searching
glance discover anything of a suspicious
appearance, save a dark shadow, as it
were, in ambuscade, at the corner of the
Rue Guenegaud and of the Quai. He
fancied, also, that in going he had
already observed the street watcher who
had attracted his attention. He pushed
on toward him, but before he could reach
it the shadow had disappeared into an
alley, into which Grimaud deemed it
scarcely prudent to pursue it.

The next day, on awaking, the count
perceived Raoul by his bedside. The
young man was already dressed and was
reading a new book by M. Chapelain.

"Already up, Raoul?" exclaimed the
count.

"Yes, sir," replied Raoul, with slight
hesitation; "I did not sleep well."

"You, Raoul, not sleep well! then you
must have something on your mind!" said
Athos.

"Sir, you will perhaps think that I am
in a great hurry to leave you when I
have only just arrived, but ---- "

"Have you only two days of leave,
Raoul?"

"On the contrary, sir, I have ten; nor
is it to the camp I wish to go."

"Where, then?" said Athos, smiling, "if
it be not a secret. You are now almost a
man, since you have made your first
passage of arms, and have acquired the
right to go where you will without
consulting me."

"Never, sir," said Raoul, "as long as I
possess the happiness of having you for
a protector, shall I deem I have the
right of freeing myself from a
guardianship so valuable to me. I have,
however, a wish to go and pass a day at
Blois. You look at me and you are going
to laugh at me."

"No, on the contrary, I am not inclined
to laugh," said Athos, suppressing a
sigh. "You wish to see Blois again; it
is but natural."

"Then you permit me to go, you are not
angry in your heart?" exclaimed Raoul,
joyously.

"Certainly; and why should I regret what
gives you pleasure?"

"Oh! how kind you are," exclaimed the
young man, pressing his guardian's hand;
"and I can set out immediately?"

"When you like, Raoul."

"Sir," said Raoul, as he turned to leave
the room, "I have thought of one thing,
and that is about the Duchess of
Chevreuse, who was so kind to me and to
whom I owe my introduction to the
prince."

"And you ought to thank her, Raoul.
Well, try the Hotel de Luynes, Raoul,
and ask if the duchess can receive you.
I am glad to see you pay attention to
the usages of the world. You must take
Grimaud and Olivain."

"Both, sir?" asked Raoul, astonished.

"Both."

Raoul went out, and when Athos heard his
young, joyous voice calling to Grimaud
and Olivain, he sighed.

"It is very soon to leave me," he
thought, "but he follows the common
custom. Nature has made us thus; she
makes the young look ever forward, not
behind. He certainly likes the child,
but will he love me less as his
affection grows for her?"

And Athos confessed to himself that, he
was unprepared for so prompt a
departure; but Raoul was so happy that
this reflection effaced everything else
from the consideration of his guardian.

Everything was ready at ten o'clock for
the departure, and as Athos was watching
Raoul mount, a groom rode up from the
Duchess de Chevreuse. He was charged to
tell the Comte de la Fere, that she had
learned of the return of her youthful
protege, and also the manner he had
conducted himself on the field, and she
added that she should be very glad to
offer him her congratulations.

"Tell her grace," replied Athos, "that
the viscount has just mounted his horse
to proceed to the Hotel de Luynes."

Then, with renewed instructions to
Grimaud, Athos signified to Raoul that
he could set out, and ended by
reflecting that it was perhaps better
that Raoul should be away from Paris at
that moment.



42

Another Queen in Want of Help.



Athos had not failed to send early to
Aramis and had given his letter to
Blaisois, the only serving-man whom he
had left. Blaisois found Bazin donning
his beadle's gown, his services being
required that day at Notre Dame.

Athos had desired Blaisois to try to
speak to Aramis himself. Blaisois, a
tall, simple youth, who understood
nothing but what he was expressly told,
asked, therefore for the Abbe d'Herblay,
and in spite of Bazin's assurances that
his master was not at home, he persisted
in such a manner as to put Bazin into a
passion. Blaisois seeing Bazin in
clerical guise, was a little discomposed
at his denials and wanted to pass at all
risks, believing too, that the man with
whom he had to do was endowed with the
virtues of his cloth, namely, patience
and Christian charity.

But Bazin, still the servant of a
musketeer, when once the blood mounted
to his fat cheeks, seized a broomstick
and began belaboring Blaisois, saying:

"You have insulted the church, my
friend, you have insulted the church!"

At this moment Aramis, aroused by this
unusual disturbance, cautiously opened
the door of his room; and Blaisois,
looking reproachfully at the Cerberus,
drew the letter from his pocket and
presented it to Aramis.

"From the Comte de la Fere," said
Aramis. "All right." And he retired into
his room without even asking the cause
of so much noise.

Blaisois returned disconsolate to the
Hotel of the Grand Roi Charlemagne and
when Athos inquired if his commission
was executed, he related his adventure.

"You foolish fellow!" said Athos,
laughing. "And you did not tell him that
you came from me?"

"No, sir."

At ten o'clock Athos, with his habitual
exactitude, was waiting on the Pont du
Louvre and was almost immediately joined
by Lord de Winter.

They waited ten minutes and then his
lordship began to fear Aramis was not
coming to join them.

"Patience," said Athos, whose eyes were
fixed in the direction of the Rue du
Bac, "patience; I see an abbe cuffing a
man, then bowing to a woman; it must be
Aramis."

It was indeed Aramis. Having run against
a young shopkeeper who was gaping at the
crows and who had splashed him, Aramis
with one blow of his fist had distanced
him ten paces.

At this moment one of his penitents
passed, and as she was young and pretty
Aramis took off his cap to her with his
most gracious smile.

A most affectionate greeting, as one can
well believe took place between him and
Lord de Winter.

"Where are we going?" inquired Aramis;
"are we going to fight, perchance? I
carry no sword this morning and cannot
return home to procure one."

"No," said Lord de Winter, "we are going
to pay a visit to Her Majesty the Queen
of England."

"Oh, very well," replied Aramis; then
bending his face down to Athos's ear,
"what is the object of this visit?"
continued he.

"Nay, I know not; some evidence required
from us, perhaps."

"May it not be about that cursed
affair?" asked Aramis, "in which case I
do not greatly care to go, for it will
be to pocket a lecture; and since it is
my function to give them to others I am
rather averse to receiving them myself."

"If it were so," answered Athos, "we
should not be taken there by Lord de
Winter, for he would come in for his
share; he was one of us."

"You're right; yes, let us go."

On arriving at the Louvre Lord de Winter
entered first; indeed, there was but one
porter there to receive them at the
gate.

It was impossible in daylight for the
impoverished state of the habitation
grudging charity had conceded to an
unfortunate queen to pass unnoticed by
Athos, Aramis, and even the Englishman.
Large rooms, completely stripped of
furniture, bare walls upon which, here
and there, shone the old gold moldings
which had resisted time and neglect,
windows with broken panes (impossible to
close), no carpets, neither guards nor
servants: this is what first met the
eyes of Athos, to which he, touching his
companion's elbow, directed his
attention by his glances.

"Mazarin is better lodged," said Aramis.

"Mazarin is almost king," answered
Athos; "Madame Henrietta is almost no
longer queen."

"If you would condescend to be clever,
Athos," observed Aramis, "I really do
think you would be wittier than poor
Monsieur de Voiture."

Athos smiled.

The queen appeared to be impatiently
expecting them, for at the first slight
noise she heard in the hall leading to
her room she came herself to the door to
receive these courtiers in the corridors
of Misfortune.

"Enter. You are welcome, gentlemen," she
said.

The gentlemen entered and remained
standing, but at a motion from the queen
they seated themselves. Athos was calm
and grave, but Aramis was furious; the
sight of such royal misery exasperated
him and his eyes examined every new
trace of poverty that presented itself.

"You are examining the luxury I enjoy,"
said the queen, glancing sadly around
her.

"Madame," replied Aramis, "I must ask
your pardon, but I know not how to hide
my indignation at seeing how a daughter
of Henry IV. is treated at the court of
France."

"Monsieur Aramis is not an officer?"
asked the queen of Lord de Winter.

"That gentleman is the Abbe d'Herblay,"
replied he.

Aramis blushed. "Madame," he said, "I am
an abbe, it is true, but I am so against
my will. I never had a vocation for the
bands; my cassock is fastened by one
button only, and I am always ready to
become a musketeer once more. This
morning, being ignorant that I should
have the honor of seeing your majesty, I
encumbered myself with this dress, but
you will find me none the less a man
devoted to your majesty's service, in
whatever way you may see fit to use me."

"The Abbe d'Herblay," resumed De Winter,
"is one of those gallant musketeers
formerly belonging to His Majesty King
Louis XIII., of whom I have spoken to
you, madame." Then turning to Athos, he
continued, "And this gentleman is that
noble Comte de la Fere, whose high
reputation is so well known to your
majesty."

"Gentlemen," said the queen, "a few
years ago I had around me ushers,
treasures, armies; and by the lifting of
a finger all these were busied in my
service. To-day, look around you, and it
may astonish you, that in order to
accomplish a plan which is dearer to me
than life I have only Lord de Winter,
the friend of twenty years, and you,
gentlemen, whom I see for the first time
and whom I know but as my countrymen."

"It is enough," said Athos, bowing low,
"if the lives of three men can purchase
yours, madame."

"I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me,"
continued she. "I am not only the most
miserable of queens, but the most
unhappy of mothers, the most wretched of
wives. My children, two of them, at
least, the Duke of York and the Princess
Elizabeth, are far away from me, exposed
to the blows of the ambitious and our
foes; my husband, the king, is leading
in England so wretched an existence that
it is no exaggeration to aver that he
seeks death as a thing to be desired.
Hold! gentlemen, here is the letter
conveyed to me by Lord de Winter. Read
it."

Obeying the queen, Athos read aloud the
letter which we have already seen, in
which King Charles demanded to know
whether the hospitality of France would
be accorded him.

"Well?" asked Athos, when he had closed
the letter.

"Well," said the queen, "it has been
refused."

The two friends exchanged a smile of
contempt.

"And now," said Athos, "what is to be
done? I have the honor to inquire from
your majesty what you desire Monsieur
d'Herblay and myself to do in your
service. We are ready."

"Ah, sir, you have a noble heart!"
exclaimed the queen, with a burst of
gratitude; whilst Lord de Winter turned
to her with a glance which said, "Did I
not answer for them?"

"But you, sir?" said the queen to
Aramis.

"I, madame," replied he, "follow
Monsieur de la Fere wherever he leads,
even were it on to death, without
demanding wherefore; but when it
concerns your majesty's service, then,"
added he, looking at the queen with all
the grace of former days, "I precede the
count."

"Well, then, gentlemen," said the queen,
"since it is thus, and since you are
willing to devote yourselves to the
service of a poor princess whom the
whole world has abandoned, this is what
is required to be done for me. The king
is alone with a few gentlemen, whom he
fears to lose every day; surrounded by
the Scotch, whom he distrusts, although
he be himself a Scotchman. Since Lord de
Winter left him I am distracted, sirs. I
ask much, too much, perhaps, for I have
no title to request it. Go to England,
join the king, be his friends,
protectors, march to battle at his side,
and be near him in his house, where
conspiracies, more dangerous than the
perils of war, are hatching every day.
And in exchange for the sacrifice that
you make, gentlemen, I promise -- not to
reward you, I believe that word would
offend you -- but to love you as a
sister, to prefer you, next to my
husband and my children, to every one. I
swear it before Heaven."

And the queen raised her eyes solemnly
upward.

"Madame," said Athos, "when must we set
out?"

"You consent then?" exclaimed the queen,
joyfully.

"Yes, madame; only it seems to me that
your majesty goes too far in engaging to
load us with a friendship so far above
our merit. We render service to God,
madame in serving a prince so
unfortunate, a queen so virtuous.
Madame, we are yours, body and soul."

"Oh, sirs," said the queen, moved even
to tears, "this is the first time for
five years I have felt the least
approach to joy or hope. God, who can
read my heart, all the gratitude I feel,
will reward you! Save my husband! Save
the king, and although you care not for
the price that is placed upon a good
action in this world, leave me the hope
that we shall meet again, when I may be
able to thank you myself. In the
meantime, I remain here. Have you
anything to ask of me? From this moment
I become your friend, and since you are
engaged in my affairs I ought to occupy
myself in yours."

"Madame," replied Athos, "I have only to
ask your majesty's prayers."

"And I," said Aramis, "I am alone in the
world and have only your majesty to
serve."

The queen held out her hand, which they
kissed, and she said in a low tone to De
Winter:

"If you need money, my lord, separate
the jewels I have given you; detach the
diamonds and sell them to some Jew. You
will receive for them fifty or sixty
thousand francs; spend them if
necessary, but let these gentlemen be
treated as they deserve, that is to say,
like kings."

The queen had two letters ready, one
written by herself, the other by her
daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both
were addressed to King Charles. She gave
the first to Athos and the other to
Aramis, so that should they be separated
by chance they might make themselves
known to the king; after which they
withdrew.

At the foot of the staircase De Winter
stopped.

"Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen,"
said he, "go your way and I will go
mine, and this evening at nine o'clock
we will assemble again at the Gate Saint
Denis. We will travel on horseback as
far as our horses can go and afterward
we can take the post. Once more, let me
thank you, my good friends, both in my
own name and the queen's."

The three gentlemen then shook hands,
Lord de Winter taking the Rue Saint
Honore, and Athos and Aramis remaining
together.

"Well," said Aramis, when they were
alone, "what do you think of this
business, my dear count?"

"Bad," replied Athos, "very bad."

"But you received it with enthusiasm."

"As I shall ever receive the defense of
a great principle, my dear D'Herblay.
Monarchs are only strong by the
assistance of the aristocracy, but
aristocracy cannot survive without the
countenance of monarchs. Let us, then,
support monarchy, in order to support
ourselves.

"We shall be murdered there," said
Aramis. "I hate the English -- they are
coarse, like every nation that swills
beer."

"Would it be better to remain here,"
said Athos, "and take a turn in the
Bastile or the dungeon of Vincennes for
having favored the escape of Monsieur de
Beaufort? I'faith, Aramis, believe me,
there is little left to regret. We avoid
imprisonment and we play the part of
heroes; the choice is easy."

"It is true; but in everything, friend,
one must always return to the same
question -- a stupid one, I admit, but
very necessary -- have you any money?"

"Something like a hundred pistoles, that
my farmer sent to me the day before I
left Bragelonne; but out of that sum I
ought to leave fifty for Raoul -- a
young man must live respectably. I have
then about fifty pistoles. And you?"

"As for me, I am quite sure that after
turning out all my pockets and emptying
my drawers I shall not find ten louis at
home. Fortunately Lord de Winter is
rich."

"Lord de Winter is ruined for the
moment; Oliver Cromwell has annexed his
income resources."

"Now is the time when Baron Porthos
would be useful."

"Now it is that I regret D'Artagnan."

"Let us entice them away."

"This secret, Aramis, does not belong to
us; take my advice, then, and let no one
into our confidence. And moreover, in
taking such a step we should appear to
be doubtful of ourselves. Let us regret
their absence to ourselves for our own
sakes, but not speak of it."

"You are right; but what are you going
to do until this evening? I have two
things to postpone."

"And what are they?"

"First, a thrust with the coadjutor,
whom I met last night at Madame de
Rambouillet's and whom I found
particular in his remarks respecting
me."

"Oh, fie -- a quarrel between priests, a
duel between allies!"

"What can I do, friend? he is a bully
and so am I; his cassock is a burden to
him and I imagine I have had enough of
mine; in fact, there is so much
resemblance between us that I sometimes
believe he is Aramis and I am the
coadjutor. This kind of life fatigues
and oppresses me; besides, he is a
turbulent fellow, who will ruin our
party. I am convinced that if I gave him
a box on the ear, such as I gave this
morning to the little citizen who
splashed me, it would change the
appearance of things."

"And I, my dear Aramis," quietly replied
Athos, "I think it would only change
Monsieur de Retz's appearance. Take my
advice, leave things just as they are;
besides, you are neither of you now your
own masters; he belongs to the Fronde
and you to the queen of England. So, if
the second matter which you regret being
unable to attend to is not more
important than the first ---- "

"Oh! that is of the first importance."

"Attend to it, then, at once."

"Unfortunately, it is a thing that I
can't perform at any time I choose. It
was arranged for the evening and no
other time will serve."

"I understand," said Athos smiling,
"midnight."

"About that time."

"But, my dear fellow, those are things
that bear postponement and you must put
it off, especially with so good an
excuse to give on your return ---- "

"Yes, if I return."

"If you do not return, how does it
concern you? Be reasonable. Come, you
are no longer twenty years old."

"To my great regret, mordieu! Ah, if I
were but twenty years old!"

"Yes," said Athos, "doubtless you would
commit great follies! But now we must
part. I have one or two visits to make
and a letter yet to write. Call for me
at eight o'clock or shall I wait supper
for you at seven?"

"That will do very well," said Aramis.
"I have twenty visits to make and as
many letters to write."

They then separated. Athos went to pay a
visit to Madame de Vendome, left his
name at Madame de Chevreuse's and wrote
the following letter to D'Artagnan:



"Dear Friend, -- I am about to set off
with Aramis on important business. I
wished to make my adieux to you, but
time does not permit. Remember that I
write to you now to repeat how much
affection for you I still cherish.

"Raoul is gone to Blois and is ignorant
of my departure; watch over him in my
absence as much as you possibly can; and
if by chance you receive no news of me
three months hence, tell him to open a
packet which he will find addressed to
him in my bronze casket at Blois, of
which I send you now the key.

"Embrace Porthos from Aramis and myself.
Adieu, perhaps farewell."



At the hour agreed upon Aramis arrived;
he was dressed as an officer and had the
old sword at his side which he had drawn
so often and which he was more than ever
ready to draw.

"By-the-bye," he said, "I think that we
are decidedly wrong to depart thus,
without leaving a line for Porthos and
D'Artagnan."

"The thing is done, dear friend," said
Athos; "I foresaw that and have embraced
them both from you and myself."

"You are a wonderful man, my dear
count," said Aramis; "you think of
everything."

"Well, have you made up your mind to
this journey?"

"Quite; and now that I reflect about it,
I am glad to leave Paris at this
moment."

"And so am I," replied Athos; "my only
regret is not having seen D'Artagnan;
but the rascal is so cunning, he might
have guessed our project."

When supper was over Blaisois entered.
"Sir," said he, "here is Monsieur
d'Artagnan's answer."

"But I did not tell you there would be
an answer, stupid!" said Athos.

"And I set off without waiting for one,
but he called me back and gave me this;"
and he presented a little leather bag,
plump and giving out a golden jingle.

Athos opened it and began by drawing
forth a little note, written in these
terms:

"My dear Count, -- When one travels, and
especially for three months, one never
has a superfluity of money. Now,
recalling former times of mutual
distress, I send you half my purse; it
is money to obtain which I made Mazarin
sweat. Don't make a bad use of it, I
entreat you.

"As to what you say about not seeing you
again, I believe not a word of it; with
such a heart as yours -- and such a
sword -- one passes through the valley
of the shadow of death a dozen times,
unscathed and unalarmed. Au revoir, not
farewell.

"It is unnecessary to say that from the
day I saw Raoul I loved him;
nevertheless, believe that I heartily
pray that I may not become to him a
father, however much I might be proud of
such a son.

"Your

"D'Artagnan.



"P.S. -- Be it well understood that the
fifty louis which I send are equally for
Aramis as for you -- for you as Aramis."



Athos smiled, and his fine eye was
dimmed by a tear. D'Artagnan, who had
loved him so tenderly, loved him still,
although a Mazarinist.

"There are the fifty louis, i'faith,"
said Aramis, emptying the purse on the
table, all bearing the effigy of Louis
XIII. "Well, what shall you do with this
money, count? Shall you keep it or send
it back?"

"I shall keep it, Aramis, and even
though I had no need of it I still
should keep it. What is offered from a
generous heart should be accepted
generously. Take twenty-five of them,
Aramis, and give me the remaining
twenty-five."

"All right; I am glad to see you are of
my opinion. There now, shall we start?"

"When you like; but have you no groom?"

"No; that idiot Bazin had the folly to
make himself verger, as you know, and
therefore cannot leave Notre Dame.

"Very well, take Blaisois, with whom I
know not what to do, since I already
have Grimaud."

"Willingly," said Aramis.

At this moment Grimaud appeared at the
door. "Ready," said he, with his usual
curtness.

"Let us go, then," said Athos.

The two friends mounted, as did their
servants. At the corner of the Quai they
encountered Bazin, who was running
breathlessly.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed he, "thank Heaven I
have arrived in time. Monsieur Porthos
has just been to your house and has left
this for you, saying that the letter was
important and must be given to you
before you left."

"Good," said Aramis, taking a purse
which Bazin presented to him. "What is
this?"

"Wait, your reverence, there is a
letter."

"You know I have already told you that
if you ever call me anything but
chevalier I will break every bone in
your body. Give me the letter."

"How can you read?" asked Athos, "it is
as dark as a cold oven."

"Wait," said Bazin, striking a flint,
and setting afire a twisted wax-light,
with which he started the church
candles. Thus illumined, Aramis read the
following epistle:

My dear D'Herblay, -- I learned from
D'Artagnan who has embraced me on the
part of the Comte de la Fere and
yourself, that you are setting out on a
journey which may perhaps last two or
three months; as I know that you do not
like to ask money of your friends I
offer you some of my own accord. Here
are two hundred pistoles, which you can
dispose of as you wish and return to me
when opportunity occurs. Do not fear
that you put me to inconvenience; if I
want money I can send for some to any of
my chateaux; at Bracieux alone, I have
twenty thousand francs in gold. So, if I
do not send you more it is because I
fear you would not accept a larger sum.

"I address you, because you know, that
although I esteem him from my heart I am
a little awed by the Comte de la Fere;
but it is understood that what I offer
you I offer him at the same time.

"I am, as I trust you do not doubt, your
devoted

"Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.



"Well," said Aramis, "what do you say to
that?"

"I say, my dear D'Herblay, that it is
almost sacrilege to distrust Providence
when one has such friends, and therefore
we will divide the pistoles from
Porthos, as we divided the louis sent by
D'Artagnan."

The division being made by the light of
Bazin's taper, the two friends continued
their road and a quarter of an hour
later they had joined De Winter at the
Porte Saint Denis.



43

In which it is proved that first
Impulses are oftentimes the best.



The three gentlemen took the road to
Picardy, a road so well known to them
and which recalled to Athos and Aramis
some of the most picturesque adventures
of their youth.

"If Mousqueton were with us," observed
Athos, on reaching the spot where they
had had a dispute with the paviers, "how
he would tremble at passing this! Do you
remember, Aramis, that it was here he
received that famous bullet wound?"

"By my faith, 'twould be excusable in
him to tremble," replied Aramis, "for
even I feel a shudder at the
recollection; hold, just above that tree
is the little spot where I thought I was
killed."

It was soon time for Grimaud to recall
the past. Arriving before the inn at
which his master and himself had made
such an enormous repast, he approached
Athos and said, showing him the airhole
of the cellar:

"Sausages!"

Athos began to laugh, for this juvenile
escapade of his appeared to be as
amusing as if some one had related it of
another person.

At last, after traveling two days and a
night, they arrived at Boulogne toward
the evening, favored by magnificent
weather. Boulogne was a strong position,
then almost a deserted town, built
entirely on the heights; what is now
called the lower town did not then
exist.

"Gentlemen," said De Winter, on reaching
the gate of the town, "let us do here as
at Paris -- let us separate to avoid
suspicion. I know an inn, little
frequented, but of which the host is
entirely devoted to me. I will go there,
where I expect to find letters, and you
go to the first tavern in the town, to
L'Epee du Grand Henri for instance,
refresh yourselves, and in two hours be
upon the jetty; our boat is waiting for
us there."

The matter being thus decided, the two
friends found, about two hundred paces
further, the tavern indicated. Their
horses were fed, but not unsaddled; the
grooms supped, for it was already late,
and their two masters, impatient to
return, appointed a place of meeting
with them on the jetty and desired them
on no account to exchange a word with
any one. It is needless to say that this
caution concerned Blaisois alone -- long
enough since it had been a useless one
to Grimaud.

Athos and Aramis walked down toward the
port. From their dress, covered with
dust, and from a certain easy manner by
means of which a man accustomed to
travel is always recognizable, the two
friends excited the attention of a few
promenaders. There was more especially
one upon whom their arrival had produced
a decided impression. This man, whom
they had noticed from the first for the
same reason they had themselves been
remarked by others, was walking in a
listless way up and down the jetty. From
the moment he perceived them he did not
cease to look at them and seemed to burn
with the wish to speak to them.

On reaching the jetty Athos and Aramis
stopped to look at a little boat made
fast to a pile and ready rigged as if
waiting to start.

"That is doubtless our boat," said
Athos.

"Yes," replied Aramis, "and the sloop
out there making ready to sail must be
that which is to take us to our
destination; now," continued he, "if
only De Winter does not keep us waiting.
It is not at all amusing here; there is
not a single woman passing."

"Hush!" said Athos, "we are overheard."

In truth, the walker, who, during the
observations of the two friends, had
passed and repassed behind them several
times, stopped at the name of De Winter;
but as his face betrayed no emotion at
mention of this name, it might have been
by chance he stood so still.

"Gentlemen," said the man, who was young
and pale, bowing with ease and courtesy,
"pardon my curiosity, but I see you come
from Paris, or at least that you are
strangers at Boulogne."

"We come from Paris, yes," replied
Athos, with the same courtesy; "what is
there we can do for you?"

"Sir," said the young man, "will you be
so good as to tell me if it be true that
Cardinal Mazarin is no longer minister?"

"That is a strange question," said
Aramis.

"He is and he is not," replied Athos;
"that is to say, he is dismissed by
one-half of France, but by intrigues and
promises he makes the other half sustain
him; you will perceive that this may
last a long time."

"However, sir," said the stranger, "he
has neither fled nor is in prison?"

"No, sir, not at this moment at least."

"Sirs, accept my thanks for your
politeness," said the young man,
retreating.

"What do you think of that
interrogator?" asked Aramis.

"I think he is either a dull provincial
person or a spy in search of
information."

"And you replied to him with that
notion?"

"Nothing warranted me to answer him
otherwise; he was polite to me and I was
so to him."

"But if he be a spy ---- "

"What do you think a spy would be about
here? We are not living in the time of
Cardinal Richelieu, who would have
closed the ports on bare suspicion."

"It matters not; you were wrong to reply
to him as you did," continued Aramis,
following with his eyes the young man,
now vanishing behind the cliffs.

"And you," said Athos, "you forget that
you committed a very different kind of
imprudence in pronouncing Lord de
Winter's name. Did you not see that at
that name the young man stopped?"

"More reason, then, when he spoke to
you, for sending him about his
business."

"A quarrel?" asked Athos.

"And since when have you become afraid
of a quarrel?"

"I am always afraid of a quarrel when I
am expected at any place and when such a
quarrel might possibly prevent my
reaching it. Besides, let me own
something to you. I am anxious to see
that young man nearer."

"And wherefore?"

"Aramis, you will certainly laugh at me,
you will say that I am always repeating
the same thing, you will call me the
most timorous of visionaries; but to
whom do you see a resemblance in that
young man?"

"In beauty or on the contrary?" asked
Aramis, laughing.

"In ugliness, in so far as a man can
resemble a woman."

"Ah! Egad!" cried Aramis, "you set me
thinking. No, in truth you are no
visionary, my dear friend, and now I
think of it -- you -- yes, i'faith,
you're right -- those delicate, yet
firm-set lips, those eyes which seem
always at the command of the intellect
and never of the heart! Yes, it is one
of Milady's bastards!"

"You laugh Aramis."

"From habit, that is all. I swear to
you, I like no better than yourself to
meet that viper in my path."

"Ah! here is De Winter coming," said
Athos.

"Good! one thing now is only awanting
and that is, that our grooms should not
keep us waiting."

"No," said Athos. "I see them about
twenty paces behind my lord. I recognize
Grimaud by his long legs and his
determined slouch. Tony carries our
muskets."

"Then we set sail to-night?" asked
Aramis, glancing toward the west, where
the sun had left a single golden cloud,
which, dipping into the ocean, appeared
by degrees to be extinguished.

"Probably," said Athos.

"Diable!" resumed Aramis, "I have little
fancy for the sea by day, still less at
night; the sounds of wind and wave, the
frightful movements of the vessel; I
confess I prefer the convent of Noisy."

Athos smiled sadly, for it was evident
that he was thinking of other things as
he listened to his friend and moved
toward De Winter.

"What ails our friend?" said Aramis, "he
resembles one of Dante's damned, whose
neck Apollyon has dislocated and who are
ever looking at their heels. What the
devil makes him glower thus behind him?"

When De Winter perceived them, in his
turn he advanced toward them with
surprising rapidity.

"What is the matter, my lord?" said
Athos, "and what puts you out of breath
thus?"

"Nothing," replied De Winter; "nothing;
and yet in passing the heights it seemed
to me ---- " and he again turned round.

Athos glanced at Aramis.

"But let us go," continued De Winter;
"let us be off; the boat must be waiting
for us and there is our sloop at
anchor -- do you see it there? I wish I
were on board already," and he looked
back again.

"He has seen him," said Athos, in a low
tone, to Aramis.

They had reached the ladder which led to
the boat. De Winter made the grooms who
carried the arms and the porters with
the luggage descend first and was about
to follow them.

At this moment Athos perceived a man
walking on the seashore parallel to the
jetty, and hastening his steps, as if to
reach the other side of the port,
scarcely twenty steps from the place of
embarking. He fancied in the darkness
that he recognized the young man who had
questioned him. Athos now descended the
ladder in his turn, without losing sight
of the young man. The latter, to make a
short cut, had appeared on a sluice.

"He certainly bodes us no good," said
Athos; "but let us embark; once out at
sea, let him come."

And Athos sprang into the boat, which
was immediately pushed off and which
soon sped seawards under the efforts of
four stalwart rowers.

But the young man had begun to follow,
or rather to advance before the boat.
She was obliged to pass between the
point of the jetty, surmounted by a
beacon just lighted, and a rock which
jutted out. They saw him in the distance
climbing the rock in order to look down
upon the boat as it passed.

"Ay, but," said Aramis, "that young
fellow is decidedly a spy."

"Which is the young man?" asked De
Winter, turning around.

"He who followed us and spoke to us
awaits us there; behold!"

De Winter turned and followed the
direction of Aramis's finger. The beacon
bathed with light the little strait
through which they were about to pass
and the rock where the young man stood
with bare head and crossed arms.

"It is he!" exclaimed De Winter, seizing
the arm of Athos; "it is he! I thought I
recognized him and I was not mistaken."

"Whom do you mean?" asked Aramis.

"Milady's son," replied Athos.

"The monk!" exclaimed Grimaud.

The young man heard these words and bent
so forward over the rock that one might
have supposed he was about to
precipitate himself from it.

"Yes, it is I, my uncle -- I, the son of
Milady -- I, the monk -- I, the
secretary and friend of Cromwell -- I
know you now, both you and your
companions."

In that boat sat three men,
unquestionably brave, whose courage no
man would have dared dispute;
nevertheless, at that voice, that accent
and those gestures, they felt a chill
access of terror cramp their veins. As
for Grimaud, his hair stood on end and
drops of sweat ran down his brow.

"Ah!" exclaimed Aramis, "that is the
nephew, the monk, and the son of Milady,
as he says himself."

"Alas, yes," murmured De Winter.

"Then wait," said Aramis; and with the
terrible coolness which on important
occasions he showed, he took one of the
muskets from Tony, shouldered and aimed
it at the young man, who stood, like the
accusing angel, upon the rock.

"Fire!" cried Grimaud, unconsciously.

Athos threw himself on the muzzle of the
gun and arrested the shot which was
about to be fired.

"The devil take you," said Aramis. "I
had him so well at the point of my gun I
should have sent a ball into his
breast."

"It is enough to have killed the
mother," said Athos, hoarsely.

"The mother was a wretch, who struck at
us all and at those dear to us."

"Yes, but the son has done us no harm."

Grimaud, who had risen to watch the
effect of the shot, fell back hopeless,
wringing his hands.

The young man burst into a laugh.

"Ah, it is certainly you!" he cried. "I
know you even better now."

His mocking laugh and threatening words
passed over their heads, carried by the
breeze, until lost in the depths of the
horizon. Aramis shuddered.

"Be calm," exclaimed Athos, "for
Heaven's sake! have we ceased to be
men?"

"No," said Aramis, "but that fellow is a
fiend; and ask the uncle whether I was
wrong to rid him of his dear nephew."

De Winter only replied by a groan.

"It was all up with him," continued
Aramis; "ah I much fear that with all
your wisdom such mercy yet will prove
supernal folly."

Athos took Lord de Winter's hand and
tried to turn the conversation.

"When shall we land in England?" he
asked; but De Winter seemed not to hear
his words and made no reply.

"Hold, Athos," said Aramis, "perhaps
there is yet time. See if he is still in
the same place."

Athos turned around with an effort; the
sight of the young man was evidently
painful to him, and there he still was,
in fact, on the rock, the beacon
shedding around him, as it were, a
doubtful aureole.

"Decidedly, Aramis," said Athos, "I
think I was wrong not to let you fire."

"Hold your tongue," replied Aramis; "you
would make me weep, if such a thing were
possible."

At this moment they were hailed by a
voice from the sloop and a few seconds
later men, servants and baggage were
aboard. The captain was only waiting for
his passengers; hardly had they put foot
on deck ere her head was turned towards
Hastings, where they were to disembark.
At this instant the three friends
turned, in spite of themselves, a last
look on the rock, upon the menacing
figure which pursued them and now stood
out with a distinctness still. Then a
voice reached them once more, sending
this threat: "To our next meeting, sirs,
in England."



44

Te Deum for the Victory of Lens.



The bustle which had been observed by
Henrietta Maria and for which she had
vainly sought to discover a reason, was
occasioned by the battle of Lens,
announced by the prince's messenger, the
Duc de Chatillon, who had taken such a
noble part in the engagement; he was,
besides, charged to hang five and twenty
flags, taken from the Lorraine party, as
well as from the Spaniards, upon the
arches of Notre Dame.

Such news was decisive; it destroyed, in
favor of the court, the struggle
commenced with parliament. The motive
given for all the taxes summarily
imposed and to which the parliament had
made opposition, was the necessity of
sustaining the honor of France and the
uncertain hope of beating the enemy.
Now, since the affair of Nordlingen,
they had experienced nothing but
reverses; the parliament had a plea for
calling Mazarin to account for imaginary
victories, always promised, ever
deferred; but this time there really had
been fighting, a triumph and a complete
one. And this all knew so well that it
was a double victory for the court, a
victory at home and abroad; so that even
when the young king learned the news he
exclaimed, "Ah, gentlemen of the
parliament, we shall see what you will
say now!" Upon which the queen had
pressed the royal child to her heart,
whose haughty and unruly sentiments were
in such harmony with her own. A council
was called on the same evening, but
nothing transpired of what had been
decided on. It was only known that on
the following Sunday a Te Deum would be
sung at Notre Dame in honor of the
victory of Lens.

The following Sunday, then, the
Parisians arose with joy; at that period
a Te Deum was a grand affair; this kind
of ceremony had not then been abused and
it produced a great effect. The shops
were deserted, houses closed; every one
wished to see the young king with his
mother, and the famous Cardinal Mazarin
whom they hated so much that no one
wished to be deprived of his presence.
Moreover, great liberty prevailed
throughout the immense crowd; every
opinion was openly expressed and
chorused, so to speak, of coming
insurrection, as the thousand bells of
all the Paris churches rang out the Te
Deum. The police belonging to the city
being formed by the city itself, nothing
threatening presented itself to disturb
this concert of universal hatred or
freeze the frequent scoffs of slanderous
lips.

Nevertheless, at eight o'clock in the
morning the regiment of the queen's
guards, commanded by Guitant, under whom
was his nephew Comminges, marched
publicly, preceded by drums and
trumpets, filing off from the Palais
Royal as far as Notre Dame, a manoeuvre
which the Parisians witnessed
tranquilly, delighted as they were with
military music and brilliant uniforms.

Friquet had put on his Sunday clothes,
under the pretext of having a swollen
face which he had managed to simulate by
introducing a handful of cherry kernels
into one side of his mouth, and had
procured a whole holiday from Bazin. On
leaving Bazin, Friquet started off to
the Palais Royal, where he arrived at
the moment of the turning out of the
regiment of guards; and as he had only
gone there for the enjoyment of seeing
it and hearing the music, he took his
place at their head, beating the drum on
two pieces of slate and passing from
that exercise to that of the trumpet,
which he counterfeited quite naturally
with his mouth in a manner which had
more than once called forth the praises
of amateurs of imitative harmony.

This amusement lasted from the Barriere
des Sergens to the place of Notre Dame,
and Friquet found in it very real
enjoyment; but when at last the regiment
separated, penetrated the heart of the
city and placed itself at the extremity
of the Rue Saint Christophe, near the
Rue Cocatrix, in which Broussel lived,
then Friquet remembered that he had not
had breakfast; and after thinking in
which direction he had better turn his
steps in order to accomplish this
important act of the day, he reflected
deeply and decided that Councillor
Broussel should bear the cost of this
repast.

In consequence he took to his heels,
arrived breathlessly at the councillor's
door, and knocked violently.

His mother, the councillor's old
servant, opened it.

"What doest thou here,
good-for-nothing?" she said, "and why
art thou not at Notre Dame?"

"I have been there, mother," said
Friquet, "but I saw things happen of
which Master Broussel ought to be
warned, and so with Monsieur Bazin's
permission -- you know, mother, Monsieur
Bazin, the verger -- I came to speak to
Monsieur Broussel."

"And what hast thou to say, boy, to
Monsieur Broussel?"

"I wish to tell him," replied Friquet,
screaming with all his might, "that
there is a whole regiment of guards
coming this way. And as I hear
everywhere that at the court they are
ill-disposed to him, I wish to warn him,
that he may be on his guard."

Broussel heard the scream of the young
oddity, and, enchanted with this excess
of zeal, came down to the first floor,
for he was, in truth, working in his
room on the second.

"Well," said he, "friend, what matters
the regiment of guards to us, and art
thou not mad to make such a disturbance?
Knowest thou not that it is the custom
of these soldiers to act thus and that
it is usual for the regiment to form
themselves into two solid walls when the
king goes by?"

Friquet counterfeited surprise, and
twisting his new cap around in his
fingers, said:

"It is not astonishing for you to know
it, Monsieur Broussel, who knows
everything; but as for me, by holy
truth, I did not know it and I thought I
would give you good advice; you must not
be angry with me for that, Monsieur
Broussel."

"On the contrary, my boy, on the
contrary, I am pleased with your zeal.
Dame Nanette, look for those apricots
which Madame de Longueville sent to us
yesterday from Noisy and give half a
dozen of them to your son, with a crust
of new bread."

"Oh, thank you, sir, thank you, Monsieur
Broussel," said Friquet; "I am so fond
of apricots!"

Broussel then proceeded to his wife's
room and asked for breakfast; it was
nine o'clock. The councillor placed
himself at the window; the street was
completely deserted, but in the distance
was heard, like the noise of the tide
rushing in, the deep hum of the populous
waves increasing now around Notre Dame.

This noise redoubled when D'Artagnan,
with a company of musketeers, placed
himself at the gates of Notre Dame to
secure the service of the church. He had
instructed Porthos to profit by this
opportunity to see the ceremony; and
Porthos, in full dress, mounted his
finest horse, taking the part of
supernumerary musketeer, as D'Artagnan
had so often done formerly. The sergeant
of this company, a veteran of the
Spanish wars, had recognized Porthos,
his old companion, and very soon all
those who served under him were placed
in possession of startling facts
concerning the honor of the ancient
musketeers of Treville. Porthos had not
only been well received by the company,
but he was moreover looked on with great
admiration.

At ten o'clock the guns of the Louvre
announced the departure of the king, and
then a movement, similar to that of
trees in a stormy wind that bend and
writhe with agitated tops, ran though
the multitude, which was compressed
behind the immovable muskets of the
guard. At last the king appeared with
the queen in a gilded chariot. Ten other
carriages followed, containing the
ladies of honor, the officers of the
royal household, and the court.

"God save the king!" was the cry in
every direction; the young monarch
gravely put his head out of the window,
looked sufficiently grateful and even
bowed; at which the cries of the
multitude were renewed.

Just as the court was settling down in
the cathedral, a carriage, bearing the
arms of Comminges, quitted the line of
the court carriages and proceeded slowly
to the end of the Rue Saint Christophe,
now entirely deserted. When it arrived
there, four guards and a police officer,
who accompanied it, mounted into the
heavy machine and closed the shutters;
then through an opening cautiously made,
the policeman began to watch the length
of the Rue Cocatrix, as if he was
waiting for some one.

All the world was occupied with the
ceremony, so that neither the chariot
nor the precautions taken by those who
were within it had been observed.
Friquet, whose eye, ever on the alert,
could alone have discovered them, had
gone to devour his apricots upon the
entablature of a house in the square of
Notre Dame. Thence he saw the king, the
queen and Monsieur Mazarin, and heard
the mass as well as if he had been on
duty.

Toward the end of the service, the
queen, seeing Comminges standing near
her, waiting for a confirmation of the
order she had given him before quitting
the Louvre, said in a whisper:

"Go, Comminges, and may God aid you!"

Comminges immediately left the church
and entered the Rue Saint Christophe.
Friquet, seeing this fine officer thus
walk away, followed by two guards,
amused himself by pursuing them and did
this so much the more gladly as the
ceremony ended at that instant and the
king remounted his carriage.

Hardly had the police officer observed
Comminges at the end of the Rue Cocatrix
when he said one word to the coachman,
who at once put his vehicle into motion
and drove up before Broussel's door.
Comminges knocked at the door at the
same moment, and Friquet was waiting
behind Comminges until the door should
be opened.

"What dost thou there, rascal?" asked
Comminges.

"I want to go into Master Broussel's
house, captain," replied Friquet, in
that wheedling way the "gamins" of Paris
know so well how to assume when
necessary.

"And on what floor does he live?" asked
Comminges.

"In the whole house," said Friquet; "the
house belongs to him; he occupies the
second floor when he works and descends
to the first to take his meals; he must
be at dinner now; it is noon."

"Good," said Comminges.

At this moment the door was opened, and
having questioned the servant the
officer learned that Master Broussel was
at home and at dinner.

Broussel was seated at the table with
his family, having his wife opposite to
him, his two daughters by his side, and
his son, Louvieres, whom we have already
seen when the accident happened to the
councillor -- an accident from which he
had quite recovered -- at the bottom of
the table. The worthy man, restored to
perfect health, was tasting the fine
fruit which Madame de Longueville had
sent to him.

At sight of the officer Broussel was
somewhat moved, but seeing him bow
politely he rose and bowed also. Still,
in spite of this reciprocal politeness,
the countenances of the women betrayed a
certain amount of uneasiness; Louvieres
became very pale and waited impatiently
for the officer to explain himself.

"Sir," said Comminges, "I am the bearer
of an order from the king."

"Very well, sir," replied Broussel,
"what is this order?" And he held out
his hand.

"I am commissioned to seize your person,
sir," said Comminges, in the same tone
and with the same politeness; "and if
you will believe me you had better spare
yourself the trouble of reading that
long letter and follow me."

A thunderbolt falling in the midst of
these good people, so peacefully
assembled there, would not have produced
a more appalling effect. It was a
horrible thing at that period to be
imprisoned by the enmity of the king.
Louvieres sprang forward to snatch his
sword, which stood against a chair in a
corner of the room; but a glance from
the worthy Broussel, who in the midst of
it all did not lose his presence of
mind, checked this foolhardy action of
despair. Madame Broussel, separated by
the width of the table from her husband,
burst into tears, and the young girls
clung to their father's arms.

"Come, sir," said Comminges, "make
haste; you must obey the king."

"Sir," said Broussel, "I am in bad
health and cannot give myself up a
prisoner in this state; I must have
time."

"It is impossible," said Comminges; "the
order is strict and must be put into
execution this instant."

"Impossible!" said Louvieres; "sir,
beware of driving us to despair."

"Impossible!" cried a shrill voice from
the end of the room.

Comminges turned and saw Dame Nanette,
her eyes flashing with anger and a broom
in her hand.

"My good Nanette, be quiet, I beseech
you," said Broussel.

"Me! keep quiet while my master is being
arrested! he, the support, the
liberator, the father of the people! Ah!
well, yes; you have to know me yet. Are
you going?" added she to Comminges.

The latter smiled.

"Come, sir," said he, addressing
Broussel, "silence that woman and follow
me."

"Silence me! me! me!" said Nanette. "Ah!
yet one wants some one besides you for
that, my fine king's cockatoo! You shall
see." And Dame Nanette sprang to the
window, threw it open, and in such a
piercing voice that it might have been
heard in the square of Notre Dame:

"Help!" she screamed, "my master is
being arrested; the Councillor Broussel
is being arrested! Help!"

"Sir," said Comminges, "declare yourself
at once; will you obey or do you intend
to rebel against the king?"

"I obey, I obey, sir!" cried Broussel,
trying to disengage himself from the
grasp of his two daughters and by a look
restrain his son, who seemed determined
to dispute authority.

"In that case," commanded Comminges,
"silence that old woman."

"Ah! old woman!" screamed Nanette.

And she began to shriek more loudly,
clinging to the bars of the window:

"Help! help! for Master Broussel, who is
arrested because he has defended the
people! Help!"

Comminges seized the servant around the
waist and would have dragged her from
her post; but at that instant a treble
voice, proceeding from a kind of
entresol, was heard screeching:

"Murder! fire! assassins! Master
Broussel is being killed! Master
Broussel is being strangled."

It was Friquet's voice; and Dame
Nanette, feeling herself supported,
recommenced with all her strength to
sound her shrilly squawk.

Many curious faces had already appeared
at the windows and the people attracted
to the end of the street began to run,
first men, then groups, and then a crowd
of people; hearing cries and seeing a
chariot they could not understand it;
but Friquet sprang from the entresol on
to the top of the carriage.

"They want to arrest Master Broussel!"
he cried; "the guards are in the
carriage and the officer is upstairs!"

The crowd began to murmur and approached
the house. The two guards who had
remained in the lane mounted to the aid
of Comminges; those who were in the
chariot opened the doors and presented
arms.

"Don't you see them?" cried Friquet,
"don't you see? there they are!"

The coachman turning around, gave
Friquet a slash with his whip which made
him scream with pain.

"Ah! devil's coachman!" cried Friquet,
"you're meddling too! Wait!"

And regaining his entresol he
overwhelmed the coachman with every
projectile he could lay hands on.

The tumult now began to increase; the
street was not able to contain the
spectators who assembled from every
direction; the crowd invaded the space
which the dreaded pikes of the guards
had till then kept clear between them
and the carriage. The soldiers, pushed
back by these living walls, were in
danger of being crushed against the
spokes of the wheels and the panels of
the carriages. The cries which the
police officer repeated twenty times:
"In the king's name," were powerless
against this formidable multitude --
seemed, on the contrary, to exasperate
it still more; when, at the shout, "In
the name of the king," an officer ran
up, and seeing the uniforms ill-treated,
he sprang into the scuffle sword in
hand, and brought unexpected help to the
guards. This gentleman was a young man,
scarcely sixteen years of age, now white
with anger. He leaped from his charger,
placed his back against the shaft of the
carriage, making a rampart of his horse,
drew his pistols from their holsters and
fastened them to his belt, and began to
fight with the back sword, like a man
accustomed to the handling of his
weapon.

During ten minutes he alone kept the
crowd at bay; at last Comminges
appeared, pushing Broussel before him.

"Let us break the carriage!" cried the
people.

"In the king's name!" cried Comminges.

"The first who advances is a dead man!"
cried Raoul, for it was in fact he, who,
feeling himself pressed and almost
crushed by a gigantic citizen, pricked
him with the point of his sword and sent
him howling back.

Comminges, so to speak, threw Broussel
into the carriage and sprang in after
him. At this moment a shot was fired and
a ball passed through the hat of
Comminges and broke the arm of one of
the guards. Comminges looked up and saw
amidst the smoke the threatening face of
Louvieres appearing at the window of the
second floor.

"Very well, sir," said Comminges, "you
shall hear of this anon."

"And you of me, sir," said Louvieres;
"and we shall see then who can speak the
loudest."

Friquet and Nanette continued to shout;
the cries, the noise of the shot and the
intoxicating smell of powder produced
their usual maddening effects.

"Down with the officer! down with him!"
was the cry.

"One step nearer," said Comminges,
putting down the sashes, that the
interior of the carriage might be well
seen, and placing his sword on his
prisoner's breast, "one step nearer, and
I kill the prisoner; my orders were to
carry him off alive or dead. I will take
him dead, that's all."

A terrible cry was heard, and the wife
and daughters of Broussel held up their
hands in supplication to the people; the
latter knew that this officer, who was
so pale, but who appeared so determined,
would keep his word; they continued to
threaten, but they began to disperse.

"Drive to the palace," said Comminges to
the coachman, who was by then more dead
than alive.

The man whipped his animals, which
cleared a way through the crowd; but on
arriving on the Quai they were obliged
to stop; the carriage was upset, the
horses carried off, stifled, mangled by
the crowd. Raoul, on foot, for he had
not time to mount his horse again,
tired, like the guards, of distributing
blows with the flat of his sword, had
recourse to its point. But this last and
dreaded resource served only to
exasperate the multitude. From time to
time a shot from a musket or the blade
of a rapier flashed among the crowd;
projectiles continued to hail down from
the windows and some shots were heard,
the echo of which, though they were
probably fired in the air, made all
hearts vibrate. Voices, unheard except
on days of revolution, were
distinguished; faces were seen that only
appeared on days of bloodshed. Cries of
"Death! death to the guards! to the
Seine with the officer!" were heard
above all the noise, deafening as it
was. Raoul, his hat in ribbons, his face
bleeding, felt not only his strength but
also his reason going; a red mist
covered his sight, and through this mist
he saw a hundred threatening arms
stretched over him, ready to seize upon
him when he fell. The guards were unable
to help any one -- each one was occupied
with his self-preservation. All was
over; carriages, horses, guards, and
perhaps even the prisoner were about to
be torn to shreds, when all at once a
voice well known to Raoul was heard, and
suddenly a great sword glittered in the
air; at the same time the crowd opened,
upset, trodden down, and an officer of
the musketeers, striking and cutting
right and left, rushed up to Raoul and
took him in his arms just as he was
about to fall.

"God's blood!" cried the officer, "have
they killed him? Woe to them if it be
so!"

And he turned around, so stern with
anger, strength and threat, that the
most excited rebels hustled back on one
another, in order to escape, and some of
them even rolled into the Seine.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" murmured Raoul.

"Yes, 'sdeath! in person, and
fortunately it seems for you, my young
friend. Come on, here, you others," he
continued, rising in his stirrups,
raising his sword, and addressing those
musketeers who had not been able to
follow his rapid onslaught. "Come, sweep
away all that for me! Shoulder muskets!
Present arms! Aim ---- "

At this command the mountain of populace
thinned so suddenly that D'Artagnan
could not repress a burst of Homeric
laughter.

"Thank you, D'Artagnan," said Comminges,
showing half of his body through the
window of the broken vehicle, "thanks,
my young friend; your name -- that I may
mention it to the queen."

Raoul was about to reply when D'Artagnan
bent down to his ear.

"Hold your tongue," said he, "and let me
answer. Do not lose time, Comminges," he
continued; "get out of the carriage if
you can and make another draw up; be
quick, or in five minutes the mob will
be on us again with swords and muskets
and you will be killed. Hold! there's a
carriage coming over yonder."

Then bending again to Raoul, he
whispered: "Above all things do not
divulge your name."

"That's right. I will go," said
Comminges; "and if they come back,
fire!"

"Not at all -- not at all," replied
D'Artagnan; "let no one move. On the
contrary, one shot at this moment would
be paid for dearly to-morrow."

Comminges took his four guards and as
many musketeers and ran to the carriage,
from which he made the people inside
dismount, and brought them to the
vehicle which had upset. But when it was
necessary to convey the prisoner from
one carriage to the other, the people,
catching sight of him whom they called
their liberator, uttered every
imaginable cry and knotted themselves
once more around the vehicle.

"Start, start!" said D'Artagnan. "There
are ten men to accompany you. I will
keep twenty to hold in check the mob;
go, and lose not a moment. Ten men for
Monsieur de Comminges."

As the carriage started off the cries
were redoubled and more than ten
thousand people thronged the Quai and
overflowed the Pont Neuf and adjacent
streets. A few shots were fired and one
musketeer was wounded.

"Forward!" cried D'Artagnan, driven to
extremities, biting his moustache; and
then he charged with his twenty men and
dispersed them in fear. One man alone
remained in his place, gun in hand.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "it is thou who
wouldst have him assassinated? Wait an
instant." And he pointed his gun at
D'Artagnan, who was riding toward him at
full speed. D'Artagnan bent down to his
horse's neck the young man fired, and
the ball severed the feathers from the
hat. The horse started, brushed against
the imprudent man, who thought by his
strength alone to stay the tempest, and
he fell against the wall. D'Artagnan
pulled up his horse, and whilst his
musketeers continued to charge, he
returned and bent with drawn sword over
the man he had knocked down.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Raoul, recognizing
the young man as having seen him in the
Rue Cocatrix, "spare him! it is his
son!"

D'Artagnan's arm dropped to his side.
"Ah, you are his son!" he said; "that is
a different thing."

"Sir, I surrender," said Louvieres,
presenting his unloaded musket to the
officer.

"Eh, no! do not surrender, egad! On the
contrary, be off, and quickly. If I take
you, you will be hung!"

The young man did not wait to be told
twice, but passing under the horse's
head disappeared at the corner of the
Rue Guenegaud.

"I'faith!" said D'Artagnan to Raoul,
"you were just in time to stay my hand.
He was a dead man; and on my honor, if I
had discovered that it was his son, I
should have regretted having killed
him."

"Ah! sir!" said Raoul, "allow me, after
thanking you for that poor fellow's
life, to thank you on my own account. I
too, sir, was almost dead when you
arrived."

"Wait, wait, young man; do not fatigue
yourself with speaking. We can talk of
it afterward."

Then seeing that the musketeers had
cleared the Quai from the Pont Neuf to
the Quai Saint Michael, he raised his
sword for them to double their speed.
The musketeers trotted up, and at the
same time the ten men whom D'Artagnan
had given to Comminges appeared.

"Halloo!" cried D'Artagnan; "has
something fresh happened?"

"Eh, sir!" replied the sergeant, "their
vehicle has broken down a second time;
it really must be doomed."

"They are bad managers," said
D'Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders.
"When a carriage is chosen, it ought to
be strong. The carriage in which a
Broussel is to be arrested ought to be
able to bear ten thousand men."

"What are your commands, lieutenant?"

"Take the detachment and conduct him to
his place."

"But you will be left alone?"

"Certainly. So you suppose I have need
of an escort? Go."

The musketeers set off and D'Artagnan
was left alone with Raoul.

"Now," he said, "are you in pain?"

"Yes; my head is not only swimming but
burning."

"What's the matter with this head?" said
D'Artagnan, raising the battered hat.
"Ah! ah! a bruise."

"Yes, I think I received a flower-pot
upon my head."

"Brutes!" said D'Artagnan. "But were you
not on horseback? you have spurs."

"Yes, but I got down to defend Monsieur
de Comminges and my horse was taken
away. Here it is, I see."

At this very moment Friquet passed,
mounted on Raoul's horse, waving his
parti-colored cap and crying, "Broussel!
Broussel!"

"Halloo! stop, rascal!" cried
D'Artagnan. "Bring hither that horse."

Friquet heard perfectly, but he
pretended not to do so and tried to
continue his road. D'Artagnan felt
inclined for an instant to pursue Master
Friquet, but not wishing to leave Raoul
alone he contented himself with taking a
pistol from the holster and cocking it.

Friquet had a quick eye and a fine ear.
He saw D'Artagnan's movement, heard the
sound of the click, and stopped at once.

"Ah! it is you, your honor," he said,
advancing toward D'Artagnan; "and I am
truly pleased to meet you."

D'Artagnan looked attentively at Friquet
and recognized the little chorister of
the Rue de la Calandre.

"Ah! 'tis thou, rascal!" said he, "come
here: so thou hast changed thy trade;
thou art no longer a choir boy nor a
tavern boy; thou hast become a horse
stealer?"

"Ah, your honor, how can you say so?"
exclaimed Friquet. "I was seeking the
gentleman to whom this horse belongs --
an officer, brave and handsome as a
youthful Caesar; "then, pretending to
see Raoul for the first time:

"Ah! but if I mistake not," continued
he, "here he is; you won't forget the
boy, sir."

Raoul put his hand in his pocket.

"What are you about?" asked D'Artagnan.

"To give ten francs to this honest
fellow," replied Raoul, taking a pistole
from his pocket.

"Ten kicks on his back!" said
D'Artagnan; "be off, you little villain,
and forget not that I have your
address."

Friquet, who did not expect to be let
off so cheaply, bounded off like a
gazelle up the Quai a la Rue Dauphine,
and disappeared. Raoul mounted his
horse, and both leisurely took their way
to the Rue Tiquetonne.

D'Artagnan watched over the youth as if
he had been his own son.

They arrived without accident at the
Hotel de la Chevrette.

The handsome Madeleine announced to
D'Artagnan that Planchet had returned,
bringing Mousqueton with him, who had
heroically borne the extraction of the
ball and was as well as his state would
permit.

D'Artagnan desired Planchet to be
summoned, but he had disappeared.

"Then bring some wine," said D'Artagnan.
"You are much pleased with yourself,"
said he to Raoul when they were alone,
"are you not?"

"Well, yes," replied Raoul. "It seems to
me I did my duty. I defended the king."

"And who told you to defend the king?"

"The Comte de la Fere himself."

"Yes, the king; but to-day you have not
fought for the king, you have fought for
Mazarin; which is not quite the same
thing."

"But you yourself?"

"Oh, for me; that is another matter. I
obey my captain's orders. As for you,
your captain is the prince, understand
that rightly; you have no other. But has
one ever seen such a wild fellow,"
continued he, "making himself a
Mazarinist and helping to arrest
Broussel! Breathe not a word of that, or
the Comte de la Fere will be furious."

"You think the count will be angry with
me?"

"Think it? I'm certain of it; were it
not for that, I should thank you, for
you have worked for us. However, I scold
you instead of him, and in his place;
the storm will blow over more easily,
believe me. And moreover, my dear
child," continued D'Artagnan, "I am
making use of the privilege conceded to
me by your guardian."

"I do not understand you, sir," said
Raoul.

D'Artagnan rose, and taking a letter
from his writing-desk, presented it to
Raoul. The face of the latter became
serious when he had cast his eyes upon
the paper.

"Oh, mon Dieu!" he said, raising his
fine eyes to D'Artagnan, moist with
tears, "the count has left Paris without
seeing me?"

"He left four days ago," said
D'Artagnan.

"But this letter seems to intimate that
he is about to incur danger, perhaps
death."

"He -- he -- incur danger of death! No,
be not anxious; he is traveling on
business and will return ere long. I
hope you have no repugnance to accept me
as your guardian in the interim."

"Oh, no, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said
Raoul, "you are such a brave gentleman
and the Comte de la Fere has so much
affection for you!"

"Eh! Egad! love me too; I will not
torment you much, but only on condition
that you become a Frondist, my young
friend, and a hearty Frondist, too."

"But can I continue to visit Madame de
Chevreuse?"

"I should say you could! and the
coadjutor and Madame de Longueville; and
if the worthy Broussel were there, whom
you so stupidly helped arrest, I should
tell you to excuse yourself to him at
once and kiss him on both cheeks."

"Well, sir, I will obey you, although I
do not understand you.

"It is unnecessary for you to
understand. Hold," continued D'Artagnan,
turning toward the door, which had just
opened, "here is Monsieur du Vallon, who
comes with his coat torn."

"Yes, but in exchange," said Porthos,
covered with perspiration and soiled by
dust, "in exchange, I have torn many
skins. Those wretches wanted to take
away my sword! Deuce take 'em, what a
popular commotion!" continued the giant,
in his quiet manner; "but I knocked down
more than twenty with the hilt of
Balizarde. A draught of wine,
D'Artagnan."

"Oh, I'll aswer for you," said the
Gascon, filling Porthos's glass to the
brim; "but when you have drunk, give me
your opinion."

"Upon what?" asked Porthos.

"Look here," resumed D'Artagnan; "here
is Monsieur de Bragelonne, who
determined at all risks to aid the
arrest of Broussel and whom I had great
difficulty to prevent defending Monsieur
de Comminges."

"The devil!" said Porthos; "and his
guardian, what would he have said to
that?"

"Do you hear?" interrupted D'Artagnan;
"become a Frondist, my friend, belong to
the Fronde, and remember that I fill the
count's place in everything;" and he
jingled his money.

"Will you come?" said he to Porthos.

"Where?" asked Porthos, filling a second
glass of wine.

"To present our respects to the
cardinal."

Porthos swallowed the second glass with
the same grace with which he had imbibed
the first, took his beaver and followed
D'Artagnan. As for Raoul, he remained
bewildered with what he had seen, having
been forbidden by D'Artagnan to leave
the room until the tumult was over.



45

The Beggar of St. Eustache.



D'Artagnan had calculated that in not
going at once to the Palais Royal he
would give Comminges time to arrive
before him, and consequently to make the
cardinal acquainted with the eminent
services which he, D'Artagnan, and his
friend had rendered to the queen's party
in the morning.

They were indeed admirably received by
Mazarin, who paid them numerous
compliments, and announced that they
were more than half on their way to
obtain what they desired, namely,
D'Artagnan his captaincy, Porthos his
barony.

D'Artagnan would have preferred money in
hand to all that fine talk, for he knew
well that to Mazarin it was easy to
promise and hard to perform. But, though
he held the cardinal's promises as of
little worth, he affected to be
completely satisfied, for he was
unwilling to discourage Porthos.

Whilst the two friends were with the
cardinal, the queen sent for him.
Mazarin, thinking that it would be the
means of increasing the zeal of his two
defenders if he procured them personal
thanks from the queen, motioned them to
follow him. D'Artagnan and Porthos
pointed to their dusty and torn dresses,
but the cardinal shook his head.

"Those costumes," he said, "are of more
worth than most of those which you will
see on the backs of the queen's
courtiers; they are costumes of battle."

D'Artagnan and Porthos obeyed. The court
of Anne of Austria was full of gayety
and animation; for, after having gained
a victory over the Spaniard, it had just
gained another over the people. Broussel
had been conducted out of Paris without
further resistance, and was at this time
in the prison of Saint Germain; while
Blancmesnil, who was arrested at the
same time, but whose arrest had been
made without difficulty or noise, was
safe in the Castle of Vincennes.

Comminges was near the queen, who was
questioning him upon the details of his
expedition, and every one was listening
to his account, when D'Artagnan and
Porthos were perceived at the door,
behind the cardinal.

"Ah, madame," said Comminges, hastening
to D'Artagnan, "here is one who can tell
you better than myself, for he was my
protector. Without him I should probably
at this moment be a dead fish in the
nets at Saint Cloud, for it was a
question of nothing less than throwing
me into the river. Speak, D'Artagnan,
speak."

D'Artagnan had been a hundred times in
the same room with the queen since he
had become lieutenant of the musketeers,
but her majesty had never once spoken to
him.

"Well, sir," at last said Anne of
Austria, "you are silent, after
rendering such a service?"

"Madame," replied D'Artagnan, "I have
nought to say, save that my life is ever
at your majesty's service, and that I
shall only be happy the day I lose it
for you.

"I know that, sir; I have known that,"
said the queen, "a long time; therefore
I am delighted to be able thus publicly
to mark my gratitude and my esteem."

"Permit me, madame," said D'Artagnan,
"to reserve a portion for my friend;
like myself" (he laid an emphasis on
these words) "an ancient musketeer of
the company of Treville; he has done
wonders."

"His name?" asked the queen.

"In the regiment," said D'Artagnan, "he
is called Porthos" (the queen started),
"but his true name is the Chevalier du
Vallon."

"De Bracieux de Pierrefonds," added
Porthos.

"These names are too numerous for me to
remember them all, and I will content
myself with the first," said the queen,
graciously. Porthos bowed. At this
moment the coadjutor was announced; a
cry of surprise ran through the royal
assemblage. Although the coadjutor had
preached that same morning it was well
known that he leaned much to the side of
the Fronde; and Mazarin, in requesting
the archbishop of Paris to make his
nephew preach, had evidently had the
intention of administering to Monsieur
de Retz one of those Italian kicks he so
much enjoyed giving.

The fact was, in leaving Notre Dame the
coadjutor had learned the event of the
day. Although almost engaged to the
leaders of the Fronde he had not gone so
far but that retreat was possible should
the court offer him the advantages for
which he was ambitious and to which the
coadjutorship was but a stepping-stone.
Monsieur de Retz wished to become
archbishop in his uncle's place, and
cardinal, like Mazarin; and the popular
party could with difficulty accord him
favors so entirely royal. He therefore
hastened to the palace to congratulate
the queen on the battle of Lens,
determined beforehand to act with or
against the court, as his
congratulations were well or ill
received.

The coadjutor possessed, perhaps, as
much wit as all those put together who
were assembled at the court to laugh at
him. His speech, therefore, was so well
turned, that in spite of the great wish
felt by the courtiers to laugh, they
could find no point on which to vent
their ridicule. He concluded by saying
that he placed his feeble influence at
her majesty's command.

During the whole time he was speaking,
the queen appeared to be well pleased
with the coadjutor's harangue; but
terminating as it did with such a
phrase, the only one which could be
caught at by the jokers, Anne turned
around and directed a glance toward her
favorites, which announced that she
delivered up the coadjutor to their
tender mercies. Immediately the wits of
the court plunged into satire.
Nogent-Beautin, the fool of the court,
exclaimed that "the queen was very happy
to have the succor of religion at such a
moment." This caused a universal burst
of laughter. The Count de Villeroy said
that "he did not know how any fear could
be entertained for a moment, when the
court had, to defend itself against the
parliament and the citizens of Paris,
his holiness the coadjutor, who by a
signal could raise an army of curates,
church porters and vergers."

The Marechal de la Meilleraie added that
in case the coadjutor should appear on
the field of battle it would be a pity
that he should not be distinguished in
the melee by wearing a red hat, as Henry
IV. had been distinguished by his white
plume at the battle of Ivry.

During this storm, Gondy, who had it in
his power to make it most unpleasant for
the jesters, remained calm and stern.
The queen at last asked him if he had
anything to add to the fine discourse he
had just made to her.

"Yes, madame," replied the coadjutor; "I
have to beg you to reflect twice ere you
cause a civil war in the kingdom."

The queen turned her back and the
laughing recommenced.

The coadjutor bowed and left the palace,
casting upon the cardinal such a glance
as is best understood by mortal foes.
That glance was so sharp that it
penetrated the heart of Mazarin, who,
reading in it a declaration of war,
seized D'Artagnan by the arm and said:

"If occasion requires, monsieur, you
will remember that man who has just gone
out, will you not?"

"Yes, my lord," he replied. Then,
turning toward Porthos, "The devil!"
said he, "this has a bad look. I dislike
these quarrels among men of the church."

Gondy withdrew, distributing
benedictions on his way, and finding a
malicious satisfaction in causing the
adherents of his foes to prostrate
themselves at his feet.

"Oh!" he murmured, as he left the
threshold of the palace: "ungrateful
court! faithless court! cowardly court!
I will teach you how to laugh
to-morrow -- but in another manner."

But whilst they were indulging in
extravagant joy at the Palais Royal, to
increase the hilarity of the queen,
Mazarin, a man of sense, and whose fear,
moreover, gave him foresight, lost no
time in making idle and dangerous jokes;
he went out after the coadjutor, settled
his account, locked up his gold, and had
confidential workmen to contrive hiding
places in his walls.

On his return home the coadjutor was
informed that a young man had come in
after his departure and was waiting for
him; he started with delight when, on
demanding the name of this young man, he
learned that it was Louvieres. He
hastened to his cabinet. Broussel's son
was there, still furious, and still
bearing bloody marks of his struggle
with the king's officers. The only
precaution he had taken in coming to the
archbishopric was to leave his arquebuse
in the hands of a friend.

The coadjutor went to him and held out
his hand. The young man gazed at him as
if he would have read the secret of his
heart.

"My dear Monsieur Louvieres," said the
coadjutor, "believe me, I am truly
concerned for the misfortune which has
happened to you."

"Is that true, and do you speak
seriously?" asked Louvieres.

"From the depth of my heart," said
Gondy.

"In that case, my lord, the time for
words has passed and the hour for action
is at hand; my lord, in three days, if
you wish it, my father will be out of
prison and in six months you may be
cardinal."

The coadjutor started.

"Oh! let us speak frankly," continued
Louvieres, "and act in a straightforward
manner. Thirty thousand crowns in alms
is not given, as you have done for the
last six months, out of pure Christian
charity; that would be too grand. You
are ambitious -- it is natural; you are
a man of genius and you know your worth.
As for me, I hate the court and have but
one desire at this moment -- vengeance.
Give us the clergy and the people, of
whom you can dispose, and I will bring
you the citizens and the parliament;
with these four elements Paris is ours
in a week; and believe me, monsieur
coadjutor, the court will give from fear
what it will not give from good-will."

It was now the coadjutor's turn to fix
his piercing eyes on Louvieres.

"But, Monsieur Louvieres, are you aware
that it is simply civil war you are
proposing to me?"

"You have been preparing long enough, my
lord, for it to be welcome to you now."

"Never mind," said the coadjutor; "you
must be well aware that this requires
reflection."

"And how many hours of reflection do you
ask?"

"Twelve hours, sir; is it too long?"

"It is now noon; at midnight I will be
at your house."

"If I should not be in, wait for me."

"Good! at midnight, my lord."

"At midnight, my dear Monsieur
Louvieres."

When once more alone Gondy sent to
summon all the curates with whom he had
any connection to his house. Two hours
later, thirty officiating ministers from
the most populous, and consequently the
most disturbed parishes of Paris had
assembled there. Gondy related to them
the insults he had received at the
Palais Royal and retailed the jests of
Beautin, the Count de Villeroy and
Marechal de la Meilleraie. The curates
asked him what was to be done.

"Simply this," said the coadjutor. "You
are the directors of all consciences.
Well, undermine in them the miserable
prejudice of respect and fear of kings;
teach your flocks that the queen is a
tyrant; and repeat often and loudly, so
that all may know it, that the
misfortunes of France are caused by
Mazarin, her lover and her destroyer;
begin this work to-day, this instant
even, and in three days I shall expect
the result. For the rest, if any one of
you have further or better counsel to
expound, I will listen to him with the
greatest pleasure."

Three curates remained -- those of St.
Merri, St. Sulpice and St. Eustache. The
others withdrew.

"You think, then, that you can help me
more efficaciously than your brothers?"
said Gondy.

"We hope so," answered the curates.

"Let us hear. Monsieur de St. Merri, you
begin."

"My lord, I have in my parish a man who
might be of the greatest use to you."

"Who and what is this man?"

"A shopkeeper in the Rue des Lombards,
who has great influence upon the
commerce of his quarter."

"What is his name?"

"He is named Planchet, who himself also
caused a rising about six weeks ago; but
as he was searched for after this emeute
he disappeared."

"And can you find him?"

"I hope so. I think he has not been
arrested, and as I am his wife's
confessor, if she knows where he is I
shall know it too."

"Very well, sir, find this man, and when
you have found him bring him to me."

"We will be with you at six o'clock, my
lord."

"Go, my dear curate, and may God assist
you!"

"And you, sir?" continued Gondy, turning
to the curate of St. Sulpice.

"I, my lord," said the latter, "I know a
man who has rendered great services to a
very popular prince and who would make
an excellent leader of revolt. Him I can
place at your disposal; it is Count de
Rochefort."

"I know him also, but unfortunately he
is not in Paris."

"My lord, he has been for three days at
the Rue Cassette."

"And wherefore has he not been to see
me?"

"He was told -- my lord will pardon
me ---- "

"Certainly, speak."

"That your lordship was about to treat
with the court."

Gondy bit his lips.

"They are mistaken; bring him here at
eight o'clock, sir, and may Heaven bless
you as I bless you!"

"And now 'tis your turn," said the
coadjutor, turning to the last that
remained; "have you anything as good to
offer me as the two gentlemen who have
left us?"

"Better, my lord."

"Diable! think what a solemn engagement
you are making; one has offered a
wealthy shopkeeper, the other a count;
you are going, then, to offer a prince,
are you?"

"I offer you a beggar, my lord."

"Ah! ah!" said Gondy, reflecting, "you
are right, sir; some one who could raise
the legion of paupers who choke up the
crossings of Paris; some one who would
know how to cry aloud to them, that all
France might hear it, that it is Mazarin
who has reduced them to poverty."

"Exactly your man."

"Bravo! and the man?"

"A plain and simple beggar, as I have
said, my lord, who asks for alms, as he
gives holy water; a practice he has
carried on for six years on the steps of
St. Eustache."

"And you say that he has a great
influence over his compeers?"

"Are you aware, my lord, that mendacity
is an organized body, a kind of
association of those who have nothing
against those who have everything; an
association in which every one takes his
share; one that elects a leader?"

"Yes, I have heard it said," replied the
coadjutor.

"Well, the man whom I offer you is a
general syndic."

"And what do you know of him?"

"Nothing, my lord, except that he is
tormented with remorse."

"What makes you think so?"

"On the twenty-eighth of every month he
makes me say a mass for the repose of
the soul of one who died a violent
death; yesterday I said this mass
again."

"And his name?"

"Maillard; but I do not think it is his
right one."

"And think you that we should find him
at this hour at his post?"

"Certainly."

"Let us go and see your beggar, sir, and
if he is such as you describe him, you
are right -- it will be you who have
discovered the true treasure."

Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put
on a felt cap with a red feather, hung
on a long sword, buckled spurs to his
boots, wrapped himself in an ample cloak
and followed the curate.

The coadjutor and his companion passed
through all the streets lying between
the archbishopric and the St. Eustache
Church, watching carefully to ascertain
the popular feeling. The people were in
an excited mood, but, like a swarm of
frightened bees, seemed not to know at
what point to concentrate; and it was
very evident that if leaders of the
people were not provided all this
agitation would pass off in idle
buzzing.

On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires,
the curate pointed toward the square
before the church.

"Stop!" he said, "there he is at his
post."

Gondy looked at the spot indicated and
perceived a beggar seated in a chair and
leaning against one of the moldings; a
little basin was near him and he held a
holy water brush in his hand.

"Is it by permission that he remains
there?" asked Gondy.

"No, my lord; these places are bought. I
believe this man paid his predecessor a
hundred pistoles for his."

"The rascal is rich, then?"

"Some of those men sometimes die worth
twenty thousand and twenty-five and
thirty thousand francs and sometimes
more."

"Hum!" said Gondy, laughing; "I was not
aware my alms were so well invested."

In the meantime they were advancing
toward the square, and the moment the
coadjutor and the curate put their feet
on the first church step the mendicant
arose and proffered his brush.

He was a man between sixty-six and
sixty-eight years of age, little, rather
stout, with gray hair and light eyes.
His countenance denoted the struggle
between two opposite principles -- a
wicked nature, subdued by determination,
perhaps by repentance.

He started on seeing the cavalier with
the curate. The latter and the coadjutor
touched the brush with the tips of their
fingers and made the sign of the cross;
the coadjutor threw a piece of money
into the hat, which was on the ground.

"Maillard," began the curate, "this
gentleman and I have come to talk with
you a little."

"With me!" said the mendicant; "it is a
great honor for a poor distributor of
holy water."

There was an ironical tone in his voice
which he could not quite disguise and
which astonished the coadjutor.

"Yes," continued the curate, apparently
accustomed to this tone, "yes, we wish
to know your opinion of the events of
to-day and what you have heard said by
people going in and out of the church."

The mendicant shook his head.

"These are melancholy doings, your
reverence, which always fall again upon
the poor. As to what is said, everybody
is discontented, everybody complains,
but `everybody' means `nobody.'"

"Explain yourself, my good friend," said
the coadjutor.

"I mean that all these cries, all these
complaints, these curses, produce
nothing but storms and flashes and that
is all; but the lightning will not
strike until there is a hand to guide
it."

"My friend," said Gondy, "you seem to be
a clever and a thoughtful man; are you
disposed to take a part in a little
civil war, should we have one, and put
at the command of the leader, should we
find one, your personal influence and
the influence you have acquired over
your comrades?"

"Yes, sir, provided this war were
approved of by the church and would
advance the end I wish to attain -- I
mean, the remission of my sins."

"The war will not only be approved of,
but directed by the church. As for the
remission of your sins, we have the
archbishop of Paris, who has the very
greatest power at the court of Rome, and
even the coadjutor, who possesses some
plenary indulgences; we will recommend
you to him."

"Consider, Maillard," said the curate,
"that I have recommended you to this
gentleman, who is a powerful lord, and
that I have made myself responsible for
you."

"I know, monsieur le cure," said the
beggar, "that you have always been very
kind to me, and therefore I, in my turn,
will be serviceable to you."

"And do you think your power as great
with the fraternity as monsieur le cure
told me it was just now?"

"I think they have some esteem for me,"
said the mendicant with pride, "and that
not only will they obey me, but wherever
I go they will follow me."

"And could you count on fifty resolute
men, good, unemployed, but active souls,
brawlers, capable of bringing down the
walls of the Palais Royal by crying,
`Down with Mazarin,' as fell those at
Jericho?"

"I think," said the beggar, "I can
undertake things more difficult and more
important than that."

"Ah, ah," said Gondy, "you will
undertake, then, some night, to throw up
some ten barricades?"

"I will undertake to throw up fifty, and
when the day comes, to defend them."

"I'faith!" exclaimed Gondy, "you speak
with a certainty that gives me pleasure;
and since monsieur le cure can answer
for you ---- "

"I answer for him," said the curate.

"Here is a bag containing five hundred
pistoles in gold; make all your
arrangements, and tell me where I shall
be able to find you this evening at ten
o'clock."

"It must be on some elevated place,
whence a given signal may be seen in
every part of Paris."

"Shall I give you a line for the vicar
of St. Jacques de la Boucherie? he will
let you into the rooms in his tower,"
said the curate.

"Capital," answered the mendicant.

"Then," said the coadjutor, "this
evening, at ten o'clock, and if I am
pleased with you another bag of five
hundred pistoles will be at your
disposal."

The eyes of the mendicant dashed with
cupidity, but he quickly suppressed his
emotion.

"This evening, sir," he replied, "all
will be ready."



46

The Tower of St. Jacques de la
Boucherie.



At a quarter to six o'clock, Monsieur de
Gondy, having finished his business,
returned to the archiepiscopal palace.

At six o'clock the curate of St. Merri
was announced.

The coadjutor glanced rapidly behind and
saw that he was followed by another man.
The curate then entered, followed by
Planchet.

"Your holiness," said the curate, "here
is the person of whom I had the honor to
speak to you."

Planchet saluted in the manner of one
accustomed to fine houses.

"And you are disposed to serve the cause
of the people?" asked Gondy.

"Most undoubtedly," said Planchet. "I am
a Frondist from my heart. You see in me,
such as I am, a person sentenced to be
hung."

"And on what account?"

"I rescued from the hands of Mazarin's
police a noble lord whom they were
conducting back to the Bastile, where he
had been for five years."

"Will you name him?"

"Oh, you know him well, my lord -- it is
Count de Rochefort."

"Ah! really, yes," said the coadjutor,
"I have heard this affair mentioned. You
raised the whole district, so they told
me!"

"Very nearly," replied Planchet, with a
self-satisfied air.

"And your business is ---- "

"That of a confectioner, in the Rue des
Lombards."

"Explain to me how it happens that,
following so peaceful a business, you
had such warlike inclinations."

"Why does my lord, belonging to the
church, now receive me in the dress of
an officer, with a sword at his side and
spurs to his boots?"

"Not badly answered, i'faith," said
Gondy, laughing; "but I have, you must
know, always had, in spite of my bands,
warlike inclinations."

"Well, my lord, before I became a
confectioner I myself was three years
sergeant in the Piedmontese regiment,
and before I became sergeant I was for
eighteen months the servant of Monsieur
d'Artagnan."

"The lieutenant of musketeers?" asked
Gondy.

"Himself, my lord."

"But he is said to be a furious
Mazarinist."

"Phew!" whistled Planchet.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, my lord; Monsieur d'Artagnan
belongs to the service; Monsieur
d'Artagnan makes it his business to
defend the cardinal, who pays him, as
much as we make it ours, we citizens, to
attack him, whom he robs."

"You are an intelligent fellow, my
friend; can we count upon you?"

"You may count upon me, my lord,
provided you want to make a complete
upheaval of the city."

"'Tis that exactly. How many men, think
you, you could collect together
to-night?"

"Two hundred muskets and five hundred
halberds."

"Let there be only one man in every
district who can do as much and by
to-morrow we shall have quite a powerful
army. Are you disposed to obey Count de
Rochefort?"

"I would follow him to hell, and that is
saying not a little, as I believe him
entirely capable of the descent."

"Bravo!"

"By what sign to-morrow shall we be able
to distinguish friends from foes?"

"Every Frondist must put a knot of straw
in his hat."

"Good! Give the watchword."

"Do you want money?"

"Money never comes amiss at any time, my
lord; if one has it not, one must do
without it; with it, matters go on much
better and more rapidly."

Gondy went to a box and drew forth a
bag.

"Here are five hundred pistoles," he
said; "and if the action goes off well
you may reckon upon a similar sum
to-morrow."

"I will give a faithful account of the
sum to your lordship," said Planchet,
putting the bag under his arm.

"That is right; I recommend the cardinal
to your attention."

"Make your mind easy, he is in good
hands."

Planchet went out, the curate remaining
for a moment

"Are you satisfied, my lord?" he asked.

"Yes; he appears to be a resolute
fellow."

"Well, he will do more than he has
promised."

"He will do wonders then."

The curate rejoined Planchet, who was
waiting for him on the stairs. Ten
minutes later the curate of St. Sulpice
was announced. As soon as the door of
Gondy's study was opened a man rushed
in. It was the Count de Rochefort.

"'Tis you, then, my dear count," cried
Gondy, offering his hand.

"You have made up your mind at last, my
lord?" said Rochefort.

"It has been made up a long time," said
Gondy.

"Let us say no more on the subject; you
tell me so, I believe you. Well, we are
going to give a ball to Mazarin."

"I hope so."

"And when will the dance begin?"

"The invitations are given for this
evening," said the coadjutor, "but the
violins will not begin to play until
to-morrow morning."

"You may reckon upon me and upon fifty
soldiers which the Chevalier d'Humieres
has promised me whenever I need them."

"Upon fifty soldiers?"

"Yes, he is making recruits and he will
lend them to me; if any are missing when
the fete is over, I shall replace them."

"Good, my dear Rochefort; but that is
not all. What have you done with
Monsieur de Beaufort?"

"He is in Vendome, where he will wait
until I write to him to return to
Paris."

"Write to him; now's the time."

"You are sure of your enterprise?"

"Yes, but he must make haste; for hardly
will the people of Paris have revolted
before we shall have a score of princes
begging to lead them. If he defers he
will find the place of honor taken."

"Shall I send word to him as coming from
you?"

"Yes certainly."

"Shall I tell him that he can count on
you?"

"To the end."

"And you will leave the command to him?"

"Of the war, yes, but in politics ---- "

"You must know it is not his element."

"He must leave me to negotiate for my
cardinal's hat in my own fashion."

"You care about it, then, so much?"

"Since they force me to wear a hat of a
form which does not become me," said
Gondy, "I wish at least that the hat
should be red."

"One must not dispute matters of taste
and colors," said Rochefort, laughing.
"I answer for his consent."

"How soon can he be here?"

"In five days."

"Let him come and he will find a change,
I will answer for it."

"Therefore, go and collect your fifty
men and hold yourself in readiness."

"For what?"

"For everything."

"Is there any signal for the general
rally?"

"A knot of straw in the hat."

"Very good. Adieu, my lord."

"Adieu, my dear Rochefort."

"Ah, Monsieur Mazarin, Monsieur
Mazarin," said Rochefort, leading off
his curate, who had not found an
opportunity of uttering a single word
during the foregoing dialogue, "you will
see whether I am too old to be a man of
action."

It was half-past nine o'clock and the
coadjutor required half an hour to go
from the archbishop's palace to the
tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie. He
remarked that a light was burning in one
of the highest windows of the tower.
"Good," said he, "our syndic is at his
post."

He knocked and the door was opened. The
vicar himself awaited him, conducted him
to the top of the tower, and when there
pointed to a little door, placed the
light which he had brought with him in a
corner of the wall, that the coadjutor
might be able to find it on his return,
and went down again. Although the key
was in the door the coadjutor knocked.

"Come in," said a voice which he
recognized as that of the mendicant,
whom he found lying on a kind of truckle
bed. He rose on the entrance of the
coadjutor, and at that moment ten
o'clock struck.

"Well," said Gondy, "have you kept your
word with me?"

"Not exactly," replied the mendicant.

"How is that?"

"You asked me for five hundred men, did
you not? Well, I have ten thousand for
you."

"You are not boasting?"

"Do you wish for a proof?"

"Yes."

There were three candles alight, each of
which burnt before a window, one looking
upon the city, the other upon the Palais
Royal, and a third upon the Rue Saint
Denis.

The man went silently to each of the
candles and blew them out one after the
other.

"What are you doing?" asked the
coadjutor.

"I have given the signal."

"For what?"

"For the barricades. When you leave this
you will behold my men at work. Only
take care you do not break your legs in
stumbling over some chain or your neck
by falling in a hole."

"Good! there is your money, the same sum
as that you have received already. Now
remember that you are a general and do
not go and drink."

"For twenty years I have tasted nothing
but water."

The man took the bag from the hands of
the coadjutor, who heard the sound of
his fingers counting and handling the
gold pieces.

"Ah! ah!" said the coadjutor, "you are
avaricious, my good fellow."

The mendicant sighed and threw down the
bag.

"Must I always be the same?" said he,
"and shall I never succeed in overcoming
the old leaven? Oh, misery, oh, vanity!"

"You take it, however."

"Yes, but I make hereby a vow in your
presence, to employ all that remains to
me in pious works."

His face was pale and drawn, like that
of a man who had just undergone some
inward struggle.

"Singular man!" muttered Gondy, taking
his hat to go away; but on turning
around he saw the beggar between him and
the door. His first idea was that this
man intended to do him some harm, but on
the contrary he saw him fall on his
knees before him with his hands clasped.

"Your blessing, your holiness, before
you go, I beseech you!" he cried.

"Your holiness!" said Gondy; "my friend,
you take me for some one else."

"No, your holiness, I take you for what
you are, that is to say, the coadjutor;
I recognized you at the first glance."

Gondy smiled. "And you want my
blessing?" he said.

"Yes, I have need of it."

The mendicant uttered these words in a
tone of such humility, such earnest
repentance, that Gondy placed his hand
upon him and gave him his benediction
with all the unction of which he was
capable.

"Now," said Gondy, "there is a communion
between us. I have blessed you and you
are sacred to me. Come, have you
committed some crime, pursued by human
justice, from which I can protect you?"

The beggar shook his head. "The crime
which I have committed, my lord, has no
call upon human justice, and you can
only deliver me from it by blessing me
frequently, as you have just done."

"Come, be candid," said the coadjutor,
"you have not all your life followed the
trade which you do now?"

"No, my lord. I have pursued it for six
years only."

"And previously, where were you?"

"In the Bastile."

"And before you went to the Bastile?"

"I will tell you, my lord, on the day
when you are willing to hear my
confession."

"Good! At whatsoever hour of the day or
night you may present yourself, remember
that I shall be ready to give you
absolution."

"Thank you, my lord," said the mendicant
in a hoarse voice. "But I am not yet
ready to receive it."

"Very well. Adieu."

"Adieu, your holiness," said the
mendicant, opening the door and bending
low before the prelate.



47

The Riot.



It was about eleven o'clock at night.
Gondy had not walked a hundred steps ere
he perceived the strange change which
had been made in the streets of Paris.

The whole city seemed peopled with
fantastic beings; silent shadows were
seen unpaving the streets and others
dragging and upsetting great wagons,
whilst others again dug ditches large
enough to ingulf whole regiments of
horsemen. These active beings flitted
here and there like so many demons
completing some unknown labor; these
were the beggars of the Court of
Miracles -- the agents of the giver of
holy water in the Square of Saint
Eustache, preparing barricades for the
morrow.

Gondy gazed on these deeds of darkness,
on these nocturnal laborers, with a kind
of fear; he asked himself, if, after
having called forth these foul creatures
from their dens, he should have the
power of making them retire again. He
felt almost inclined to cross himself
when one of these beings happened to
approach him. He reached the Rue Saint
Honore and went up it toward the Rue de
la Ferronnerie; there the aspect
changed; here it was the tradesmen who
were running from shop to shop; their
doors seemed closed like their shutters,
but they were only pushed to in such a
manner as to open and allow the men, who
seemed fearful of showing what they
carried, to enter, closing immediately.
These men were shopkeepers, who had arms
to lend to those who had none.

One individual went from door to door,
bending under the weight of swords,
guns, muskets and every kind of weapon,
which he deposited as fast as he could.
By the light of a lantern the coadjutor
recognized Planchet.

The coadjutor proceeded onward to the
quay by way of the Rue de la Monnaie;
there he found groups of bourgeois clad
in black cloaks or gray, according as
they belonged to the upper or lower
bourgeoisie. They were standing
motionless, while single men passed from
one group to another. All these cloaks,
gray or black, were raised behind by the
point of a sword, or before by the
barrel of an arquebuse or a musket.

On reaching the Pont Neuf the coadjutor
found it strictly guarded and a man
approached him.

"Who are you?" asked the man. "I do not
know you for one of us."

"Then it is because you do not know your
friends, my dear Monsieur Louvieres,"
said the coadjutor, raising his hat.

Louvieres recognized him and bowed.

Gondy continued his way and went as far
as the Tour de Nesle. There he saw a
lengthy chain of people gliding under
the walls. They might be said to be a
procession of ghosts, for they were all
wrapped in white cloaks. When they
reached a certain spot these men
appeared to be annihilated, one after
the other, as if the earth had opened
under their feet. Gondy, edged into a
corner, saw them vanish from the first
until the last but one. The last raised
his eyes, to ascertain, doubtless, that
neither his companions nor himself had
been watched, and, in spite of the
darkness, he perceived Gondy. He walked
straight up to him and placed a pistol
to his throat.

"Halloo! Monsieur de Rochefort," said
Gondy, laughing, "are you a boy to play
with firearms?"

Rochefort recognized the voice.

"Ah, it is you, my lord!" said he.

"The very same. What people are you
leading thus into the bowels of the
earth?"

"My fifty recruits from the Chevalier
d'Humieres, who are destined to enter
the light cavalry and who have only
received as yet for their equipment
their white cloaks."

"And where are you going?"

"To the house of one of my friends, a
sculptor, only we enter by the trap
through which he lets down his marble."

"Very good," said Gondy, shaking
Rochefort by the hand, who descended in
his turn and closed the trap after him.

It was now one o'clock in the morning
and the coadjutor returned home. He
opened a window and leaned out to
listen. A strange, incomprehensible,
unearthly sound seemed to pervade the
whole city; one felt that something
unusual and terrible was happening in
all the streets, now dark as ocean's
most unfathomable caves. From time to
time a dull sound was heard, like that
of a rising tempest or a billow of the
sea; but nothing clear, nothing
distinct, nothing intelligible; it was
like those mysterious subterraneous
noises that precede an earthquake.

The work of revolt continued the whole
night thus. The next morning, on
awaking, Paris seemed to be startled at
her own appearance. It was like a
besieged town. Armed men, shouldering
muskets, watched over the barricades
with menacing looks; words of command,
patrols, arrests, executions, even, were
encountered at every step. Those bearing
plumed hats and gold swords were stopped
and made to cry, "Long live Broussel!"
"Down with Mazarin!" and whoever refused
to comply with this ceremony was hooted
at, spat upon and even beaten. They had
not yet begun to slay, but it was well
felt that the inclination to do so was
not wanting.

The barricades had been pushed as far as
the Palais Royal. From the Rue de Bons
Enfants to that of the Ferronnerie, from
the Rue Saint Thomas-du-Louvre to the
Pont Neuf, from the Rue Richelieu to the
Porte Saint Honore, there were more than
ten thousand armed men; those who were
at the front hurled defiance at the
impassive sentinels of the regiment of
guards posted around the Palais Royal,
the gates of which were closed behind
them, a precaution which made their
situation precarious. Among these
thousands moved, in bands numbering from
one hundred to two hundred, pale and
haggard men, clothed in rags, who bore a
sort of standard on which was inscribed
these words: "Behold the misery of the
people!" Wherever these men passed,
frenzied cries were heard; and there
were so many of these bands that the
cries were to be heard in all
directions.

The astonishment of Mazarin and of Anne
of Austria was great when it was
announced to them that the city, which
the previous evening they had left
entirely tranquil, had awakened to such
feverish commotion; nor would either the
one or the other believe the reports
that were brought to them, declaring
they would rather rely on the evidence
of their own eyes and ears. Then a
window was opened and when they saw and
heard they were convinced.

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and
pretended to despise the populace; but
he turned visibly pale and ran to his
closet, trembling all over, locked up
his gold and jewels in his caskets and
put his finest diamonds on his fingers.
As for the queen, furious, and left to
her own guidance, she went for the
Marechal de la Meilleraie and desired
him to take as many men as he pleased
and to go and see what was the meaning
of this pleasantry.

The marshal was ordinarily very
adventurous and was wont to hesitate at
nothing; and he had that lofty contempt
for the populace which army officers
usually profess. He took a hundred and
fifty men and attempted to go out by the
Pont du Louvre, but there he met
Rochefort and his fifty horsemen,
attended by more than five hundred men.
The marshal made no attempt to force
that barrier and returned up the quay.
But at Pont Neuf he found Louvieres and
his bourgeois. This time the marshal
charged, but he was welcomed by musket
shots, while stones fell like hail from
all the windows. He left there three
men.

He beat a retreat toward the market, but
there he met Planchet with his
halberdiers; their halberds were leveled
at him threateningly. He attempted to
ride over those gray cloaks, but the
gray cloaks held their ground and the
marshal retired toward the Rue Saint
Honore, leaving four of his guards dead
on the field of battle.

The marshal then entered the Rue Saint
Honore, but there he was opposed by the
barricades of the mendicant of Saint
Eustache. They were guarded, not only by
armed men, but even by women and
children. Master Friquet, the owner of a
pistol and of a sword which Louvieres
had given him, had organized a company
of rogues like himself and was making a
tremendous racket.

The marshal thought this barrier not so
well fortified as the others and
determined to break through it. He
dismounted twenty men to make a breach
in the barricade, whilst he and others,
remaining on their horses, were to
protect the assailants. The twenty men
marched straight toward the barrier, but
from behind the beams, from among the
wagon-wheels and from the heights of the
rocks a terrible fusillade burst forth
and at the same time Planchet's
halberdiers appeared at the corner of
the Cemetery of the Innocents, and
Louvieres's bourgeois at the corner of
the Rue de la Monnaie.

The Marechal de la Meilleraie was caught
between two fires, but he was brave and
made up his mind to die where he was. He
returned blow for blow and cries of pain
began to be heard in the crowd. The
guards, more skillful, did greater
execution; but the bourgeois, more
numerous, overwhelmed them with a
veritable hurricane of iron. Men fell
around him as they had fallen at Rocroy
or at Lerida. Fontrailles, his
aide-de-camp, had an arm broken; his
horse had received a bullet in his neck
and he had difficulty in controlling
him, maddened by pain. In short, he had
reached that supreme moment when the
bravest feel a shudder in their veins,
when suddenly, in the direction of the
Rue de l'Arbre-Sec, the crowd opened,
crying: "Long live the coadjutor!" and
Gondy, in surplice and cloak, appeared,
moving tranquilly in the midst of the
fusillade and bestowing his benedictions
to the right and left, as undisturbed as
if he were leading a procession of the
Fete Dieu.

All fell to their knees. The marshal
recognized him and hastened to meet him.

"Get me out of this, in Heaven's name!"
he said, "or I shall leave my carcass
here and those of all my men."

A great tumult arose, in the midst of
which even the noise of thunder could
not have been heard. Gondy raised his
hand and demanded silence. All were
still.

"My children," he said, "this is the
Marechal de la Meilleraie, as to whose
intentions you have been deceived and
who pledges himself, on returning to the
Louvre, to demand of the queen, in your
name, our Broussel's release. You pledge
yourself to that, marshal?" added Gondy,
turning to La Meilleraie.

"Morbleu!" cried the latter, "I should
say that I do pledge myself to it! I had
no hope of getting off so easily."

"He gives you his word of honor," said
Gondy.

The marshal raised his hand in token of
assent.

"Long live the coadjutor!" cried the
crowd. Some voices even added: "Long
live the marshal!" But all took up the
cry in chorus: "Down with Mazarin!"

The crowd gave place, the barricade was
opened, and the marshal, with the
remnant of his company, retreated,
preceded by Friquet and his bandits,
some of them making a presence of
beating drums and others imitating the
sound of the trumpet. It was almost a
triumphal procession; only, behind the
guards the barricades were closed again.
The marshal bit his fingers.

In the meantime, as we have said,
Mazarin was in his closet, putting his
affairs in order. He called for
D'Artagnan, but in the midst of such
tumult he little expected to see him,
D'Artagnan not being on service. In
about ten minutes D'Artagnan appeared at
the door, followed by the inseparable
Porthos.

"Ah, come in, come in, Monsieur
d'Artagnan!" cried the cardinal, "and
welcome your friend too. But what is
going on in this accursed Paris?"

"What is going on, my lord? nothing
good," replied D'Artagnan, shaking his
head. "The town is in open revolt, and
just now, as I was crossing the Rue
Montorgueil with Monsieur du Vallon, who
is here, and is your humble servant,
they wanted in spite of my uniform, or
perhaps because of my uniform, to make
us cry `Long live Broussel!' and must I
tell you, my lord what they wished us to
cry as well?"

"Speak, speak."

"`Down with Mazarin!' I'faith, the
treasonable word is out."

Mazarin smiled, but became very pale.

"And you did cry?" he asked.

"I'faith, no," said D'Artagnan; "I was
not in voice; Monsieur du Vallon has a
cold and did not cry either. Then, my
lord ---- "

"Then what?" asked Mazarin.

"Look at my hat and cloak."

And D'Artagnan displayed four gunshot
holes in his cloak and two in his
beaver. As for Porthos's coat, a blow
from a halberd had cut it open on the
flank and a pistol shot had cut his
feather in two.

"Diavolo!" said the cardinal, pensively
gazing at the two friends with lively
admiration; "I should have cried, I
should."

At this moment the tumult was heard
nearer.

Mazarin wiped his forehead and looked
around him. He had a great desire to go
to the window, but he dared not.

"See what is going on, Monsieur
D'Artagnan," said he.

D'Artagnan went to the window with his
habitual composure. "Oho!" said he,
"what is this? Marechal de la Meilleraie
returning without a hat -- Fontrailles
with his arm in a sling -- wounded
guards -- horses bleeding; eh, then,
what are the sentinels about? They are
aiming -- they are going to fire!"

"They have received orders to fire on
the people if the people approach the
Palais Royal!" exclaimed Mazarin.

"But if they fire, all is lost!" cried
D'Artagnan.

"We have the gates."

"The gates! to hold for five minutes --
the gates, they will be torn down,
twisted into iron wire, ground to
powder! God's death, don't fire!"
screamed D'Artagnan, throwing open the
window.

In spite of this recommendation, which,
owing to the noise, could scarcely have
been heard, two or three musket shots
resounded, succeeded by a terrible
discharge. The balls might be heard
peppering the facade of the Palais
Royal, and one of them, passing under
D'Artagnan's arm, entered and broke a
mirror, in which Porthos was
complacently admiring himself.

"Alack! alack!" cried the cardinal, "a
Venetian glass!"

"Oh, my lord," said D'Artagnan, quietly
shutting the window, "it is not worth
while weeping yet, for probably an hour
hence there will not be one of your
mirrors remaining in the Palais Royal,
whether they be Venetian or Parisian."

"But what do you advise, then?" asked
Mazarin, trembling.

"Eh, egad, to give up Broussel as they
demand! What the devil do you want with
a member of the parliament? He is of no
earthly use to anybody."

"And you, Monsieur du Vallon, is that
your advice? What would you do?"

"I should give up Broussel," said
Porthos.

"Come, come with me, gentlemen!"
exclaimed Mazarin. "I will go and
discuss the matter with the queen."

He stopped at the end of the corridor
and said:

"I can count upon you, gentlemen, can I
not?"

"We do not give ourselves twice over,"
said D'Artagnan; "we have given
ourselves to you; command, we shall
obey."

"Very well, then," said Mazarin; "enter
this cabinet and wait till I come back."

And turning off he entered the
drawing-room by another door.



48

The Riot becomes a Revolution.



The closet into which D'Artagnan and
Porthos had been ushered was separated
from the drawing-room where the queen
was by tapestried curtains only, and
this thin partition enabled them to hear
all that passed in the adjoining room,
whilst the aperture between the two
hangings, small as it was, permitted
them to see.

The queen was standing in the room, pale
with anger; her self-control, however,
was so great that it might have been
imagined that she was calm. Comminges,
Villequier and Guitant were behind her
and the women again were behind the men.
The Chancellor Sequier, who twenty years
previously had persecuted her so
ruthlessly, stood before her, relating
how his carriage had been smashed, how
he had been pursued and had rushed into
the Hotel d'O ---- , that the hotel was
immediately invaded, pillaged and
devastated; happily he had time to reach
a closet hidden behind tapestry, in
which he was secreted by an old woman,
together with his brother, the Bishop of
Meaux. Then the danger was so imminent,
the rioters came so near, uttering such
threats, that the chancellor thought his
last hour had come and confessed himself
to his brother priest, so as to be all
ready to die in case he was discovered.
Fortunately, however, he had not been
taken; the people, believing that he had
escaped by some back entrance, retired
and left him at liberty to retreat.
Then, disguised in he clothes of the
Marquis d'O ---- , he had left the
hotel, stumbling over the bodies of an
officer and two guards who had been
killed whilst defending the street door.

During the recital Mazarin entered and
glided noiselessly up to the queen to
listen.

"Well," said the queen, when the
chancellor had finished speaking; "what
do you think of it all?"

"I think that matters look very gloomy,
madame."

"But what step would you propose to me?"

"I could propose one to your majesty,
but I dare not."

"You may, you may, sir," said the queen
with a bitter smile; "you were not so
timid once."

The chancellor reddened and stammered
some words.

"It is not a question of the past, but
of the present," said the queen; "you
said you could give me advice -- what is
it?"

"Madame," said the chancellor,
hesitating, "it would be to release
Broussel."

The queen, although already pale, became
visibly paler and her face was
contracted.

"Release Broussel!" she cried, "never!"

At this moment steps were heard in the
ante-room and without any announcement
the Marechal de la Meilleraie appeared
at the door.

"Ah, there you are, marechal," cried
Anne of Austria joyfully. "I trust you
have brought this rabble to reason."

"Madame," replied the marechal, "I have
left three men on the Pont Neuf, four at
the Halle, six at the corner of the Rue
de l'Arbre-Sec and two at the door of
your palace -- fifteen in all. I have
brought away ten or twelve wounded. I
know not where I have left my hat, and
in all probability I should have been
left with my hat, had the coadjutor not
arrived in time to rescue me."

"Ah, indeed," said the queen, "it would
have much astonished me if that low cur,
with his distorted legs, had not been
mixed up with all this."

"Madame," said La Meilleraie, "do not
say too much against him before me, for
the service he rendered me is still
fresh."

"Very good," said the queen, "be as
grateful as you like, it does not
implicate me; you are here safe and
sound, that is all I wished for; you are
not only welcome, but welcome back."

"Yes, madame; but I only came back on
one condition -- that I would transmit
to your majesty the will of the people."

"The will!" exclaimed the queen,
frowning. "Oh! oh! monsieur marechal,
you must indeed have found yourself in
wondrous peril to have undertaken so
strange a commission!"

The irony with which these words were
uttered did not escape the marechal.

"Pardon, madame," he said, "I am not a
lawyer, I am a mere soldier, and
probably, therefore, I do not quite
comprehend the value of certain words; I
ought to have said the wishes, and not
the will, of the people. As for what you
do me the honor to say, I presume you
mean I was afraid?"

The queen smiled.

"Well, then, madame, yes, I did feel
fear; and though I have been through
twelve pitched battles and I cannot
count how many charges and skirmishes, I
own for the third time in my life I was
afraid. Yes, and I would rather face
your majesty, however threatening your
smile, than face those demons who
accompanied me hither and who sprung
from I know not whence, unless from
deepest hell."

(" Bravo," said D'Artagnan in a whisper
to Porthos; "well answered.")

"Well," said the queen, biting her lips,
whilst her courtiers looked at each
other with surprise, "what is the desire
of my people?"

"That Broussel shall be given up to
them, madame."

"Never!" said the queen, "never!"

"Your majesty is mistress," said La
Meilleraie, retreating a few steps.

"Where are you going, marechal?" asked
the queen.

"To give your majesty's reply to those
who await it."

"Stay, marechal; I will not appear to
parley with rebels."

"Madame, I have pledged my word, and
unless you order me to be arrested I
shall be forced to return."

Anne of Austria's eyes shot glances of
fire.

"Oh! that is no impediment, sir," said
she; "I have had greater men than you
arrested -- Guitant!"

Mazarin sprang forward.

"Madame, "said he, "if I dared in my
turn advise ---- "

"Would it be to give up Broussel, sir?
If so, you can spare yourself the
trouble."

"No," said Mazarin; "although, perhaps,
that counsel is as good as any other."

"Then what may it be?"

"To call for monsieur le coadjuteur."

"The coadjutor!" cried the queen, "that
dreadful mischief maker! It is he who
has raised all this revolt."

"The more reason," said Mazarin; "if he
has raised it he can put it down."

"And hold, madame," suggested Comminges,
who was near a window, out of which he
could see; "hold, the moment is a happy
one, for there he is now, giving his
blessing in the square of the Palais
Royal."

The queen sprang to the window.

"It is true," she said, "the arch
hypocrite -- see!"

"I see," said Mazarin, "that everybody
kneels before him, although he be but
coadjutor, whilst I, were I in his
place, though I am cardinal, should be
torn to pieces. I persist, then, madame,
in my wish" (he laid an emphasis on the
word), "that your majesty should receive
the coadjutor."

"And wherefore do you not say, like the
rest, your will?" replied the queen, in
a low voice.

Mazarin bowed.

"Monsieur le marechal," said the queen,
after a moment's reflection, "go and
find the coadjutor and bring him to me."

"And what shall I say to the people?"

"That they must have patience," said
Anne, "as I have."

The fiery Spanish woman spoke in a tone
so imperative that the marechal made no
reply; he bowed and went out.

(D'Artagnan turned to Porthos. "How will
this end?" he said.

"We shall soon see," said Porthos, in
his tranquil way.)

In the meantime Anne of Austria
approached Comminges and conversed with
him in a subdued tone, whilst Mazarin
glanced uneasily at the corner occupied
by D'Artagnan and Porthos. Ere long the
door opened and the marechal entered,
followed by the coadjutor.

"There, madame," he said, "is Monsieur
Gondy, who hastens to obey your
majesty's summons."

The queen advanced a few steps to meet
him, and then stopped, cold, severe,
unmoved, with her lower lip scornfully
protruded.

Gondy bowed respectfully.

"Well, sir," said the queen, "what is
your opinion of this riot?"

"That it is no longer a riot, madame,"
he replied, "but a revolt."

"The revolt is at the door of those who
think my people can rebel," cried Anne,
unable to dissimulate before the
coadjutor, whom she looked upon, and
probably with reason, as the promoter of
the tumult. "Revolt! thus it is called
by those who have wished for this
demonstration and who are, perhaps, the
cause of it; but, wait, wait! the king's
authority will put all this to rights."

"Was it to tell me that, madame," coldly
replied Gondy, "that your majesty
admitted me to the honor of entering
your presence?"

"No, my dear coadjutor," said Mazarin;
"it was to ask your advice in the
unhappy dilemma in which we find
ourselves."

"Is it true," asked Gondy, feigning
astonishment, "that her majesty summoned
me to ask for my opinion?"

"Yes," said the queen, "it is
requested."

The coadjutor bowed.

"Your majesty wishes, then ---- "

"You to say what you would do in her
place," Mazarin hastened to reply.

The coadjutor looked at the queen, who
replied by a sign in the affirmative.

"Were I in her majesty's place," said
Gondy, coldly, "I should not hesitate; I
should release Broussel."

"And if I do not give him up, what think
you will be the result?" exclaimed the
queen.

"I believe that not a stone in Paris
will remain unturned," put in the
marechal.

"It was not your opinion that I asked,"
said the queen, sharply, without even
turning around.

"If it is I whom your majesty
interrogates," replied the coadjutor in
the same calm manner, "I reply that I
hold monsieur le marechal's opinion in
every respect."

The color mounted to the queen's face;
her fine blue eyes seemed to start out
of her head and her carmine lips,
compared by all the poets of the day to
a pomegranate in flower, were trembling
with anger. Mazarin himself, who was
well accustomed to the domestic
outbreaks of this disturbed household,
was alarmed.

"Give up Broussel!" she cried; "fine
counsel, indeed. Upon my word! one can
easily see it comes from a priest.

Gondy remained firm, and the abuse of
the day seemed to glide over his head as
the sarcasms of the evening before had
done; but hatred and revenge were
accumulating in his heart silently and
drop by drop. He looked coldly at the
queen, who nudged Mazarin to make him
say something in his turn.

Mazarin, according to his custom, was
thinking much and saying little.

"Ho! ho!" said he, "good advice, advice
of a friend. I, too, would give up that
good Monsieur Broussel, dead or alive,
and all would be at an end."

"If you yield him dead, all will indeed
be at an end, my lord, but quite
otherwise than you mean."

"Did I say `dead or alive?'" replied
Mazarin. "It was only a way of speaking.
You know I am not familiar with the
French language, which you, monsieur le
coadjuteur, both speak and write so
well."

("This is a council of state,"
D'Artagnan remarked to Porthos; "but we
held better ones at La Rochelle, with
Athos and Aramis."

"At the Saint Gervais bastion," said
Porthos.

"There and elsewhere.")

The coadjutor let the storm pass over
his head and resumed, still with the
same tranquillity:

"Madame, if the opinion I have submitted
to you does not please you it is
doubtless because you have better
counsels to follow. I know too well the
wisdom of the queen and that of her
advisers to suppose that they will leave
the capital long in trouble that may
lead to a revolution."

"Thus, then, it is your opinion," said
Anne of Austria, with a sneer and biting
her lips with rage, "that yesterday's
riot, which to-day is already a
rebellion, to-morrow may become a
revolution?"

"Yes, madame," replied the coadjutor,
gravely.

"But if I am to believe you, sir, the
people seem to have thrown off all
restraint."

"It is a bad year for kings," said
Gondy, shaking his head; "look at
England, madame."

"Yes; but fortunately we have no Oliver
Cromwell in France," replied the queen.

"Who knows?" said Gondy; "such men are
like thunderbolts -- one recognizes them
only when they have struck."

Every one shuddered and there was a
moment of silence, during which the
queen pressed her hand to her side,
evidently to still the beatings of her
heart.

("Porthos," murmured D'Artagnan, "look
well at that priest."

"Yes," said Porthos, "I see him. What
then?"

"Well, he is a man."

Porthos looked at D'Artagnan in
astonishment. Evidently he did not
understand his meaning.)

"Your majesty," continued the coadjutor,
pitilessly, "is about to take such
measures as seem good to you, but I
foresee that they will be violent and
such as will still further exasperate
the rioters."

"In that case, you, monsieur le
coadjuteur, who have such power over
them and are at the same time friendly
to us," said the queen, ironically,
"will quiet them by bestowing your
blessing upon them."

"Perhaps it will be too late," said
Gondy, still unmoved; "perhaps I shall
have lost all influence; while by giving
up Broussel your majesty will strike at
the root of the sedition and will gain
the right to punish severely any revival
of the revolt."

"Have I not, then, that right?" cried
the queen.

"If you have it, use it," replied Gondy.

("Peste!" said D'Artagnan to Porthos.
"There is a man after my own heart. Oh!
if he were minister and I were his
D'Artagnan, instead of belonging to that
beast of a Mazarin, mordieu! what fine
things we would do together!"

"Yes," said Porthos.)

The queen made a sign for every one,
except Mazarin, to quit the room; and
Gondy bowed, as if to leave with the
rest.

"Stay, sir," said Anne to him.

"Good," thought Gondy, "she is going to
yield."

("She is going to have him killed," said
D'Artagnan to Porthos, "but at all
events it shall not be by me. I swear to
Heaven, on the contrary, that if they
fall upon him I will fall upon them."

"And I, too," said Porthos.)

"Good," muttered Mazarin, sitting down,
"we shall soon see something startling."

The queen's eyes followed the retreating
figures and when the last had closed the
door she turned away. It was evident
that she was making unnatural efforts to
subdue her anger; she fanned herself,
smelled at her vinaigrette and walked up
and down. Gondy, who began to feel
uneasy, examined the tapestry with his
eyes, touched the coat of mail which he
wore under his long gown and felt from
time to time to see if the handle of a
good Spanish dagger, which was hidden
under his cloak, was well within reach.

"And now," at last said the queen, "now
that we are alone, repeat your counsel,
monsieur le coadjuteur."

"It is this, madame: that you should
appear to have reflected, and publicly
acknowledge an error, which constitutes
the extra strength of a strong
government; release Broussel from prison
and give him back to the people."

"Oh!" cried Anne, "to humble myself
thus! Am I, or am I not, the queen? This
screaming mob, are they, or are they
not, my subjects? Have I friends? Have I
guards? Ah! by Notre Dame! as Queen
Catherine used to say," continued she,
excited by her own words, "rather than
give up this infamous Broussel to them I
will strangle him with my own hands!"

And she sprang toward Gondy, whom
assuredly at that moment she hated more
than Broussel, with outstretched arms.
The coadjutor remained immovable and not
a muscle of his face was discomposed;
only his glance flashed like a sword in
returning the furious looks of the
queen.

("He were a dead man" said the Gascon,
"if there were still a Vitry at the
court and if Vitry entered at this
moment; but for my part, before he could
reach the good prelate I would kill
Vitry at once; the cardinal would be
infinitely pleased with me."

"Hush!" said Porthos; "listen.")

"Madame," cried the cardinal, seizing
hold of Anne and drawing her back,
"Madame, what are you about?"

Then he added in Spanish, "Anne, are you
mad? You, a queen to quarrel like a
washerwoman! And do you not perceive
that in the person of this priest is
represented the whole people of Paris
and that it is dangerous to insult him
at this moment, and if this priest
wished it, in an hour you would be
without a crown? Come, then, on another
occasion you can be firm and strong; but
to-day is not the proper time; to-day,
flatter and caress, or you are only a
common woman."

(At the first words of this address
D'Artagnan had seized Porthos's arm,
which he pressed with gradually
increasing force. When Mazarin ceased
speaking he said to Porthos in a low
tone:

"Never tell Mazarin that I understand
Spanish, or I am a lost man and you are
also."

"All right," said Porthos.)

This rough appeal, marked by the
eloquence which characterized Mazarin
when he spoke in Italian or Spanish and
which he lost entirely in speaking
French, was uttered with such
impenetrable expression that Gondy,
clever physiognomist as he was, had no
suspicion of its being more than a
simple warning to be more subdued.

The queen, on her part, thus chided,
softened immediately and sat down, and
in an almost weeping voice, letting her
arms fall by her side, said:

"Pardon me, sir, and attribute this
violence to what I suffer. A woman, and
consequently subject to the weaknesses
of my sex, I am alarmed at the idea of
civil war; a queen, accustomed to be
obeyed, I am excited at the first
opposition."

"Madame," replied Gondy, bowing, "your
majesty is mistaken in qualifying my
sincere advice as opposition. Your
majesty has none but submissive and
respectful subjects. It is not the queen
with whom the people are displeased;
they ask for Broussel and are only too
happy, if you release him to them, to
live under your government."

Mazarin, who at the words, "It is not
the queen with whom the people are
displeased," had pricked up his ears,
thinking that the coadjutor was about to
speak of the cries, "Down with Mazarin,"
and pleased with Gondy's suppression of
this fact, he said with his sweetest
voice and his most gracious expression:

"Madame, credit the coadjutor, who is
one of the most able politicians we
have; the first available cardinal's hat
seems to belong already to his noble
brow."

"Ah! how much you have need of me,
cunning rogue!" thought Gondy.

("And what will he promise us?" said
D'Artagnan. "Peste, if he is giving away
hats like that, Porthos, let us look out
and both demand a regiment to-morrow.
Corbleu! let the civil war last but one
year and I will have a constable's sword
gilt for me."

"And for me?" put in Porthos.

"For you? I will give you the baton of
the Marechal de la Meilleraie, who does
not seem to be much in favor just now.")

"And so, sir," said the queen, "you are
seriously afraid of a public tumult."

"Seriously," said Gondy, astonished at
not having further advanced; "I fear
that when the torrent has broken its
embankment it will cause fearful
destruction."

"And I," said the queen, "think that in
such a case other embankments should be
raised to oppose it. Go; I will
reflect."

Gondy looked at Mazarin, astonished, and
Mazarin approached the queen to speak to
her, but at this moment a frightful
tumult arose from the square of the
Palais Royal.

Gondy smiled, the queen's color rose and
Mazarin grew even paler.

"What is that again?" he asked.

At this moment Comminges rushed into the
room.

"Pardon, your majesty," he cried, "but
the people have dashed the sentinels
against the gates and they are now
forcing the doors; what are your
commands?"

"Listen, madame," said Gondy.

The moaning of waves, the noise of
thunder, the roaring of a volcano,
cannot be compared with the tempest of
cries heard at that moment.

"What are my commands?" said the queen.

"Yes, for time presses."

"How many men have you about the Palais
Royal?"

"Six hundred."

"Place a hundred around the king and
with the remainder sweep away this mob
for me."

"Madame," cried Mazarin, "what are you
about?"

"Go!" said the queen.

Comminges went out with a soldier's
passive obedience.

At this moment a monstrous battering was
heard. One of the gates began to yield.

"Oh! madame," cried Mazarin, "you have
ruined us all -- the king, yourself and
me."

At this cry from the soul of the
frightened cardinal, Anne became alarmed
in her turn and would have recalled
Comminges.

"It is too late," said Mazarin, tearing
his hair, "too late!"

The gale had given way. Hoarse shouts
were heard from the excited mob.
D'Artagnan put his hand to his sword,
motioning to Porthos to follow his
example.

"Save the queen!" cried Mazarin to the
coadjutor.

Gondy sprang to the window and threw it
open; he recognized Louvieres at the
head of a troop of about three or four
thousand men.

"Not a step further," he shouted, "the
queen is signing!"

"What are you saying?" asked the queen.

"The truth, madame," said Mazarin,
placing a pen and a paper before her,
"you must;" then he added: "Sign, Anne,
I implore you -- I command you."

The queen fell into a chair, took the
pen and signed.

The people, kept back by Louvieres, had
not made another step forward; but the
awful murmuring, which indicates an
angry people, continued.

The queen had written, "The keeper of
the prison at Saint Germain will set
Councillor Broussel at liberty;" and she
had signed it.

The coadjutor, whose eyes devoured her
slightest movements, seized the paper
immediately the signature had been
affixed to it, returned to the window
and waved it in his hand.

"This is the order," he said.

All Paris seemed to shout with joy, and
then the air resounded with the cries of
"Long live Broussel!" "Long live the
coadjutor!"

"Long live the queen!" cried De Gondy;
but the cries which replied to his were
poor and few, and perhaps he had but
uttered it to make Anne of Austria
sensible of her weakness.

"And now that you have obtained what you
want, go," said she, "Monsieur de
Gondy."

"Whenever her majesty has need of me,"
replied the coadjutor, bowing, "her
majesty knows I am at her command."

"Ah, cursed priest!" cried Anne, when he
had retired, stretching out her arm to
the scarcely closed door, "one day I
will make you drink the dregs of the
atrocious gall you have poured out on me
to-day."

Mazarin wished to approach her. "Leave
me!" she exclaimed; "you are not a man!"
and she went out of the room.

"It is you who are not a woman,"
muttered Mazarin.

Then, after a moment of reverie, he
remembered where he had left D'Artagnan
and Porthos and that they must have
overheard everything. He knit his brows
and went direct to the tapestry, which
he pushed aside. The closet was empty.

At the queen's last word, D'Artagnan had
dragged Porthos into the gallery.
Thither Mazarin went in his turn and
found the two friends walking up and
down.

"Why did you leave the closet, Monsieur
d'Artagnan?" asked the cardinal.

"Because," replied D'Artagnan, "the
queen desired every one to leave and I
thought that this command was intended
for us as well as for the rest."

"And you have been here since ---- "

"About a quarter of an hour," said
D'Artagnan, motioning to Porthos not to
contradict him.

Mazarin saw the sign and remained
convinced that D'Artagnan had seen and
heard everything; but he was pleased
with his falsehood.

"Decidedly, Monsieur d'Artagnan, you are
the man I have been seeking. You may
reckon upon me and so may your friend."
Then bowing to the two musketeers with
his most gracious smile, he re-entered
his closet more calmly, for on the
departure of De Gondy the uproar had
ceased as though by enchantment.



49

Misfortune refreshes the Memory.



Anne of Austria returned to her oratory,
furious.

"What!" she cried, wringing her
beautiful hands, "What! the people have
seen Monsieur de Conde, a prince of the
blood royal, arrested by my
mother-in-law, Maria de Medicis; they
saw my mother-in-law, their former
regent, expelled by the cardinal; they
saw Monsieur de Vendome, that is to say,
the son of Henry IV., a prisoner at
Vincennes; and whilst these great
personages were imprisoned, insulted and
threatened, they said nothing; and now
for a Broussel -- good God! what, then,
is to become of royalty?"

The queen unconsciously touched here
upon the exciting question. The people
had made no demonstration for the
princes, but they had risen for
Broussel; they were taking the part of a
plebeian and in defending Broussel they
instinctively felt they were defending
themselves.

During this time Mazarin walked up and
down the study, glancing from time to
time at his beautiful Venetian mirror,
starred in every direction. "Ah!" he
said, "it is sad, I know well, to be
forced to yield thus; but, pshaw! we
shall have our revenge. What matters it
about Broussel -- it is a name, not a
thing."

Mazarin, clever politician as he was,
was for once mistaken; Broussel was a
thing, not a name.

The next morning, therefore, when
Broussel made his entrance into Paris in
a large carriage, having his son
Louvieres at his side and Friquet behind
the vehicle, the people threw themselves
in his way and cries of "Long live
Broussel!" "Long live our father!"
resounded from all parts and was death
to Mazarin's ears; and the cardinal's
spies brought bad news from every
direction, which greatly agitated the
minister, but was calmly received by the
queen. The latter seemed to be maturing
in her mind some great stroke, a fact
which increased the uneasiness of the
cardinal, who knew the proud princess
and dreaded much the determination of
Anne of Austria.

The coadjutor returned to parliament
more a monarch than king, queen, and
cardinal, all three together. By his
advice a decree from parliament summoned
the citizens to lay down their arms and
demolish the barricades. They now knew
that it required but one hour to take up
arms again and one night to reconstruct
the barricades.

Rochefort had returned to the Chevalier
d'Humieres his fifty horsemen, less two,
missing at roll call. But the chevalier
was himself at heart a Frondist and
would hear nothing said of compensation.

The mendicant had gone to his old place
on the steps of Saint Eustache and was
again distributing holy water with one
hand and asking alms with the other. No
one could suspect that those two hands
had been engaged with others in drawing
out from the social edifice the keystone
of royalty.

Louvieres was proud and satisfied; he
had taken revenge on Mazarin and had
aided in his father's deliverance from
prison. His name had been mentioned as a
name of terror at the Palais Royal.
Laughingly he said to the councillor,
restored to his family:

"Do you think, father, that if now I
should ask for a company the queen would
give it to me?"

D'Artagnan profited by this interval of
calm to send away Raoul, whom he had
great difficulty in keeping shut up
during the riot, and who wished
positively to strike a blow for one
party or the other. Raoul had offered
some opposition at first; but D'Artagnan
made use of the Comte de la Fere's name,
and after paying a visit to Madame de
Chevreuse, Raoul started to rejoin the
army.

Rochefort alone was dissatisfied with
the termination of affairs. He had
written to the Duc de Beaufort to come
and the duke was about to arrive, and he
world find Paris tranquil. He went to
the coadjutor to consult with him
whether it would not be better to send
word to the duke to stop on the road,
but Gondy reflected for a moment, and
then said:

"Let him continue his journey."

"All is not then over?" asked Rochefort.

"My dear count, we have only just
begun."

"What induces you to think so?"

"The knowledge that I have of the
queen's heart; she will not rest
contented beaten."

"Is she, then, preparing for a stroke?"

"I hope so."

"Come, let us see what you know."

"I know that she has written to the
prince to return in haste from the
army."

"Ah! ha!" said Rochefort, "you are
right. We must let Monsieur de Beaufort
come."

In fact, the evening after this
conversation the report was circulated
that the Prince de Conde had arrived. It
was a very simple, natural circumstance
and yet it created a profound sensation.
It was said that Madame de Longueville,
for whom the prince had more than a
brother's affection and in whom he had
confided, had been indiscreet. His
confidence had unveiled the sinister
project of the queen.

Even on the night of the prince's
return, some citizens, bolder than the
rest, such as the sheriffs, captains and
the quartermaster, went from house to
house among their friends, saying:

"Why do we not take the king and place
him in the Hotel de Ville? It is a shame
to leave him to be educated by our
enemies, who will give him evil counsel;
whereas, brought up by the coadjutor,
for instance, he would imbibe national
principles and love his people."

That night the question was secretly
agitated and on the morrow the gray and
black cloaks, the patrols of armed
shop-people, and the bands of mendicants
reappeared.

The queen had passed the night in lonely
conference with the prince, who had
entered the oratory at midnight and did
not leave till five o'clock in the
morning.

At five o'clock Anne went to the
cardinal's room. If she had not yet
taken any repose, he at least was
already up. Six days had already passed
out of the ten he had asked from
Mordaunt; he was therefore occupied in
revising his reply to Cromwell, when
some one knocked gently at the door of
communication with the queen's
apartments. Anne of Austria alone was
permitted to enter by that door. The
cardinal therefore rose to open it.

The queen was in a morning gown, but it
became her still; for, like Diana of
Poictiers and Ninon, Anne of Austria
enjoyed the privilege of remaining ever
beautiful; nevertheless, this morning
she looked handsomer than usual, for her
eyes had all the sparkle inward
satisfaction adds to expression.

"What is the matter, madame?" said
Mazarin, uneasily. "You seem secretly
elated."

"Yes, Giulio," she said, "proud and
happy; for I have found the means of
strangling this hydra."

"You are a great politician, my queen,"
said Mazarin; "let us hear the means."
And he hid what he had written by
sliding the letter under a folio of
blank paper.

"You know," said the queen, "that they
want to take the king away from me?"

"Alas! yes, and to hang me."

"They shall not have the king."

"Nor hang me."

"Listen. I want to carry off my son from
them, with yourself. I wish that this
event, which on the day it is known will
completely change the aspect of affairs,
should be accomplished without the
knowledge of any others but yourself,
myself, and a third person."

"And who is this third person?"

"Monsieur le Prince."

"He has come, then, as they told me?"

"Last evening."

"And you have seen him?"

"He has just left me."

"And will he aid this project?"

"The plan is his own."

"And Paris?"

"He will starve it out and force it to
surrender at discretion."

"The plan is not wanting in grandeur; I
see but one impediment."

"What is it?"

"Impossibility."

"A senseless word. Nothing is
impossible."

"On paper."

"In execution. We have money?"

"A little," said Mazarin, trembling,
lest Anne should ask to draw upon his
purse.

"Troops?"

"Five or six thousand men."

"Courage?"

"Plenty."

"Then the thing is easy. Oh! do think of
it, Giulio! Paris, this odious Paris,
waking up one morning without queen or
king, surrounded, besieged, famished --
having for its sole resource its stupid
parliament and their coadjutor with
crooked limbs!"

"Charming! charming!" said Mazarin. "I
can imagine the effect, I do not see the
means."

"I will find the means myself."

"You are aware it will be war, civil
war, furious, devouring, implacable?"

"Oh! yes, yes, war," said Anne of
Austria. "Yes, I will reduce this
rebellious city to ashes. I will
extinguish the fire with blood! I will
perpetuate the crime and punishment by
making a frightful example. Paris!; I --
I detest, I loathe it!"

"Very fine, Anne. You are now
sanguinary; but take care. We are not in
the time of Malatesta and Castruccio
Castracani. You will get yourself
decapitated, my beautiful queen, and
that would be a pity."

"You laugh."

"Faintly. It is dangerous to go to war
with a nation. Look at your brother
monarch, Charles I. He is badly off,
very badly."

"We are in France, and I am Spanish."

"So much the worse; I had much rather
you were French and myself also; they
would hate us both less."

"Nevertheless, you consent?"

"Yes, if the thing be possible."

"It is; it is I who tell you so; make
preparations for departure."

"I! I am always prepared to go, only, as
you know, I never do go, and perhaps
shall go this time as little as before."

"In short, if I go, will you go too?"

"I will try."

"You torment me, Giulio, with your
fears; and what are you afraid of,
then?"

"Of many things."

"What are they?"

Mazarin's face, smiling as it was,
became clouded.

"Anne," said he, "you are but a woman
and as a woman you may insult men at
your ease, knowing that you can do it
with impunity. You accuse me of fear; I
have not so much as you have, since I do
not fly as you do. Against whom do they
cry out? is it against you or against
myself? Whom would they hang, yourself
or me? Well, I can weather the storm --
I, whom, notwithstanding, you tax with
fear -- not with bravado, that is not my
way; but I am firm. Imitate me. Make
less hubbub and think more deeply. You
cry very loud, you end by doing nothing;
you talk of flying ---- "

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and
taking the queen's hand led her to the
window.

"Look!" he said.

"Well?" said the queen, blinded by her
obstinacy.

"Well, what do you see from this window?
If I am not mistaken those are citizens,
helmeted and mailed, armed with good
muskets, as in the time of the League,
and whose eyes are so intently fixed on
this window that they will see you if
you raise that curtain much; and now
come to the other side -- what do you
see? Creatures of the people, armed with
halberds, guarding your doors. You will
see the same at every opening from this
palace to which I should lead you. Your
doors are guarded, the airholes of your
cellars are guarded, and I could say to
you, as that good La Ramee said to me of
the Duc de Beaufort, you must be either
bird or mouse to get out."

"He did get out, nevertheless."

"Do you think of escaping in the same
way?"

"I am a prisoner, then?"

"Parbleu!" said Mazarin, "I have been
proving it to you this last hour."

And he quietly resumed his dispatch at
the place where he had been interrupted.

Anne, trembling with anger and scarlet
with humiliation, left the room,
shutting the door violently after her.
Mazarin did not even turn around. When
once more in her own apartment Anne fell
into a chair and wept; then suddenly
struck with an idea:

"I am saved!" she exclaimed, rising;
"oh, yes! yes! I know a man who will
find the means of taking me from Paris,
a man I have too long forgotten." Then
falling into a reverie, she added,
however, with an expression of joy,
"Ungrateful woman that I am, for twenty
years I have forgotten this man, whom I
ought to have made a marechal of France.
My mother-in-law expended gold,
caresses, dignities on Concini, who
ruined her; the king made Vitry marechal
of France for an assassination: while I
have left in obscurity, in poverty, the
noble D'Artagnan, who saved me!"

And running to a table, on which were
paper, pens and ink, she hastily began
to write.



50

The Interview.



It had been D'Artagnan's practice, ever
since the riots, to sleep in the same
room as Porthos, and on this eventful
morning he was still there, sleeping,
and dreaming that a yellow cloud had
overspread the sky and was raining gold
pieces into his hat, which he held out
till it was overflowing with pistoles.
As for Porthos, he dreamed that the
panels of his carriage were not
capacious enough to contain the armorial
bearings he had ordered to be painted on
them. They were both aroused at seven
o'clock by the entrance of an unliveried
servant, who brought a letter for
D'Artagnan.

"From whom?" asked the Gascon.

"From the queen," replied the servant.

"Ho!" said Porthos, raising himself in
his bed; "what does she say?"

D'Artagnan requested the servant to wait
in the next room and when the door was
closed he sprang up from his bed and
read rapidly, whilst Porthos looked at
him with starting eyes, not daring to
ask a single question.

"Friend Porthos," said D'Artagnan,
handing the letter to him, "this time,
at least, you are sure of your title of
baron, and I of my captaincy. Read for
yourself and judge."

Porthos took the letter and with a
trembling voice read the following
words:

"The queen wishes to speak to Monsieur
d'Artagnan, who must follow the bearer."

"Well!" exclaimed Porthos; "I see
nothing in that very extraordinary."

"But I see much that is very
extraordinary in it," replied
D'Artagnan. "It is evident, by their
sending for me, that matters are
becoming complicated. Just reflect a
little what an agitation the queen's
mind must be in for her to have
remembered me after twenty years."

"It is true," said Porthos.

"Sharpen your sword, baron, load your
pistols, and give some corn to the
horses, for I will answer for it,
something lightning-like will happen ere
to-morrow."

"But, stop; do you think it can be a
trap that they are laying for us?"
suggested Porthos, incessantly thinking
how his greatness must be irksome to
inferior people.

"If it is a snare," replied D'Artagnan,
"I shall scent it out, be assured. If
Mazarin is an Italian, I am a Gascon."

And D'Artagnan dressed himself in an
instant.

Whilst Porthos, still in bed, was
hooking on his cloak for him, a second
knock at the door was heard.

"Come in," exclaimed D'Artagnan; and
another servant entered.

"From His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin,"
presenting a letter.

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos.

"A complicated affair," said Porthos;
"where will you begin?"

"It is arranged capitally; his eminence
expects me in half an hour."

"Good."

"My friend," said D'Artagnan, turning to
the servant, "tell his eminence that in
half an hour I shall be at his command."

"It is very fortunate," resumed the
Gascon, when the valet had retired,
"that he did not meet the other one."

"Do you not think that they have sent
for you, both for the same thing?"

"I do not think it, I am certain of it."

"Quick, quick, D'Artagnan. Remember that
the queen awaits you, and after the
queen, the cardinal, and after the
cardinal, myself."

D'Artagnan summoned Anne of Austria's
servant and signified that he was ready
to follow him into the queen's presence.

The servant conducted him by the Rue des
Petits Champs and turning to the left
entered the little garden gate leading
into the Rue Richelieu; then they gained
the private staircase and D'Artagnan was
ushered into the oratory. A certain
emotion, for which he could not account,
made the lieutenant's heart beat: he had
no longer the assurance of youth;
experience had taught him the importance
of past events. Formerly he would have
approached the queen as a young man who
bends before a woman; but now it was a
different thing; he answered her summons
as an humble soldier obeys an
illustrious general.

The silence of the oratory was at last
disturbed by the slight rustling of
silk, and D'Artagnan started when he
perceived the tapestry raised by a white
hand, which, by its form, its color and
its beauty he recognized as that royal
hand which had one day been presented to
him to kiss. The queen entered.

"It is you, Monsieur d'Artagnan," she
said, fixing a gaze full of melancholy
interest on the countenance of the
officer, "and I know you well. Look at
me well in your turn. I am the queen; do
you recognize me?"

"No, madame," replied D'Artagnan.

"But are you no longer aware," continued
Anne, giving that sweet expression to
her voice which she could do at will,
"that in former days the queen had once
need of a young, brave and devoted
cavalier -- that she found this
cavalier -- and that, although he might
have thought that she had forgotten him,
she had kept a place for him in the
depths of her heart?"

"No, madame, I was ignorant of that,"
said the musketeer.

"So much the worse, sir," said Anne of
Austria; "so much the worse, at least
for the queen, for to-day she has need
of the same courage and the same
devotion."

"What!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, "does the
queen, surrounded as she is by such
devoted servants, such wise counselors,
men, in short, so great by merit or
position -- does she deign to cast her
eyes on an obscure soldier?"

Anne understood this covert reproach and
was more moved than irritated by it. She
had many a time felt humiliated by the
self-sacrifice and disinterestedness
shown by the Gascon gentleman. She had
allowed herself to be exceeded in
generosity.

"All that you tell me of those by whom I
am surrounded, Monsieur d'Artagnan, is
doubtless true," said the queen, "but I
have confidence in you alone. I know
that you belong to the cardinal, but
belong to me as well, and I will take
upon myself the making of your fortune.
Come, will you do to-day what formerly
the gentleman you do not know did for
the queen?"

"I will do everything your majesty
commands," replied D'Artagnan.

The queen reflected for a moment and
then, seeing the cautious demeanor of
the musketeer:

"Perhaps you like repose?" she said.

"I do not know, for I have never had it,
madame."

"Have you any friends?"

"I had three, two of whom have left
Paris, to go I know not where. One alone
is left to me, but he is one of those
known, I believe, to the cavalier of
whom your majesty did me the honor to
speak."

"Very good," said the queen; "you and
your friend are worth an army."

"What am I to do, madame?"

"Return at five o'clock and I will tell
you; but do not breathe to a living
soul, sir, the rendezvous which I give
you."

"No, madame."

"Swear it upon the cross."

"Madame, I have never been false to my
word; when I say I will not do a thing,
I mean it."

The queen, although astonished at this
language, to which she was not
accustomed from her courtiers, argued
from it a happy omen of the zeal with
which D'Artagnan would serve her in the
accomplishment of her project. It was
one of the Gascon's artifices to hide
his deep cunning occasionally under an
appearance of rough loyalty.

"Has the queen any further commands for
me now?" asked D'Artagnan.

"No, sir," replied Anne of Austria, "and
you may retire until the time that I
mentioned to you."

D'Artagnan bowed and went out.

"Diable!" he exclaimed when the door was
shut, "they seem to have the greatest
need of me just now."

Then, as the half hour had already
glided by, he crossed the gallery and
knocked at the cardinal's door.

Bernouin introduced him.

"I come for your commands, my lord," he
said.

And according to his custom D'Artagnan
glanced rapidly around and remarked that
Mazarin had a sealed letter before him.
But it was so placed on the desk that he
could not see to whom it was addressed.

"You come from the queen?" said Mazarin,
looking fixedly at D'Artagnan.

"I! my lord -- who told you that?"

"Nobody, but I know it."

"I regret infinitely to tell you, my
lord, that you are mistaken," replied
the Gascon, impudently, firm to the
promise he had just made to Anne of
Austria.

"I opened the door of the ante-room
myself and I saw you enter at the end of
the corridor."

"Because I was shown up the private
stairs."

"How so?"

"I know not; it must have been a
mistake."

Mazarin was aware that it was not easy
to make D'Artagnan reveal anything he
was desirous of hiding, so he gave up,
for the time, the discovery of the
mystery the Gascon was concealing.

"Let us speak of my affairs," said
Mazarin, "since you will tell me naught
of yours. Are you fond of traveling?"

"My life has been passed on the high
road."

"Would anything retain you particularly
in Paris?"

"Nothing but an order from a superior
would retain me in Paris."

"Very well. Here is a letter, which must
be taken to its address."

"To its address, my lord? But it has
none."

In fact, the side of the letter opposite
the seal was blank.

"I must tell you," resumed Mazarin,
"that it is in a double envelope."

"I understand; and I am to take off the
first one when I have reached a certain
place?"

"Just so, take it and go. You have a
friend, Monsieur du Vallon, whom I like
much; let him accompany you."

"The devil!" said D'Artagnan to himself.
"He knows that we overheard his
conversation yesterday and he wants to
get us away from Paris."

"Do you hesitate?" asked Mazarin.

"No, my lord, and I will set out at
once. There is one thing only which I
must request."

"What is it? Speak."

"That your eminence will go at once to
the queen."

"What for?"

"Merely to say these words: `I am going
to send Monsieur d'Artagnan away and I
wish him to set out directly.'"

"I told you," said Mazarin, "that you
had seen the queen."

"I had the honor of saying to your
eminence that there had been some
mistake."

"What is the meaning of that?"

"May I venture to repeat my prayer to
your eminence?"

"Very well; I will go. Wait here for
me." And looking attentively around him,
to see if he had left any of his keys in
his closets, Mazarin went out. Ten
minutes elapsed, during which D'Artagnan
made every effort to read through the
first envelope what was written on the
second. But he did not succeed.

Mazarin returned, pale, and evidently
thoughtful. He seated himself at his
desk and D'Artagnan proceeded to examine
his face, as he had just examined the
letter he held, but the envelope which
covered his countenance appeared as
impenetrable as that which covered the
letter.

"Ah!" thought the Gascon; "he looks
displeased. Can it be with me? He
meditates. Is it about sending me to the
Bastile? All very fine, my lord, but at
the very first hint you give of such a
thing I will strangle you and become
Frondist. I should be carried home in
triumph like Monsieur Broussel and Athos
would proclaim me the French Brutus. It
would be exceedingly droll."

The Gascon, with his vivid imagination,
had already seen the advantage to be
derived from his situation. Mazarin
gave, however, no order of the kind, but
on the contrary began to be insinuating.

"You were right," he said, "my dear
Monsieur d'Artagnan, and you cannot set
out yet. I beg you to return me that
dispatch."

D'Artagnan obeyed, and Mazarin
ascertained that the seal was intact.

"I shall want you this evening," he said
"Return in two hours."

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "I have an
appointment in two hours which I cannot
miss."

"Do not be uneasy," said Mazarin; "it is
the same."

"Good!" thought D'Artagnan; "I fancied
it was so."

"Return, then, at five o'clock and bring
that worthy Monsieur du Vallon with you.
Only, leave him in the ante-room, as I
wish to speak to you alone."

D'Artagnan bowed, and thought: "Both at
the same hour; both commands alike; both
at the Palais Royal. Monsieur de Gondy
would pay a hundred thousand francs for
such a secret!"

"You are thoughtful," said Mazarin,
uneasily.

"Yes, I was thinking whether we ought to
come armed or not."

"Armed to the teeth!" replied Mazarin.

"Very well, my lord; it shall be so."

D'Artagnan saluted, went out and
hastened to repeat to his friend
Mazarin's flattering promises, which
gave Porthos an indescribable happiness.



51

The Flight.



When D'Artagnan returned to the Palais
Royal at five o'clock, it presented, in
spite of the excitement which reigned in
the town, a spectacle of the greatest
rejoicing. Nor was that surprising. The
queen had restored Broussel and
Blancmesnil to the people and had
therefore nothing to fear, since the
people had nothing more just then to ask
for. The return, also, of the conqueror
of Lens was the pretext for giving a
grand banquet. The princes and
princesses were invited and their
carriages had crowded the court since
noon; then after dinner the queen was to
have a play in her apartment. Anne of
Austria had never appeared more
brilliant than on that day -- radiant
with grace and wit. Mazarin disappeared
as they rose from table. He found
D'Artagnan waiting for him already at
his post in the ante-room.

The cardinal advanced to him with a
smile and taking him by the hand led him
into his study.

"My dear M. d'Artagnan," said the
minister, sitting down, "I am about to
give you the greatest proof of
confidence that a minister can give an
officer."

"I hope," said D'Artagnan, bowing, "that
you give it, my lord, without hesitation
and with the conviction that I am worthy
of it."

"More worthy than any one in Paris my
dear friend; therefore I apply to you.
We are about to leave this evening,"
continued Mazarin. "My dear M.
d'Artagnan, the welfare of the state is
deposited in your hands." He paused.

"Explain yourself, my lord, I am
listening."

"The queen has resolved to make a little
excursion with the king to Saint
Germain."

"Aha!" said D'Artagnan, "that is to say,
the queen wishes to leave Paris."

"A woman's caprice -- you understand."

"Yes, I understand perfectly," said
D'Artagnan.

"It was for this she summoned you this
morning and that she told you to return
at five o'clock."

"Was it worth while to wish me to swear
this morning that I would mention the
appointment to no one?" muttered
D'Artagnan. "Oh, women! women! whether
queens or not, they are always the
same."

"Do you disapprove of this journey, my
dear M. d'Artagnan?" asked Mazarin,
anxiously.

"I, my lord?" said D'Artagnan; "why
should I?"

"Because you shrug your shoulders."

"It is a way I have of speaking to
myself. I neither approve nor
disapprove, my lord; I merely await your
commands."

"Good; it is you, accordingly, that I
have pitched upon to conduct the king
and the queen to Saint Germain."

"Liar!" thought D'Artagnan.

"You see, therefore," continued the
cardinal, perceiving D'Artagnan's
composure, "that, as I have told you,
the welfare of the state is placed in
your hands."

"Yes, my lord, and I feel the whole
responsibility of such a charge."

"You accept, however?"

"I always accept."

"Do you think the thing possible?"

"Everything is possible."

"Shall you be attacked on the road?"

"Probably."

"And what will you do in that case?"

"I shall pass through those who attack
me."

"And suppose you cannot pass through
them?"

"So much the worse for them; I shall
pass over them."

"And you will place the king and queen
in safety also, at Saint Germain?"

"Yes."

"On your life?"

"On my life."

"You are a hero, my friend," said
Mazarin, gazing at the musketeer with
admiration.

D'Artagnan smiled.

"And I?" asked Mazarin, after a moment's
silence.

"How? and you, my lord?"

"If I wish to leave?"

"That would be much more difficult."

"Why so?"

"Your eminence might be recognized."

"Even under this disguise?" asked
Mazarin, raising a cloak which covered
an arm-chair, upon which lay a complete
dress for an officer, of pearl-gray and
red, entirely embroidered with silver.

"If your eminence is disguised it will
be almost easy."

"Ah!" said Mazarin, breathing more
freely.

"But it will be necessary for your
eminence to do what the other day you
declared you should have done in our
place -- cry, `Down with Mazarin!'"

"I will: `Down with Mazarin'"

"In French, in good French, my lord,
take care of your accent; they killed
six thousand Angevins in Sicily because
they pronounced Italian badly. Take care
that the French do not take their
revenge on you for the Sicilian
vespers."

"I will do my best."

"The streets are full of armed men,"
continued D'Artagnan. "Are you sure that
no one is aware of the queen's project?"

Mazarin reflected.

"This affair would give a fine
opportunity for a traitor, my lord; the
chance of being attacked would be an
excuse for everything."

Mazarin shuddered, but he reflected that
a man who had the least intention to
betray would not warn first.

"And therefore," added he, quietly, "I
have not confidence in every one; the
proof of which is, that I have fixed
upon you to escort me."

"Shall you not go with the queen?"

"No," replied Mazarin.

"Then you will start after the queen?"

"No," said Mazarin again.

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, who began to
understand.

"Yes," continued the cardinal. "I have
my plan. With the queen I double her
risk; after the queen her departure
would double mine; then, the court once
safe, I might be forgotten. The great
are often ungrateful."

"Very true," said D'Artagnan, fixing his
eyes, in spite of himself, on the
queen's diamond, which Mazarin wore on
his finger. Mazarin followed the
direction of his eyes and gently turned
the hoop of the ring inside.

"I wish," he said, with his cunning
smile, "to prevent them from being
ungrateful to me."

"It is but Christian charity," replied
D'Artagnan, "not to lead one's neighbors
into temptation."

"It is exactly for that reason," said
Mazarin, "that I wish to start before
them."

D'Artagnan smiled -- he was just the man
to understand the astute Italian.
Mazarin saw the smile and profited by
the moment.

"You will begin, therefore, by taking me
first out of Paris, will you not, my
dear M. d'Artagnan?"

"A difficult commission, my lord,"
replied D'Artagnan, resuming his serious
manner.

"But," said Mazarin, "you did not make
so many difficulties with regard to the
king and queen."

"The king and the queen are my king and
queen," replied the musketeer, "my life
is theirs and I must give it for them.
If they ask it what have I to say?"

"That is true," murmured Mazarin, in a
low tone, "but as thy life is not mine I
suppose I must buy it, must I not?" and
sighing deeply he began to turn the hoop
of his ring outside again. D'Artagnan
smiled. These two men met at one point
and that was, cunning; had they been
actuated equally by courage, the one
would have done great things for the
other.

"But, also," said Mazarin, "you must
understand that if I ask this service
from you it is with the intention of
being grateful."

"Is it still only an intention, your
eminence?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Stay," said Mazarin, drawing the ring
from his finger, "my dear D'Artagnan,
there is a diamond which belonged to you
formerly, it is but just it should
return to you; take it, I pray."

D'Artagnan spared Mazarin the trouble of
insisting, and after looking to see if
the stone was the same and assuring
himself of the purity of its water, he
took it and passed it on his finger with
indescribable pleasure.

"I valued it much," said Mazarin, giving
a last look at it; "nevertheless, I give
it to you with great pleasure."

"And I, my lord," said D'Artagnan,
"accept it as it is given. Come, let us
speak of your little affairs. You wish
to leave before everybody and at what
hour?"

"At ten o'clock."

"And the queen, at what time is it her
wish to start?"

"At midnight."

"Then it is possible. I can get you out
of Paris and leave you beyond the
barriere, and can return for her."

"Capital; but how will you get me out of
Paris?"

"Oh! as to that, you must leave it to
me."

"I give you absolute power, therefore;
take as large an escort as you like."

D'Artagnan shook his head.

"It seems to me, however," said Mazarin,
"the safest method."

"Yes, for you, my lord, but not for the
queen; you must leave it to me and give
me the entire direction of the
undertaking."

"Nevertheless ---- "

"Or find some one else," continued
D'Artagnan, turning his back.

"Oh!" muttered Mazarin, "I do believe he
is going off with the diamond! M.
d'Artagnan, my dear M. d'Artagnan," he
called out in a coaxing voice, "will you
answer for everything?"

"I will answer for nothing. I will do my
best."

"Well, then, let us go -- I must trust
to you."

"It is very fortunate," said D'Artagnan
to himself.

"You will be here at half-past nine."

"And I shall find your eminence ready?"

"Certainly, quite ready."

"Well, then, it is a settled thing; and
now, my lord, will you obtain for me an
audience with the queen?"

"For what purpose?"

"I wish to receive her majesty's
commands from her own lips."

"She desired me to give them to you."

"She may have forgotten something."

"You really wish to see her?"

"It is indispensable, my lord."

Mazarin hesitated for one instant, but
D'Artagnan was firm.

"Come, then," said the minister; "I will
conduct you to her, but remember, not
one word of our conversation."

"What has passed between us concerns
ourselves alone. my lord," replied
D'Artagnan.

"Swear to be mute."

"I never swear, my lord, I say yes or
no; and, as I am a gentleman, I keep my
word."

"Come, then, I see that I must trust
unreservedly to you."

"Believe me, my lord, it will be your
best plan."

"Come," said Mazarin, conducting
D'Artagnan into the queen's oratory and
desiring him to wait there. He did not
wait long, for in five minutes the queen
entered in full gala costume. Thus
dressed she scarcely appeared
thirty-five years of age. She was still
exceedingly handsome.

"It is you, Monsieur D'Artagnan," she
said, smiling graciously; "I thank you
for having insisted on seeing me."

"I ought to ask your majesty's pardon,
but I wished to receive your commands
from your own mouth."

"Do you accept the commission which I
have intrusted to you?"

"With gratitude."

"Very well, be here at midnight."

"I will not fail."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued the
queen, "I know your disinterestedness
too well to speak of my own gratitude at
such a moment, but I swear to you that I
shall not forget this second service as
I forgot the first."

"Your majesty is free to forget or to
remember, as it pleases you; and I know
not what you mean," said D'Artagnan,
bowing.

"Go, sir," said the queen, with her most
bewitching smile, "go and return at
midnight."

And D'Artagnan retired, but as he passed
out he glanced at the curtain through
which the queen had entered and at the
bottom of the tapestry he remarked the
tip of a velvet slipper.

"Good," thought he; "Mazarin has been
listening to discover whether I betrayed
him. In truth, that Italian puppet does
not deserve the services of an honest
man."

D'Artagnan was not less exact to his
appointment and at half-past nine
o'clock he entered the ante-room.

He found the cardinal dressed as an
officer, and he looked very well in that
costume, which, as we have already said,
he wore elegantly; only he was very pale
and trembled slightly.

"Quite alone?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"And that worthy Monsieur du Vallon, are
we not to enjoy his society?"

"Certainly, my lord; he is waiting in
his carriage at the gate of the garden
of the Palais Royal."

"And we start in his carriage, then?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And with us no other escort but you
two?"

"Is it not enough? One of us would
suffice."

"Really, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan,"
said the cardinal, "your coolness
startles me."

"I should have thought, on the contrary,
that it ought to have inspired you with
confidence."

"And Bernouin -- do I not take him with
me?"

"There is no room for him, he will
rejoin your eminence."

"Let us go," said Mazarin, "since
everything must be done as you wish."

"My lord, there is time to draw back,"
said D'Artagnan, "and your eminence is
perfectly free."

"Not at all, not at all," said Mazarin;
"let us be off."

And so they descended the private stair,
Mazarin leaning on the arm of D'Artagnan
a hand the musketeer felt trembling. At
last, after crossing the courts of the
Palais Royal, where there still remained
some of the conveyances of late guests,
they entered the garden and reached the
little gate. Mazarin attempted to open
it by a key which he took from his
pocket, but with such shaking fingers
that he could not find the keyhole.

"Give it to me," said D'Artagnan, who
when the gate was open deposited the key
in his pocket, reckoning upon returning
by that gate.

The steps were already down and the door
open. Mousqueton stood at the door and
Porthos was inside the carriage.

"Mount, my lord," said D'Artagnan to
Mazarin, who sprang into the carriage
without waiting for a second bidding.
D'Artagnan followed him, and Mousqueton,
having closed the door, mounted behind
the carriage with many groans. He had
made some difficulties about going,
under pretext that he still suffered
from his wound, but D'Artagnan had said
to him:

"Remain if you like, my dear Monsieur
Mouston, but I warn you that Paris will
be burnt down to-night;" upon which
Mousqueton had declared, without asking
anything further, that he was ready to
follow his master and Monsieur
d'Artagnan to the end of the world.

The carriage started at a measured pace,
without betraying by the slightest sign
that it contained people in a hurry. The
cardinal wiped his forehead with his
handkerchief and looked around him. On
his left was Porthos, whilst D'Artagnan
was on his right; each guarded a door
and served as a rampart to him on either
side. Before him, on the front seat, lay
two pairs of pistols -- one in front of
Porthos and the other of D'Artagnan.
About a hundred paces from the Palais
Royal a patrol stopped the carriage.

"Who goes?" asked the captain.

"Mazarin!" replied D'Artagnan, bursting
into a laugh. The cardinal's hair stood
on end. But the joke appeared an
excellent one to the citizens, who,
seeing the conveyance without escort and
unarmed, would never have believed in
the possibility of so great an
imprudence.

"A good journey to ye," they cried,
allowing it to pass.

"Hem!" said D'Artagnan, "what does my
lord think of that reply?"

"Man of talent!" cried Mazarin.

"In truth," said Porthos, "I understand;
but now ---- "

About the middle of the Rue des Petits
Champs they were stopped by a second
patrol.

"Who goes there?" inquired the captain
of the patrol.

"Keep back, my lord," said D'Artagnan.
And Mazarin buried himself so far behind
the two friends that he disappeared,
completely hidden between them.

"Who goes there?" cried the same voice,
impatiently whilst D'Artagnan perceived
that they had rushed to the horses'
heads. But putting hid head out of the
carriage:

"Eh! Planchet," said he.

The chief approached, and it was indeed
Planchet; D'Artagnan had recognized the
voice of his old servant.

"How, sir!" said Planchet, "is it you?"

"Eh! mon Dieu! yes, my good friend, this
worthy Porthos has just received a sword
wound and I am taking him to his country
house at Saint Cloud."

"Oh! really," said Planchet.

"Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "if you can
still speak, say a word, my dear
Porthos, to this good Planchet."

"Planchet, my friend," said Porthos, in
a melancholy voice, "I am very ill;
should you meet a doctor you will do me
a favor by sending him to me."

"Oh! good Heaven," said Planchet, "what
a misfortune! and how did it happen?"

"I will tell you all about it," replied
Mousqueton.

Porthos uttered a deep groan.

"Make way for us, Planchet," said
D'Artagnan in a whisper to him, "or he
will not arrive alive; the lungs are
attacked, my friend."

Planchet shook his head with the air of
a man who says, "In that case things
look ill." Then he exclaimed, turning to
his men:

"Let them pass; they are friends.

The carriage resumed its course, and
Mazarin, who had held his breath,
ventured to breathe again.

"Bricconi!" muttered he.

A few steps in advance of the gate of
Saint Honore they met a third troop;
this latter party was composed of
ill-looking fellows, who resembled
bandits more than anything else; they
were the men of the beggar of Saint
Eustache.

"Attention, Porthos!" cried D'Artagnan.

Porthos placed his hand on the pistols.

"What is it?" asked Mazarin.

"My lord, I think we are in bad
company."

A man advanced to the door with a kind
of scythe in his hand. "Qui vive?" he
asked.

"Eh, rascal!" said D'Artagnan, "do you
not recognize his highness the prince's
carriage?"

"Prince or not," said the man, "open. We
are here to guard the gate, and no one
whom we do not know shall pass."

"What is to be done?" said Porthos.

"Pardieu! pass," replied D'Artagnan.

"But how?" asked Mazarin.

"Through or over; coachman, gallop on."

The coachman raised his whip.

"Not a step further," said the man, who
appeared to be the captain, "or I will
hamstring your horses."

"Peste!" said Porthos, "it would be a
pity; animals which cost me a hundred
pistoles each."

"I will pay you two hundred for them,"
said Mazarin.

"Yes, but when once they are hamstrung,
our necks will be strung next."

"If one of them comes to my side," asked
Porthos, "must I kill him?"

"Yes, by a blow of your fist, if you
can; we will not fire but at the last
extremity."

"I can do it," said Porthos.

"Come and open, then!" cried D'Artagnan
to the man with the scythe, taking one
of the pistols up by the muzzle and
preparing to strike with the handle. And
as the man approached, D'Artagnan, in
order to have more freedom for his
actions, leaned half out of the door;
his eyes were fixed upon those of the
mendicant, which were lighted up by a
lantern. Without doubt he recognized
D'Artagnan, for he became deadly pale;
doubtless the musketeer knew him, for
his hair stood up on his head.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" he cried, falling
back a step; "it is Monsieur d'Artagnan!
let him pass."

D'Artagnan was perhaps about to reply,
when a blow, similar to that of a mallet
falling on the head of an ox, was heard.
The noise was caused by Porthos, who had
just knocked down his man.

D'Artagnan turned around and saw the
unfortunate man upon his back about four
paces off.

"'Sdeath!" cried he to the coachman.
"Spur your horses! whip! get on!"

The coachman bestowed a heavy blow of
the whip upon his horses; the noble
animals bounded forward; then cries of
men who were knocked down were heard;
then a double concussion was felt, and
two of the wheels seemed to pass over a
round and flexible body. There was a
moment's silence, then the carriage
cleared the gate.

"To Cours la Reine!" cried D'Artagnan to
the coachman; then turning to Mazarin he
said, "Now, my lord, you can say five
paters and five aves, in thanks to
Heaven for your deliverance. You are
safe -- you are free."

Mazarin replied only by a groan; he
could not believe in such a miracle.
Five minutes later the carriage stopped,
having reached Cours la Reine.

"Is my lord pleased with his escort?"
asked D'Artagnan.

"Enchanted, monsieur," said Mazarin,
venturing his head out of one of the
windows; "and now do as much for the
queen."

"It will not be so difficult," replied
D'Artagnan, springing to the ground.
"Monsieur du Vallon, I commend his
eminence to your care."

"Be quite at ease," said Porthos,
holding out his hand, which D'Artagnan
took and shook in his.

"Oh!" cried Porthos, as if in pain.

D'Artagnan looked with surprise at his
friend.

"What is the matter, then?" he asked.

"I think I have sprained my wrist,' said
Porthos.

"The devil! why, you strike like a blind
or a deaf man."

"It was necessary; my man was going to
fire a pistol at me; but you -- how did
you get rid of yours?"

"Oh, mine," replied D'Artagnan, "was not
a man."

"What was it then?"

"It was an apparition."

"And ---- "

"I charmed it away."

Without further explanation D'Artagnan
took the pistols which were upon the
front seat, placed them in his belt,
wrapped himself in his cloak, and not
wishing to enter by the same gate as
that through which they had left, he
took his way toward the Richelieu gate.



52

The Carriage of Monsieur le Coadjuteur.



Instead of returning, then, by the Saint
Honore gate, D'Artagnan, who had time
before him, walked around and re-entered
by the Porte Richelieu. He was
approached to be examined, and when it
was discovered by his plumed hat and his
laced coat, that he was an officer of
the musketeers, he was surrounded, with
the intention of making him cry, "Down
with Mazarin!" The demonstration did not
fail to make him uneasy at first; but
when he discovered what it meant, he
shouted it in such a voice that even the
most exacting were satisfied. He walked
down the Rue Richelieu, meditating how
he should carry off the queen in her
turn, for to take her in a carriage
bearing the arms of France was not to be
thought of, when he perceived an
equipage standing at the door of the
hotel belonging to Madame de Guemenee.

He was struck by a sudden idea.

"Ah, pardieu!" he exclaimed; "that would
be fair play."

And approaching the carriage, he
examined the arms on the panels and the
livery of the coachman on his box. This
scrutiny was so much the more easy, the
coachman being sound asleep.

"It is, in truth, monsieur le
coadjuteur's carriage," said D'Artagnan;
"upon my honor I begin to think that
Heaven favors us."

He mounted noiselessly into the chariot
and pulled the silk cord which was
attached to the coachman's little
finger.

"To the Palais Royal," he called out.

The coachman awoke with a start and
drove off in the direction he was
desired, never doubting but that the
order had come from his master. The
porter at the palace was about to close
the gates, but seeing such a handsome
equipage he fancied that it was some
visit of importance and the carriage was
allowed to pass and to stop beneath the
porch. It was then only the coachman
perceived the grooms were not behind the
vehicle; he fancied monsieur le
coadjuteur had sent them back, and
without dropping the reins he sprang
from his box to open the door.
D'Artagnan, in his turn, sprang to the
ground, and just at the moment when the
coachman, alarmed at not seeing his
master, fell back a step, he seized him
by his collar with the left, whilst with
the right hand he placed the muzzle of a
pistol at his breast.

"Pronounce one single word," muttered
D'Artagnan, "and you are a dead man."

The coachman perceived at once, by the
expression of the man who thus addressed
him, that he had fallen into a trap, and
he remained with his mouth wide open and
his eyes portentously staring.

Two musketeers were pacing the court, to
whom D'Artagnan called by their names.

"Monsieur de Belliere," said he to one
of them, "do me the favor to take the
reins from the hands of this worthy man,
mount upon the box and drive to the door
of the private stair, and wait for me
there; it is an affair of importance on
the service of the king."

The musketeer, who knew that his
lieutenant was incapable of jesting with
regard to the service, obeyed without a
word, although he thought the order
strange. Then turning toward the second
musketeer, D'Artagnan said:

"Monsieur du Verger, help me to place
this man in a place of safety."

The musketeer, thinking that his
lieutenant had just arrested some prince
in disguise, bowed, and drawing his
sword, signified that he was ready.
D'Artagnan mounted the staircase,
followed by his prisoner, who in his
turn was followed by the soldier, and
entered Mazarin's ante-room. Bernouin
was waiting there, impatient for news of
his master.

"Well, sir?" he said.

"Everything goes on capitally, my dear
Monsieur Bernouin, but here is a man
whom I must beg you to put in a safe
place."

"Where, then, sir?"

"Where you like, provided that the place
which you shall choose has iron shutters
secured by padlocks and a door that can
be locked."

"We have that, sir," replied Bernouin;
and the poor coachman was conducted to a
closet, the windows of which were barred
and which looked very much like a
prison.

"And now, my good friend," said
D'Artagnan to him, "I must invite you to
deprive yourself, for my sake, of your
hat and cloak."

The coachman, as we can well understand,
made no resistance; in fact, he was so
astonished at what had happened to him
that he stammered and reeled like a
drunken man; D'Artagnan deposited his
clothes under the arm of one of the
valets.

"And now, Monsieur du Verger," he said,
"shut yourself up with this man until
Monsieur Bernouin returns to open the
door. The duty will be tolerably long
and not very amusing, I know; but,"
added he, seriously, "you understand, it
is on the king's service."

"At your command, lieutenant," replied
the musketeer, who saw the business was
a serious one.

"By-the-bye," continued D'Artagnan,
"should this man attempt to fly or to
call out, pass your sword through his
body."

The musketeer signified by a nod that
these commands should be obeyed to the
letter, and D'Artagnan went out,
followed by Bernouin. Midnight struck.

"Lead me into the queen's oratory," said
D'Artagnan, "announce to her I am here,
and put this parcel, with a well-loaded
musket, under the seat of the carriage
which is waiting at the foot of the
private stair."

Bernouin conducted D'Artagnan to the
oratory, where he sat down pensively.
Everything had gone on as usual at the
Palais Royal. As we said before, by ten
o'clock almost all the guests had
dispersed; those who were to fly with
the court had the word of command and
they were each severally desired to be
from twelve o'clock to one at Cours la
Reine.

At ten o'clock Anne of Austria had
entered the king's room. Monsieur had
just retired, and the youthful Louis,
remaining the last, was amusing himself
by placing some lead soldiers in a line
of battle, a game which delighted him
much. Two royal pages were playing with
him.

"Laporte," said the queen, "it is time
for his majesty to go to bed."

The king asked to remain up, having, he
said, no wish to sleep; but the queen
was firm.

"Are you not going to-morrow morning at
six o'clock, Louis, to bathe at
Conflans? I think you wished to do so of
your own accord?"

"You are right, madame," said the king,
"and I am ready to retire to my room
when you have kissed me. Laporte, give
the light to Monsieur the Chevalier de
Coislin."

The queen touched with her lips the
white, smooth brow the royal child
presented to her with a gravity which
already partook of etiquette.

"Go to sleep soon, Louis," said the
queen, "for you must be awakened very
early."

"I will do my best to obey you, madame,"
said the youthful king, "but I have no
inclination to sleep."

"Laporte," said Anne of Austria, in an
undertone, "find some very dull book to
read to his majesty, but do not undress
yourself."

The king went out, accompanied by the
Chevalier de Coislin, bearing the
candlestick, and then the queen returned
to her own apartment. Her ladies -- that
is to say Madame de Bregy, Mademoiselle
de Beaumont, Madame de Motteville, and
Socratine, her sister, so called on
account of her sense -- had just brought
into her dressing-room the remains of
the dinner, on which, according to her
usual custom, she supped. The queen then
gave her orders, spoke of a banquet
which the Marquis de Villequier was to
give to her on the day after the morrow,
indicated the persons she would admit to
the honor of partaking of it, announced
another visit on the following day to
Val-de-Grace, where she intended to pay
her devotions, and gave her commands to
her senior valet to accompany her. When
the ladies had finished their supper the
queen feigned extreme fatigue and passed
into her bedroom. Madame de Motteville,
who was on especial duty that evening,
followed to aid and undress her. The
queen then began to read, and after
conversing with her affectionately for a
few minutes, dismissed her.

It was at this moment D'Artagnan entered
the courtyard of the palace, in the
coadjutor's carriage, and a few seconds
later the carriages of the
ladies-in-waiting drove out and the
gates were shut after them.

A few minutes after twelve o'clock
Bernouin knocked at the queen's bedroom
door, having come by the cardinal's
secret corridor. Anne of Austria opened
the door to him herself. She was
dressed, that is to say, in dishabille,
wrapped in a long, warm dressing-gown.

"It is you, Bernouin," she said. "Is
Monsieur d'Artagnan there?"

"Yes, madame, in your oratory. He is
waiting till your majesty is ready."

"I am. Go and tell Laporte to wake and
dress the king, and then pass on to the
Marechal de Villeroy and summon him to
me."

Bernouin bowed and retired.

The queen entered her oratory, which was
lighted by a single lamp of Venetian
crystal, She saw D'Artagnan, who stood
expecting her.

"Is it you?" she said.

"Yes, madame."

"Are you ready?"

"I am."

"And his eminence, the cardinal?"

"Has got off without any accident. He is
awaiting your majesty at Cours la
Reine."

"But in what carriage do we start?"

"I have provided for everything; a
carriage below is waiting for your
majesty."

"Let us go to the king."

D'Artagnan bowed and followed the queen.
The young Louis was already dressed,
with the exception of his shoes and
doublet; he had allowed himself to be
dressed, in great astonishment,
overwhelming Laporte with questions, who
replied only in these words, "Sire, it
is by the queen's commands."

The bedclothes were thrown back,
exposing the king's bed linen, which was
so worn that here and there holes could
be seen. It was one of the results of
Mazarin's niggardliness.

The queen entered and D'Artagnan
remained at the door. As soon as the
child perceived the queen he escaped
from Laporte and ran to meet her. Anne
then motioned to D'Artagnan to approach,
and he obeyed.

"My son," said Anne of Austria, pointing
to the musketeer, calm, standing
uncovered, "here is Monsieur d'Artagnan,
who is as brave as one of those ancient
heroes of whom you like so much to hear
from my women. Remember his name well
and look at him well, that his face may
not be forgotten, for this evening he is
going to render us a great service."

The young king looked at the officer
with his large-formed eye, and repeated:

"Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"That is it, my son."

The young king slowly raised his little
hand and held it out to the musketeer;
the latter bent on his knee and kissed
it.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," repeated Louis;
"very well, madame."

At this moment they were startled by a
noise as if a tumult were approaching.

"What is that?" exclaimed the queen.

"Oh, oh!" replied D'Artagnan, straining
both at the same time his quick ear and
his intelligent glance, "it is the
murmur of the populace in revolution."

"We must fly," said the queen.

"Your majesty has given me the control
of this business; we had better wait and
see what they want."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!"

"I will answer for everything."

Nothing is so catching as confidence.
The queen, full of energy and courage,
was quickly alive to these two virtues
in others.

"Do as you like," she said, "I rely upon
you."

"Will your majesty permit me to give
orders in your name throughout this
business?"

"Command, sir."

"What do the people want this time?"
demanded the king.

"We are about to ascertain, sire,"
replied D'Artagnan, as he rapidly left
the room.

The tumult continued to increase and
seemed to surround the Palais Royal
entirely. Cries were heard from the
interior, of which they could not
comprehend the sense. It was evident
that there was clamor and sedition.

The king, half dressed, the queen and
Laporte remained each in the same state
and almost in the same place, where they
were listening and waiting. Comminges,
who was on guard that night at the
Palais Royal, ran in. He had about two
hundred men in the courtyards and
stables, and he placed them at the
queen's disposal.

"Well," asked Anne of Austria, when
D'Artagnan reappeared, "what does it
mean?"

"It means, madame, that the report has
spread that the queen has left the
Palais Royal, carrying off the king, and
the people ask to have proof to the
contrary, or threaten to demolish the
Palais Royal."

"Oh, this time it is too much!"
exclaimed the queen, "and I will prove
to them I have not left."

D'Artagnan saw from the expression of
the queen's face that she was about to
issue some violent command. He
approached her and said in a low voice:

"Has your majesty still confidence in
me?"

This voice startled her. "Yes, sir," she
replied, "every confidence; speak."

"Will the queen deign to follow my
advice?"

"Speak."

"Let your majesty dismiss M. de
Comminges and desire him to shut himself
up with his men in the guardhouse and in
the stables."

Comminges glanced at D'Artagnan with the
envious look with which every courtier
sees a new favorite spring up.

"You hear, Comminges?" said the queen.

D'Artagnan went up to him; with his
usual quickness he caught the anxious
glance.

"Monsieur de Comminges," he said,
"pardon me; we both are servants of the
queen, are we not? It is my turn to be
of use to her; do not envy me this
happiness."

Comminges bowed and left.

"Come," said D'Artagnan to himself, "I
have got one more enemy."

"And now," said the queen, addressing
D'Artagnan, "what is to be done? for you
hear that, instead of becoming calmer,
the noise increases."

"Madame," said D'Artagnan, "the people
want to see the king and they must see
him."

"What! must see him! Where -- on the
balcony?"

"Not at all, madame, but here, sleeping
in his bed."

"Oh, your majesty," exclaimed Laporte,
"Monsieur d'Artagnan is right."

The queen became thoughtful and smiled,
like a woman to whom duplicity is no
stranger.

"Without doubt," she murmured.

"Monsieur Laporte," said D'Artagnan, "go
and announce to the people through the
grating that they are going to be
satisfied and that in five minutes they
shall not only see the king, but they
shall see him in bed; add that the king
sleeps and that the queen begs that they
will keep silence, so as not to awaken
him."

"But not every one; a deputation of two
or four people."

"Every one, madame."

"But reflect, they will keep us here
till daybreak.

"It shall take but a quarter of an hour,
I answer for everything, madame; believe
me, I know the people; they are like a
great child, who only wants humoring.
Before the sleeping king they will be
mute, gentle and timid as lambs."

"Go, Laporte," said the queen.

The young king approached his mother and
said, "Why do as these people ask?"

"It must be so, my son," said Anne of
Austria.

"But if they say, `it must be' to me, am
I no longer king?"

The queen remained silent.

"Sire," said D'Artagnan, "will your
majesty permit me to ask you a
question?"

Louis XIV. turned around, astonished
that any one should dare to address him.
But the queen pressed the child's hand.

"Yes, sir." he said.

"Does your majesty remember, when
playing in the park of Fontainebleau, or
in the palace courts at Versailles, ever
to have seen the sky grow suddenly dark
and heard the sound of thunder?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Well, then, this noise of thunder,
however much your majesty may have
wished to continue playing, has said,
`go in, sire. You must do so.'"

"Certainly, sir; but they tell me that
the noise of thunder is the voice of
God."

"Well then, sire," continued D'Artagnan,
"listen to the noise of the people; you
will perceive that it resembles that of
thunder."

In truth at that moment a terrible
murmur was wafted to them by the night
breeze; then all at once it ceased.

"Hold, sire," said D'Artagnan, "they
have just told the people that you are
asleep; you see, you still are king."

The queen looked with surprise at this
strange man, whose brilliant courage
made him the equal of the bravest, and
who was, by his fine and quick
intelligence, the equal of the most
astute.

Laporte entered.

"Well, Laporte?" asked the queen.

"Madame," he replied, "Monsieur
d'Artagnan's prediction has been
accomplished; they are calm, as if by
enchantment. The doors are about to be
opened and in five minutes they will be
here."

"Laporte," said the queen, "suppose you
put one of your sons in the king's
place; we might be off during the time."

"If your majesty desires it," said
Laporte, "my sons, like myself, are at
the queen's service."

"Not at all," said D'Artagnan; "should
one of them know his majesty and
discover but a substitute, all would be
lost."

"You are right, sir, always right," said
Anne of Austria. "Laporte, place the
king in bed."

Laporte placed the king, dressed as he
was, in the bed and then covered him as
far as the shoulders with the sheet. The
queen bent over him and kissed his brow.

"Pretend to sleep, Louis," said she.

"Yes," said the king, "but I do not wish
to be touched by any of those men."

"Sire, I am here," said D'Artagnan, "and
I give you my word, that if a single man
has the audacity, his life shall pay for
it."

"And now what is to be done?" asked the
queen, "for I hear them."

"Monsieur Laporte, go to them and again
recommend silence. Madame, wait at the
door, whilst I shall be at the head of
the king's bed, ready to die for him."

Laporte went out; the queen remained
standing near the hangings, whilst
D'Artagnan glided behind the curtains.

Then the heavy and collected steps of a
multitude of men were heard, and the
queen herself raised the tapestry
hangings and put her finger on her lips.

On seeing the queen, the men stopped
short, respectfully.

"Enter, gentlemen, enter," said the
queen.

There was then amongst that crowd a
moment's hesitation, which looked like
shame. They had expected resistance,
they had expected to be thwarted, to
have to force the gates, to overturn the
guards. The gates had opened of
themselves, and the king, ostensibly at
least, had no other guard at his
bed-head but his mother. The foremost of
them stammered and attempted to fall
back.

"Enter, gentlemen," said Laporte, "since
the queen desires you so to do."

Then one more bold than the rest
ventured to pass the door and to advance
on tiptoe. This example was imitated by
the rest, until the room filled
silently, as if these men had been the
humblest, most devoted courtiers. Far
beyond the door the heads of those who
were not able to enter could be seen,
all craning to their utmost height to
try and see.

D'Artagnan saw it all through an opening
he had made in the curtain, and in the
very first man who entered he recognized
Planchet.

"Sir," said the queen to him, thinking
he was the leader of the band, "you
wished to see the king and therefore I
determined to show him to you myself.
Approach and look at him and say if we
have the appearance of people who wish
to run away."

"No, certainly," replied Planchet,
rather astonished at the unexpected
honor conferred upon him.

"You will say, then, to my good and
faithful Parisians," continued Anne,
with a smile, the expression of which
did not deceive D'Artagnan, "that you
have seen the king in bed, asleep, and
the queen also ready to retire."

"I shall tell them, madame, and those
who accompany me will say the same
thing; but ---- "

"But what?" asked Anne of Austria.

"Will your majesty pardon me," said
Planchet, "but is it really the king who
is lying there?"

Anne of Austria started. "If," she said,
"there is one among you who knows the
king, let him approach and say whether
it is really his majesty lying there."

A man wrapped in a cloak, in the folds
of which his face was hidden, approached
and leaned over the bed and looked.

For one second, D'Artagnan thought the
man had some evil design and he put his
hand to his sword; but in the movement
made by the man in stooping a portion of
his face was uncovered and D'Artagnan
recognized the coadjutor.

"It is certainly the king," said the
man, rising again. "God bless his
majesty!"

"Yes," repeated the leader in a whisper,
"God bless his majesty!" and all these
men, who had entered enraged, passed
from anger to pity and blessed the royal
infant in their turn.

"Now,', said Planchet, "let us thank the
queen. My friends, retire."

They all bowed, and retired by degrees
as noiselessly as they had entered.
Planchet, who had been the first to
enter, was the last to leave. The queen
stopped him.

"What is your name, my friend?" she
said.

Planchet, much surprised at the inquiry,
turned back.

"Yes," continued the queen, "I think
myself as much honored to have received
you this evening as if you had been a
prince, and I wish to know your name."

"Yes," thought Planchet, "to treat me as
a prince. No, thank you."

D'Artagnan trembled lest Planchet,
seduced, like the crow in the fable,
should tell his name, and that the
queen, knowing his name, would discover
that Planchet had belonged to him.

"Madame," replied Planchet,
respectfully, "I am called Dulaurier, at
your service."

"Thank you, Monsieur Dulaurier," said
the queen; "and what is your business?"

"Madame, I am a clothier in the Rue
Bourdonnais."

"That is all I wished to know," said the
queen. "Much obliged to you, Monsieur
Dulaurier. You will hear again from me."

"Come, come," thought D'Artagnan,
emerging from behind the curtain,
"decidedly Monsieur Planchet is no fool;
it is evident he has been brought up in
a good school."

The different actors in this strange
scene remained facing one another,
without uttering a single word; the
queen standing near the door, D'Artagnan
half out of his hiding place, the king
raised on his elbow, ready to fall down
on his bed again at the slightest sound
that would indicate the return of the
multitude, but instead of approaching,
the noise became more and more distant
and very soon it died entirely away.

The queen breathed more freely.
D'Artagnan wiped his damp forehead and
the king slid off his bed, saying, "Let
us go."

At this moment Laporte reappeared.

"Well?" asked the queen

"Well, madame," replied the valet, "I
followed them as far as the gates. They
announced to all their comrades that
they had seen the king and that the
queen had spoken to them; and, in fact,
they went away quite proud and happy."

"Oh, the miserable wretches!" murmured
the queen, "they shall pay dearly for
their boldness, and it is I who promise
this."

Then turning to D'Artagnan, she said:

"Sir, you have given me this evening the
best advice I have ever received.
Continue, and say what we must do now."

"Monsieur Laporte," said D'Artagnan,
"finish dressing his majesty."

"We may go, then?" asked the queen.

"Whenever your majesty pleases. You have
only to descend by the private stairs
and you will find me at the door."

"Go, sir," said the queen; "I will
follow you."

D'Artagnan went down and found the
carriage at its post and the musketeer
on the box. D'Artagnan took out the
parcel which he had desired Bernouin to
place under the seat. It may be
remembered that it was the hat and cloak
belonging to Monsieur de Gondy's
coachman.

He placed the cloak on his shoulders and
the hat on his head, whilst the
musketeer got off the box.

"Sir," said D'Artagnan, "you will go and
release your companion, who is guarding
the coachman. You must mount your horse
and proceed to the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel
de la Chevrette, whence you will take my
horse and that of Monsieur du Vallon,
which you must saddle and equip as if
for war, and then you will leave Paris,
bringing them with you to Cours la
Reine. If, when you arrive at Cours la
Reine, you find no one, you must go on
to Saint Germain. On the king's
service."

The musketeer touched his cap and went
away to execute the orders thus
received.

D'Artagnan mounted the box, having a
pair of pistols in his belt, a musket
under his feet and a naked sword behind
him.

The queen appeared, and was followed by
the king and the Duke d'Anjou, his
brother.

"Monsieur the coadjutor's carriage!" she
exclaimed, falling back.

"Yes, madame," said D'Artagnan; "but get
in fearlessly, for I myself will drive
you."

The queen uttered a cry of surprise and
entered the carriage, and the king and
monsieur took their places at her side.

"Come, Laporte," said the queen.

"How, madame!" said the valet, "in the
same carriage as your majesties?"

"It is not a matter of royal etiquette
this evening, but of the king's safety.
Get in, Laporte."

Laporte obeyed.

"Pull down the blinds," said D'Artagnan.

"But will that not excite suspicion,
sir?" asked the queen.

"Your majesty's mind may be quite at
ease," replied the officer; "I have my
answer ready."

The blinds were pulled down and they
started at a gallop by the Rue
Richelieu. On reaching the gate the
captain of the post advanced at the head
of a dozen men, holding a lantern in his
hand.

D'Artagnan signed to them to draw near.

"Do you recognize the carriage?" he
asked the sergeant.

"No," replied the latter.

"Look at the arms."

The sergeant put the lantern near the
panel.

"They are those of monsieur le
coadjuteur," he said.

"Hush; he is enjoying a ride with Madame
de Guemenee."

The sergeant began to laugh.

"Open the gate," he cried. "I know who
it is!" Then putting his face to the
lowered blinds, he said:

"I wish you joy, my lord!"

"Impudent fellow!" cried D'Artagnan,
"you will get me turned off."

The gate groaned on its hinges, and
D'Artagnan, seeing the way clear,
whipped his horses, who started at a
canter, and five minutes later they had
rejoined the cardinal.

"Mousqueton!" exclaimed D'Artagnan,
"draw up the blinds of his majesty's
carriage."

"It is he!" cried Porthos.

"Disguised as a coachman!" exclaimed
Mazarin.

"And driving the coadjutor's carriage!"
said the queen.

"Corpo di Dio! Monsieur d'Artagnan!"
said Mazarin, "you are worth your weight
in gold."



53

How D'Artagnan and Porthos earned by
selling Straw, the one Two Hundred and
Nineteen, and the other Two Hundred and
Fifteen Louis d'or.



Mazarin was desirous of setting out
instantly for Saint Germain, but the
queen declared that she should wait for
the people whom she had appointed to
meet her. However, she offered the
cardinal Laporte's place, which he
accepted and went from one carriage to
the other.

It was not without foundation that a
report of the king's intention to leave
Paris by night had been circulated. Ten
or twelve persons had been in the secret
since six o'clock, and howsoever great
their prudence might be, they could not
issue the necessary orders for the
departure without suspicion being
generated. Besides, each individual had
one or two others for whom he was
interested; and as there could be no
doubt but that the queen was leaving
Paris full of terrible projects of
vengeance, every one had warned parents
and friends of what was about to
transpire; so that the news of the
approaching exit ran like a train of
lighted gunpowder along the streets.

The first carriage which arrived after
that of the queen was that of the Prince
de Conde, with the princess and dowager
princess. Both these ladies had been
awakened in the middle of the night and
did not know what it all was about. The
second contained the Duke and Duchess of
Orleans, the tall young Mademoiselle and
the Abbe de la Riviere; and the third,
the Duke de Longueville and the Prince
de Conti, brother and brother-in-law of
Conde. They all alighted and hastened to
pay their respects to the king and queen
in their coach. The queen fixed her eyes
upon the carriage they had left, and
seeing that it was empty, she said:

"But where is Madame de Longueville?"

"Ah, yes, where is my sister?" asked the
prince.

"Madame de Longueville is ill," said the
duke, "and she desired me to excuse her
to your majesty."

Anne gave a quick glance to Mazarin, who
answered by an almost imperceptible
shake of his head.

"What do you say of this?" asked the
queen.

"I say that she is a hostage for the
Parisians," answered the cardinal.

"Why is she not come?" asked the prince
in a low voice, addressing his brother.

"Silence," whispered the duke, "she has
her reasons."

"She will ruin us!" returned the prince.

"She will save us," said Conti.

Carriages now arrived in crowds; those
of the Marechal de Villeroy, Guitant,
Villequier and Comminges came into the
line. The two musketeers arrived in
their turn, holding the horses of
D'Artagnan and Porthos in their hands.
These two instantly mounted, the
coachman of the latter replacing
D'Artagnan on the coach-box of the royal
coach. Mousqueton took the place of the
coachman, and drove standing, for
reasons known to himself, like Automedon
of antiquity.

The queen, though occupied by a thousand
details, tried to catch the Gascon's
eye; but he, with his wonted prudence,
had mingled with the crowd.

"Let us be the avant guard," said he to
Porthos, "and find good quarters at
Saint Germain; nobody will think of us,
and for my part I am greatly fatigued."

"As for me," replied Porthos, "I am
falling asleep, which is strange,
considering we have not had any
fighting; truly the Parisians are
idiots."

"Or rather, we are very clever," said
D'Artagnan.

"Perhaps."

"And how is your wrist?"

"Better; but do you think that we've got
them this time?"

"Got what?"

"You your command, and I my title?"

"I'faith! yes -- I should expect so;
besides, if they forget, I shall take
the liberty of reminding them."

"The queen's voice! she is speaking,"
said Porthos; "I think she wants to ride
on horseback."

"Oh, she would like it, but ---- "

"But what?"

"The cardinal won't allow it.
Gentlemen," he said, addressing the two
musketeers, "accompany the royal
carriage, we are going forward to look
for lodgings."

D'Artagnan started off for Saint
Germain, followed by Porthos.

"We will go on, gentlemen," said the
queen.

And the royal carriage drove on,
followed by the other coaches and about
fifty horsemen.

They reached Saint German without any
accident; on descending, the queen found
the prince awaiting her, bare-headed, to
offer her his hand.

"What an awakening for the Parisians!"
said the queen, radiant.

"It is war," said the prince.

"Well, then, let it be war! Have we not
on our side the conqueror of Rocroy, of
Nordlingen, of Lens?"

The prince bowed low.

It was then three o'clock in the
morning. The queen walked first, every
one followed her. About two hundred
persons had accompanied her in her
flight.

"Gentlemen," said the queen, laughing,
"pray take up your abode in the chateau;
it is large, and there will be no want
of room for you all; but, as we never
thought of coming here, I am informed
that there are, in all, only three beds
in the whole establishment, one for the
king, one for me ---- "

"And one for the cardinal," muttered the
prince.

"Am I -- am I, then, to sleep on the
floor?" asked Gaston d'Orleans, with a
forced smile.

"No, my prince," replied Mazarin, "the
third bed is intended for your
highness."

"But your eminence?" replied the prince.

"I," answered Mazarin, "I shall not
sleep at all; I have work to do."

Gaston desired that he should be shown
into the room wherein he was to sleep,
without in the least concerning himself
as to where his wife and daughter were
to repose.

"Well, for my part, I shall go to bed,"
said D'Artagnan; "come, Porthos."

Porthos followed the lieutenant with
that profound confidence he ever had in
the wisdom of his friend. They walked
from one end of the chateau to the
other, Porthos looking with wondering
eyes at D'Artagnan, who was counting on
his fingers.

"Four hundred, at a pistole each, four
hundred pistoles."

"Yes," interposed Porthos, "four hundred
pistoles; but who is to make four
hundred pistoles?"

"A pistole is not enough," said
D'Artagnan, "'tis worth a louis."

"What is worth a louis?"

"Four hundred, at a louis each, make
four hundred louis."

"Four hundred?" said Porthos.

"Yes, there are two hundred of them, and
each of them will need two, which will
make four hundred."

"But four hundred what?"

"Listen!" cried D'Artagnan.

But as there were all kinds of people
about, who were in a state of
stupefaction at the unexpected arrival
of the court, he whispered in his
friend's ear.

"I understand," answered Porthos, "I
understand you perfectly, on my honor;
two hundred louis, each of us, would be
making a pretty thing of it; but what
will people say?"

"Let them say what they will; besides,
how will they know that we are doing
it?"

"But who will distribute these things?"
asked Porthos.

"Isn't Mousqueton there?"

"But he wears my livery; my livery will
be known," replied Porthos.

"He can turn his coat inside out."

"You are always in the right, my dear
friend," cried Porthos; "but where the
devil do you discover all the notions
you put into practice?"

D'Artagnan smiled. The two friends
turned down the first street they came
to. Porthos knocked at the door of a
house to the right, whilst D'Artagnan
knocked at the door of a house to the
left.

"Some straw," they said.

"Sir, we don't keep any," was the reply
of the people who opened the doors; "but
please ask at the hay dealer's."

"Where is the hay dealer's?"

"At the last large door in the street."

"Are there any other people in Saint
Germain who sell straw?"

"Yes; there's the landlord of the Lamb,
and Gros-Louis the farmer; they both
live in the Rue des Ursulines."

"Very well."

D'Artagnan went instantly to the hay
dealer and bargained with him for a
hundred and fifty trusses of straw,
which he obtained, at the rate of three
pistoles each. He went afterward to the
innkeeper and bought from him two
hundred trusses at the same price.
Finally, Farmer Louis sold them eighty
trusses, making in all four hundred and
thirty.

There was no more to be had in Saint
Germain. This foraging did not occupy
more than half an hour. Mousqueton, duly
instructed, was put at the head of this
sudden and new business. He was
cautioned not to let a bit of straw out
of his hands under a louis the truss,
and they intrusted to him straw to the
amount of four hundred and thirty louis.
D'Artagnan, taking with him three
trusses of straw, returned to the
chateau, where everybody, freezing with
cold and more than half asleep, envied
the king, the queen, and the Duke of
Orleans, on their camp beds. The
lieutenant's entrance produced a burst
of laughter in the great drawing-room;
but he did not appear to notice that he
was the object of general attention, but
began to arrange, with so much
cleverness, nicety and gayety, his straw
bed, that the mouths of all these poor
creatures, who could not go to sleep,
began to water.

"Straw!" they all cried out, "straw!
where is there any to be found?"

"I can show you," answered the Gascon.

And he conducted them to Mousqueton, who
freely distributed the trusses at the
rate of a louis apiece. It was thought
rather dear, but people wanted to sleep,
and who would not give even two or three
louis for a few hours of sound sleep?

D'Artagnan gave up his bed to any one
who wanted it, making it over about a
dozen times; and since he was supposed
to have paid, like the others, a louis
for his truss of straw, he pocketed in
that way thirty louis in less than half
an hour. At five o'clock in the morning
the straw was worth eighty francs a
truss and there was no more to be had.

D'Artagnan had taken the precaution to
set apart four trusses for his own use.
He put in his pocket the key of the room
where he had hidden them, and
accompanied by Porthos returned to
settle with Mousqueton, who, naively,
and like the worthy steward that he was,
handed them four hundred and thirty
louis and kept one hundred for himself.

Mousqueton, who knew nothing of what was
going on in the chateau, wondered that
the idea had not occurred to him sooner.
D'Artagnan put the gold in his hat, and
in going back to the chateau settled the
reckoning with Porthos, each of them had
cleared two hundred and fifteen louis.

Porthos, however, found that he had no
straw left for himself. He returned to
Mousqueton, but the steward had sold the
last wisp. He then repaired to
D'Artagnan, who, thanks to his four
trusses of straw, was in the act of
making up and tasting, by anticipation,
the luxury of a bed so soft, so well
stuffed at the head, so well covered at
the foot, that it would have excited the
envy of the king himself, if his majesty
had not been fast asleep in his own.
D'Artagnan could on no account consent
to pull his bed to pieces again for
Porthos, but for a consideration of four
louis that the latter paid him for it,
he consented that Porthos should share
his couch with him. He laid his sword at
the head, his pistols by his side,
stretched his cloak over his feet,
placed his felt hat on the top of his
cloak and extended himself luxuriously
on the straw, which rustled under him.
He was already enjoying the sweet dream
engendered by the possession of two
hundred and nineteen louis, made in a
quarter of an hour, when a voice was
heard at the door of the hall, which
made him stir.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" it cried.

"Here!" cried Porthos, "here!"

Porthos foresaw that if D'Artagnan was
called away he should remain the sole
possessor of the bed. An officer
approached.

"I am come to fetch you, Monsieur
d'Artagnan."

"From whom?"

"His eminence sent me."

"Tell my lord that I'm going to sleep,
and I advise him, as a friend, to do the
same."

"His eminence is not gone to bed and
will not go to bed, and wants you
instantly."

"The devil take Mazarin, who does not
know when to sleep at the proper time.
What does he want with me? Is it to make
me a captain? In that case I will
forgive him."

And the musketeer rose, grumbling, took
his sword, hat, pistols, and cloak, and
followed the officer, whilst Porthos,
alone and sole possessor of the bed,
endeavored to follow the good example of
falling asleep, which his predecessor
had set him.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the
cardinal, on perceiving him, "I have not
forgotten with what zeal you have served
me. I am going to prove to you that I
have not."

"Good," thought the Gascon, "this is a
promising beginning."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," he resumed, "do
you wish to become a captain?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And your friend still longs to be made
a baron?"

"At this very moment, my lord, he no
doubt dreams that he is one already."

"Then," said Mazarin, taking from his
portfolio the letter which he had
already shown D'Artagnan, "take this
dispatch and carry it to England."

D'Artagnan looked at the envelope; there
was no address on it.

"Am I not to know to whom to present
it?"

"You will know when you reach London; at
London you may tear off the outer
envelope."

"And what are my instructions?"

"To obey in every particular the man to
whom this letter is addressed. You must
set out for Boulogne. At the Royal Arms
of England you will find a young
gentleman named Mordaunt."

"Yes, my lord; and what am I to do with
this young gentleman?"

"Follow wherever he leads you."

D'Artagnan looked at the cardinal with a
stupefied air.

"There are your instructions," said
Mazarin; "go!"

"Go! 'tis easy to say so, but that
requires money, and I haven't any."

"Ah!" replied Mazarin, "so you have no
money?"

"None, my lord."

"But the diamond I gave you yesterday?"

"I wish to keep it in remembrance of
your eminence."

Mazarin sighed.

"'Tis very dear living in England, my
lord, especially as envoy
extraordinary."

"Zounds!" replied Mazarin, "the people
there are very sedate, and their habits,
since the revolution, simple; but no
matter."

He opened a drawer and took out a purse.

"What do you say to a thousand crowns?"

D'Artagnan pouted out his lower lip in a
most extraordinary manner.

"I reply, my lord, 'tis but little, as
certainly I shall not go alone."

"I suppose not. Monsieur du Vallon, that
worthy gentleman, for, with the
exception of yourself, Monsieur
d'Artagnan, there's not a man in France
that I esteem and love so much as
him ---- "

"Then, my lord," replied D'Artagnan,
pointing to the purse which Mazarin
still held, "if you love and esteem him
so much, you -- understand me?"

"Be it so! on his account I add two
hundred crowns."

"Scoundrel!" muttered D'Artagnan. "But
on our return," he said aloud, "may we,
that is, my friend and I, depend on
having, he his barony, and I my
promotion?"

"On the honor of Mazarin."

"I should like another sort of oath
better," said D'Artagnan to himself;
then aloud, "May I not offer my duty to
her majesty the queen?"

"Her majesty is asleep and you must set
off directly," replied Mazarin; "go,
pray, sir ---- "

"One word more, my lord; if there's any
fighting where I'm going, must I fight?"

"You are to obey the commands of the
personage to whom I have addressed the
inclosed letter."

"'Tis well," said D'Artagnan, holding
out his hand to receive the money. "I
offer my best respects and services to
you, my lord."

D'Artagnan then, returning to the
officer, said:

"Sir, have the kindness also to awaken
Monsieur du Vallon and to say 'tis by
his eminence's order, and that I shall
await him at the stables."

The officer went off with an eagerness
that showed the Gascon that he had some
personal interest in the matter.

Porthos was snoring most musically when
some one touched him on the shoulder.

"I come from the cardinal," said the
officer.

"Heigho!" said Porthos, opening his
large eyes; "what have you got to say?"

"That his eminence has ordered you to
England and that Monsieur d'Artagnan is
waiting for you in the stables."

Porthos sighed heavily, arose, took his
hat, his pistols, and his cloak, and
departed, casting a look of regret upon
the couch where he had hoped to sleep so
well.

No sooner had he turned his back than
the officer laid himself down in it, and
he had scarcely crossed the threshold
before his successor, in his turn, was
snoring immoderately. It was very
natural, he being the only person in the
whole assemblage, except the king, the
queen, and the Duke of Orleans, who
slept gratuitously.



54

In which we hear Tidings of Aramis.



D'Artagnan went straight to the stables;
day was just dawning. He found his horse
and that of Porthos fastened to the
manger, but to an empty manger. He took
pity on these poor animals and went to a
corner of the stable, where he saw a
little straw, but in doing so he struck
his foot against a human body, which
uttered a cry and arose on its knees,
rubbing its eyes. It was Mousqueton,
who, having no straw to lie upon, had
helped himself to that of the horses.

"Mousqueton," cried D'Artagnan, "let us
be off! Let us set off."

Mousqueton, recognizing the voice of his
master's friend, got up suddenly, and in
doing so let fall some louis which he
had appropriated to himself illegally
during the night.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, picking
up a louis and displaying it; "here's a
louis that smells confoundedly of
straw."

Mousqueton blushed so confusedly that
the Gascon began to laugh at him and
said:

"Porthos would be angry, my dear
Monsieur Mousqueton, but I pardon you,
only let us remember that this gold must
serve us as a joke, so be gay -- come
along."

Mousqueton instantly assumed a jovial
countenance, saddled the horses quickly
and mounted his own without making faces
over it.

Whilst this went on, Porthos arrived
with a very cross look on his face, and
was astonished to find the lieutenant
resigned and Mousqueton almost merry.

"Ah, that's it!" he cried, "you have
your promotion and I my barony."

"We are going to fetch our brevets,"
said D'Artagnan, "and when we come back,
Master Mazarin will sign them."

"And where are we going?" asked Porthos.

"To Paris first; I have affairs to
settle."

And they both set out for Paris.

On arriving at its gates they were
astounded to see the threatening aspect
of the capital. Around a broken-down
carriage the people were uttering
imprecations, whilst the persons who had
attempted to escape were made
prisoners -- that is to say, an old man
and two women. On the other hand, as the
two friends approached to enter, they
showed them every kind of civility,
thinking them deserters from the royal
party and wishing to bind them to their
own.

"What is the king doing?" they asked.

"He is asleep."

"And the Spanish woman?"

"Dreaming."

"And the cursed Italian?"

"He is awake, so keep on the watch, as
they are gone away; it's for some
purpose, rely on it. But as you are the
strongest, after all," continued
D'Artagnan, "don't be furious with old
men and women, and keep your wrath for
more appropriate occasions."

The people listened to these words and
let go the ladies, who thanked
D'Artagnan with an eloquent look.

"Now! onward!" cried the Gascon.

And they continued their way, crossing
the barricades, getting the chains about
their legs, pushed about, questioning
and questioned.

In the place of the Palais Royal
D'Artagnan saw a sergeant, who was
drilling six or seven hundred citizens.
It was Planchet, who brought into play
profitably the recollections of the
regiment of Piedmont.

In passing before D'Artagnan he
recognized his former master.

"Good-day, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said
Planchet proudly.

"Good-day, Monsieur Dulaurier," replied
D'Artagnan.

Planchet stopped short, staring at
D'Artagnan. The first row, seeing their
sergeant stop, stopped in their turn,
and so on to the very last.

"These citizens are dreadfully
ridiculous," observed D'Artagnan to
Porthos and went on his way.

Five minutes afterward he entered the
hotel of La Chevrette, where pretty
Madeleine, the hostess, came to him.

"My dear Mistress Turquaine," said the
Gascon, "if you happen to have any
money, lock it up quickly; if you happen
to have any jewels, hide them directly;
if you happen to have any debtors, make
them pay you, or any creditors, don't
pay them."

"Why, prithee?" asked Madeleine.

"Because Paris is going to be reduced to
dust and ashes like Babylon, of which
you have no doubt heard tell."

"And are you going to leave me at such a
time?"

"This very instant."

"And where are you going?"

"Ah, if you could tell me that, you
would be doing me a service."

"Ah, me! ah, me!

"Have you any letters for me?" inquired
D'Artagnan, wishing to signify to the
hostess that her lamentations were
superfluous and that therefore she had
better spare him demonstrations of her
grief.

"There's one just arrived," and she
handed the letter to D'Artagnan.

"From Athos!" cried D'Artagnan,
recognizing the handwriting.

"Ah!" said Porthos, "let us hear what he
says."

D'Artagnan opened the letter and read as
follows:



"Dear D'Artagnan, dear Du Vallon, my
good friends, perhaps this may be the
last time that you will ever hear from
me. Aramis and I are very unhappy; but
God, our courage, and the remembrance of
our friendship sustain us. Think often
of Raoul. I intrust to you certain
papers which are at Blois; and in two
months and a half, if you do not hear of
us, take possession of them.

"Embrace, with all your heart, the
vicomte, for your devoted, friend,

"ATHOS."



"I believe, by Heaven," said D'Artagnan,
"that I shall embrace him, since he's
upon our road; and if he is so
unfortunate as to lose our dear Athos,
from that very day he becomes my son."

"And I," said Porthos, "shall make him
my sole heir."

"Let us see, what more does Athos say?"



"Should you meet on your journey a
certain Monsieur Mordaunt, distrust him,
in a letter I cannot say more."



"Monsieur Mordaunt!" exclaimed the
Gascon, surprised.

"Monsieur Mordaunt! 'tis well," said
Porthos, "we shall remember that; but
see, there is a postscript from Aramis."

"So there is," said D'Artagnan, and he
read:



"We conceal the place where we are, dear
friends, knowing your brotherly
affection and that you would come and
die with us were we to reveal it."



"Confound it," interrupted Porthos, with
an explosion of passion which sent
Mousqueton to the other end of the room;
"are they in danger of dying?"

D'Artagnan continued:



"Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I
bequeath to you my revenge. If by any
good luck you lay your hand on a certain
man named Mordaunt, tell Porthos to take
him into a corner and to wring his neck.
I dare not say more in a letter.

"ARAMIS.



"If that is all, it is easily done,"
said Porthos.

"On the contrary," observed D'Artagnan,
with a vexed look; "it would be
impossible."

"How so?"

"It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt
whom we are going to join at Boulogne
and with whom we cross to England."

"Well, suppose instead of joining this
Monsieur Mordaunt we were to go and join
our friends?" said Porthos, with a
gesture fierce enough to have frightened
an army.

"I did think of it, but this letter has
neither date nor postmark."

"True," said Porthos. And he began to
wander about the room like a man beside
himself, gesticulating and half drawing
his sword out of the scabbard.

As to D'Artagnan, he remained standing
like a man in consternation, with the
deepest affliction depicted on his face.

"Ah, this is not right; Athos insults
us; he wishes to die alone; it is bad,
bad, bad."

Mousqueton, witnessing this despair,
melted into tears in a corner of the
room.

"Come," said D'Artagnan, "all this leads
to nothing. Let us go on. We will
embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have
news of Athos."

"Stop -- an idea!" cried Porthos;
"indeed, my dear D'Artagnan, I don't
know how you manage, but you are always
full of ideas; let us go and embrace
Raoul."

"Woe to that man who should happen to
contradict my master at this moment,"
said Mousqueton to himself; "I wouldn't
give a farthing for his life."

They set out. On arriving at the Rue
Saint Denis, the friends found a vast
concourse of people. It was the Duc de
Beaufort, who was coming from the
Vendomois and whom the coadjutor was
showing to the Parisians, intoxicated
with joy. With the duke's aid they
already considered themselves
invincible.

The two friends turned off into a side
street to avoid meeting the prince, and
so reached the Saint Denis gate.

"Is it true," said the guard to the two
cavaliers, "that the Duc de Beaufort has
arrived in Paris?"

"Nothing more certain; and the best
proof of it is," said D'Artagnan, "that
he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de
Vendome, his father, who is coming in
his turn."

"Long live De Beaufort!" cried the
guards, and they drew back respectfully
to let the two friends pass. Once across
the barriers these two knew neither
fatigue nor fear. Their horses flew, and
they never ceased speaking of Athos and
Aramis.

The camp had entered Saint Omer; the
friends made a little detour and went to
the camp, and gave the army an exact
account of the flight of the king and
queen. They found Raoul near his tent,
reclining on a truss of hay, of which
his horse stole some mouthfuls; the
young man's eyes were red and he seemed
dejected. The Marechal de Grammont and
the Comte de Guiche had returned to
Paris and he was quite lonely. And as
soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran
to them with open arms.

"Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you
come here to fetch me? Will you take me
away with you? Do you bring me tidings
of my guardian?"

"Have you not received any?" said
D'Artagnan to the youth.

"Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what
has become of him; so that I am really
so unhappy that I weep."

In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.

Porthos turned aside, in order not to
show by his honest round face what was
passing in his mind.

"Deuce take it!" cried D'Artagnan, more
moved than he had been for a long time,
"don't despair, my friend, if you have
not received any letters from the count,
we have received one."

"Oh, really!" cried Raoul.

"And a comforting one, too," added
D'Artagnan, seeing the delight that his
intelligence gave the young man.

"Have you it?" asked Raoul

"Yes -- that is, I had it," repined the
Gascon, making believe to find it.
"Wait, it ought to be there in my
pocket; it speaks of his return, does it
not, Porthos?"

All Gascon as he was, D'Artagnan could
not bear alone the weight of that
falsehood.

"Yes," replied Porthos, coughing.

"Eh, give it to me!" said the young man.

"Eh! I read it a little while since. Can
I have lost it? Ah! confound it! yes, my
pocket has a hole in it."

"Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!" said
Mousqueton, "the letter was very
consoling. These gentlemen read it to me
and I wept for joy."

"But at any rate, you know where he is,
Monsieur d'Artagnan?" asked Raoul,
somewhat comforted.

"Ah! that's the thing!" replied the
Gascon. "Undoubtedly I know it, but it
is a mystery."

"Not to me, I hope?"

"No, not to you, so I am going to tell
you where he is."

Porthos devoured D'Artagnan with
wondering eyes.

"Where the devil shall I say that he is,
so that he cannot try to rejoin him?"
thought D'Artagnan.

"Well, where is he, sir?" asked Raoul,
in a soft and coaxing voice.

"He is at Constantinople."

"Among the Turks!" exclaimed Raoul,
alarmed. "Good heavens! how can you tell
me that?"

"Does that alarm you?" cried D'Artagnan.
"Pooh! what are the Turks to such men as
the Comte de la Fere and the Abbe
d'Herblay?"

"Ah, his friend is with him?" said
Raoul. "That comforts me a little."

"Has he wit or not -- this demon
D'Artagnan?" said Porthos, astonished at
his friend's deception.

"Now, sir," said D'Artagnan, wishing to
change the conversation, "here are fifty
pistoles that the count has sent you by
the same courier. I suppose you have no
more money and that they will be
welcome."

"I have still twenty pistoles, sir."

"Well, take them; that makes seventy."

"And if you wish for more," said
Porthos, putting his hand to his
pocket ----

"Thank you, sir," replied Raoul,
blushing; "thank you a thousand times."

At this moment Olivain appeared.
"Apropos," said D'Artagnan, loud enough
for the servant to hear him, "are you
satisfied with Olivain?"

"Yes, in some respects, tolerably well."

Olivain pretended to have heard nothing
and entered the tent.

"What fault do you find with the
fellow?"

"He is a glutton."

"Oh, sir!" cried Olivain, reappearing at
this accusation.

"And a little bit of a thief."

"Oh, sir! oh!"

"And, more especially, a notorious
coward."

"Oh, oh! sir! you really vilify me!"
cried Olivain.

"The deuce!" cried D'Artagnan. "Pray
learn, Monsieur Olivain, that people
like us are not to be served by cowards.
Rob your master, eat his sweetmeats, and
drink his wine; but, by Jove! don't be a
coward, or I shall cut off your ears.
Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the
honorable wounds he has received,
observe how his habitual valor has given
dignity to his countenance."

Mousqueton was in the third heaven and
would have embraced D'Artagnan had he
dared; meanwhile he resolved to
sacrifice his life for him on the next
occasion that presented itself.

"Send away that fellow, Raoul," said the
Gascon; "for if he's a coward he will
disgrace thee some day."

"Monsieur says I am coward," cried
Olivain, "because he wanted the other
day to fight a cornet in Grammont's
regiment and I refused to accompany
him."

"Monsieur Olivain, a lackey ought never
to disobey," said D'Artagnan, sternly;
then taking him aside, he whispered to
him: "Thou hast done right; thy master
was in the wrong; here's a crown for
thee, but should he ever be insulted and
thou dost not let thyself be cut in
quarters for him, I will cut out thy
tongue. Remember that."

Olivain bowed and slipped the crown into
his pocket.

"And now, Raoul," said the Gascon,
"Monsieur du Vallon and I are going away
as ambassadors, where, I know not; but
should you want anything, write to
Madame Turquaine, at La Chevrette, Rue
Tiquetonne and draw upon her purse as on
a banker -- with economy; for it is not
so well filled as that of Monsieur
d'Emery."

And having, meantime, embraced his ward,
he passed him into the robust arms of
Porthos, who lifted him up from the
ground and held him a moment suspended
near the noble heart of the formidable
giant.

"Come," said D'Artagnan, "let us go."

And they set out for Boulogne, where
toward evening they arrived, their
horses flecked with foam and dark with
perspiration.

At ten steps from the place where they
halted was a young man in black, who
seemed waiting for some one, and who,
from the moment he saw them enter the
town, never took his eyes off them.

D'Artagnan approached him, and seeing
him stare so fixedly, said:

"Well, friend! I don't like people to
quiz me!"

"Sir," said the young man, "do you not
come from Paris, if you please?"

D'Artagnan thought it was some gossip
who wanted news from the capital.

"Yes, sir," he said, in a softened tone.

"Are you not going to put up at the
`Arms of England'?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you not charged with a mission from
his eminence, Cardinal Mazarin?"

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, I am the man you have to
do with. I am M. Mordaunt."

"Ah!" thought D'Artagnan, "the man I am
warned against by Athos."

"Ah!" thought Porthos, "the man Aramis
wants me to strangle."

They both looked searchingly at the
young man, who misunderstood the meaning
of that inquisition.

"Do you doubt my word?" he said. "In
that case I can give you proofs."

"No, sir," said D'Artagnan; "and we
place ourselves at your orders."

"Well, gentlemen," resumed Mordaunt, "we
must set out without delay, to-day is
the last day granted me by the cardinal.
My ship is ready, and had you not come I
must have set off without you, for
General Cromwell expects my return
impatiently."

"So!" thought the lieutenant, "'tis to
General Cromwell that our dispatches are
addressed."

"Have you no letter for him?" asked the
young man.

"I have one, the seal of which I am not
to break till I reach London; but since
you tell me to whom it is addressed,
'tis useless to wait till then."

D'Artagnan tore open the envelope of the
letter. It was directed to "Monsieur
Oliver Cromwell, General of the Army of
the English Nation."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan; "a singular
commission."

"Who is this Monsieur Oliver Cromwell?"
inquired Porthos.

"Formerly a brewer," replied the Gascon.

"Perhaps Mazarin wishes to make a
speculation in beer, as we did in
straw," said Porthos.

"Come, come, gentlemen," said Mordaunt,
impatiently, "let us depart."

"What!" exclaimed Porthos "without
supper? Cannot Monsieur Cromwell wait a
little?"

"Yes, but I?" said Mordaunt.

"Well, you," said Porthos, "what then?"

"I cannot wait."

"Oh! as to you, that is not my concern,
and I shall sup either with or without
your permission."

The young man's eyes kindled in secret,
but he restrained himself.

"Monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "you must
excuse famished travelers. Besides, our
supper can't delay you much. We will
hasten on to the inn; you will meanwhile
proceed on foot to the harbor. We will
take a bite and shall be there as soon
as you are."

"Just as you please, gentlemen, provided
we set sail," he said.

"The name of your ship?" inquired
D'Artagnan.

"The Standard."

"Very well; in half an hour we shall be
on board."

And the friends, spurring on their
horses, rode to the hotel, the "Arms of
England."

"What do you say of that young man?"
asked D'Artagnan, as they hurried along.

"I say that he doesn't suit me at all,"
said Porthos, "and that I feel a strong
itching to follow Aramis's advice."

"By no means, my dear Porthos; that man
is a messenger of General Cromwell; it
would insure for us a poor reception, I
imagine, should it be announced to him
that we had twisted the neck of his
confidant."

"Nevertheless," said Porthos, "I have
always noticed that Aramis gives good
advice."

"Listen," returned D'Artagnan, "when our
embassy is finished ---- "

"Well?"

"If it brings us back to France ---- "

"Well?"

"Well, we shall see."

At that moment the two friends reached
the hotel, "Arms of England," where they
supped with hearty appetite and then at
once proceeded to the port.

There they found a brig ready to set
sail, upon the deck of which they
recognized Mordaunt walking up and down
impatiently.

"It is singular," said D'Artagnan,
whilst the boat was taking them to the
Standard, "it is astonishing how that
young man resembles some one I must have
known, but who it was I cannot yet
remember."

A few minutes later they were on board,
but the embarkation of the horses was a
longer matter than that of the men, and
it was eight o'clock before they raised
anchor.

The young man stamped impatiently and
ordered all sail to be spread.

Porthos, completely used up by three
nights without sleep and a journey of
seventy leagues on horseback, retired to
his cabin and went to sleep.

D'Artagnan, overcoming his repugnance to
Mordaunt, walked with him upon the deck
and invented a hundred stories to make
him talk.

Mousqueton was seasick.



55

The Scotchman.



And now our readers must leave the
Standard to sail peaceably, not toward
London, where D'Artagnan and Porthos
believed they were going, but to Durham,
whither Mordaunt had been ordered to
repair by the letter he had received
during his sojourn at Boulogne, and
accompany us to the royalist camp, on
this side of the Tyne, near Newcastle.

There, placed between two rivers on the
borders of Scotland, but still on
English soil, the tents of a little army
extended. It was midnight. Some
Highlanders were listlessly keeping
watch. The moon, which was partially
obscured by heavy clouds, now and then
lit up the muskets of the sentinels, or
silvered the walls, the roofs, and the
spires of the town that Charles I. had
just surrendered to the parliamentary
troops, whilst Oxford and Newark still
held out for him in the hopes of coming
to some arrangement.

At one of the extremities of the camp,
near an immense tent, in which the
Scottish officers were holding a kind of
council, presided over by Lord Leven,
their commander, a man attired as a
cavalier lay sleeping on the turf, his
right hand extended over his sword.

About fifty paces off, another man, also
appareled as a cavalier, was talking to
a Scotch sentinel, and, though a
foreigner, he seemed to understand
without much difficulty the answers
given in the broad Perthshire dialect.

As the town clock of Newcastle struck
one the sleeper awoke, and with all the
gestures of a man rousing himself out of
deep sleep he looked attentively about
him; perceiving that he was alone he
rose and making a little circuit passed
close to the cavalier who was speaking
to the sentinel. The former had no doubt
finished his questions, for a moment
later he said good-night and carelessly
followed the same path taken by the
first cavalier.

In the shadow of a tent the former was
awaiting him.

"Well, my dear friend?" said he, in as
pure French as has ever been uttered
between Rouen and Tours.

"Well, my friend, there is not a moment
to lose; we must let the king know
immediately."

"Why, what is the matter?"

"It would take too long to tell you,
besides, you will hear it all directly
and the least word dropped here might
ruin all. We must go and find Lord
Winter."

They both set off to the other end of
the camp, but as it did not cover more
than a surface of five hundred feet they
quickly arrived at the tent they were
looking for.

"Tony, is your master sleeping?" said
one of the two cavaliers to a servant
who was lying in the outer compartment,
which served as a kind of ante-room.

"No, monsieur le comte," answered the
servant, "I think not; or at least he
has not long been so, for he was pacing
up and down for more than two hours
after he left the king, and the sound of
his footsteps has only ceased during the
last ten minutes. However, you may look
and see," added the lackey, raising the
curtained entrance of the tent.

Lord Winter was seated near an aperture,
arranged as a window to let in the night
air, his eyes mechanically following the
course of the moon, intermittently
veiled, as we before observed, by heavy
clouds. The two friends approached
Winter, who, with his head on his hands,
was gazing at the heavens; he did not
hear them enter and remained in the same
attitude till he felt a hand upon his
shoulder.

He turned around, recognized Athos and
Aramis and held out his hand to them.

"Have you observed," said he to them,
"what a blood-red color the moon has
to-night?"

"No," replied Athos; "I thought it
looked much the same as usual."

"Look, again, chevalier," returned Lord
Winter.

"I must own," said Aramis, "I am like
the Comte de la Fere -- I can see
nothing remarkable about it."

"My lord," said Athos, "in a position so
precarious as ours we must examine the
earth and not the heavens. Have you
studied our Scotch troops and have you
confidence in them?"

"The Scotch?" inquired Winter. "What
Scotch?"

"Ours, egad!" exclaimed Athos. "Those in
whom the king has confided -- Lord
Leven's Highlanders."

"No," said Winter, then he paused; "but
tell me, can you not perceive the russet
tint which marks the heavens?"

"Not the least in the world," said
Aramis and Athos at once.

"Tell me," continued Winter, always
possessed by the same idea, "is there
not a tradition in France that Henry
IV., the evening before the day he was
assassinated, when he was playing at
chess with M. de Bassompiere, saw clots
of blood upon the chessboard?"

"Yes," said Athos, "and the marechal has
often told me so himself."

"Then it was so," murmured Winter, "and
the next day Henry IV. was killed."

"But what has this vision of Henry IV.
to do with you, my lord?" inquired
Aramis.

"Nothing; and indeed I am mad to trouble
you with such things, when your coming
to my tent at such an hour announces
that you are the bearers of important
news."

"Yes, my lord," said Athos, "I wish to
speak to the king."

"To the king! but the king is asleep."

"I have something important to reveal to
him."

"Can it not be put off till to-morrow?"

"He must know it this moment, and
perhaps it is already too late."

"Come, then," said Lord Winter.

Lord Winter's tent was pitched by the
side of the royal marquee, a kind of
corridor communicating between the two.
This corridor was guarded, not by a
sentinel, but by a confidential servant,
through whom, in case of urgency,
Charles could communicate instantly with
his faithful subject.

"These gentlemen are with me," said
Winter.

The lackey bowed and let them pass. As
he had said, on a camp bed, dressed in
his black doublet, booted, unbelted,
with his felt hat beside him, lay the
king, overcome by sleep and fatigue.
They advanced, and Athos, who was the
first to enter, gazed a moment in
silence on that pale and noble face,
framed in its long and now untidy,
matted hair, the blue veins showing
through the transparent temples, his
eyes seemingly swollen by tears.

Athos sighed deeply; the sigh woke the
king, so lightly did he sleep.

He opened his eyes.

"Ah!" said he, raising himself on his
elbow, "is it you, Comte de la Fere?"

"Yes, sire," replied Athos.

"You watch while I sleep and you have
come to bring me some news?"

"Alas, sire," answered Athos, "your
majesty has guessed aright."

"It is bad news?"

"Yes, sire."

"Never mind; the messenger is welcome.
You never come to me without conferring
pleasure. You whose devotion recognizes
neither country nor misfortune, you who
are sent to me by Henrietta; whatever
news you bring, speak out."

"Sire, Cromwell has arrived this night
at Newcastle."

"Ah!" exclaimed the king, "to fight?"

"No, sire, but to buy your majesty."

"What did you say?"

"I said, sire, that four hundred
thousand pounds are owing to the
Scottish army."

"For unpaid wages; yes, I know it. For
the last year my faithful Highlanders
have fought for honor alone."

Athos smiled.

"Well, sir, though honor is a fine
thing, they are tired of fighting for
it, and to-night they have sold you for
two hundred thousand pounds -- that is
to say, for half what is owing them."

"Impossible!" cried the king, "the
Scotch sell their king for two hundred
thousand pounds! And who is the Judas
who has concluded this infamous
bargain?"

"Lord Leven."

"Are you certain of it, sir?"

"I heard it with my own ears."

The king sighed deeply, as if his heart
would break, and then buried his face in
his hands.

"Oh! the Scotch," he exclaimed, "the
Scotch I called `my faithful,' to whom I
trusted myself when I could have fled to
Oxford! the Scotch, my brothers! But are
you well assured, sir?"

"Lying behind the tent of Lord Leven, I
raised it and saw all, heard all!"

"And when is this to be consummated?"

"To-day -- this morning; so your majesty
must perceive there is no time to lose!"

"To do what? since you say I am sold."

"To cross the Tyne, reach Scotland and
rejoin Lord Montrose, who will not sell
you."

"And what shall I do in Scotland? A war
of partisans, unworthy of a king."

"The example of Robert Bruce will
absolve you, sire."

"No, no! I have fought too long; they
have sold me, they shall give me up, and
the eternal shame of treble treason
shall fall on their heads."

"Sire," said Athos, "perhaps a king
should act thus, but not a husband and a
father. I have come in the name of your
wife and daughter and of the children
you have still in London, and I say to
you, `Live, sire,' -- it is the will of
Heaven."

The king raised himself, buckled on his
belt, and passing his handkerchief over
his moist forehead, said:

"Well, what is to be done?"

"Sire, have you in the army one regiment
on which you can implicitly rely?"

"Winter," said the king, "do you believe
in the fidelity of yours?"

"Sire, they are but men, and men are
become both weak and wicked. I will not
answer for them. I would confide my life
to them, but I should hesitate ere I
trusted them with your majesty's."

"Well!" said Athos, "since you have not
a regiment, we are three devoted men. It
is enough. Let your majesty mount on
horseback and place yourself in the
midst of us; we will cross the Tyne,
reach Scotland, and you will be saved."

"Is this your counsel also, Winter?"
inquired the king.

"Yes, sire."

"And yours, Monsieur d'Herblay?"

"Yes, sire."

"As you wish, then. Winter, give the
necessary orders."

Winter then left the tent; in the
meantime the king finished his toilet.
The first rays of daybreak penetrated
the aperture of the tent as Winter
re-entered it.

"All is ready, sire," said he.

"For us, also?" inquired Athos.

"Grimaud and Blaisois are holding your
horses, ready saddled."

"In that case," exclaimed Athos, "let us
not lose an instant, but set off."

"Come," added the king.

"Sire," said Aramis, "will not your
majesty acquaint some of your friends of
this?"

"Friends!" answered Charles, sadly, "I
have but three -- one of twenty years,
who has never forgotten me, and two of a
week's standing, whom I shall never
forget. Come, gentlemen, come!"

The king quitted his tent and found his
horse ready waiting for him. It was a
chestnut that the king had ridden for
three years and of which he was very
fond.

The horse neighed with pleasure at
seeing him.

"Ah!" said the king, "I was unjust; here
is a creature that loves me. You at
least will be faithful to me, Arthur."

The horse, as if it understood these
words, bent its red nostrils toward the
king's face, and parting his lips
displayed all its teeth, as if with
pleasure.

"Yes, yes," said the king, caressing it
with his hand, "yes, my Arthur, thou art
a fond and faithful creature."

After this little scene Charles threw
himself into the saddle, and turning to
Athos, Aramis and Winter, said:

"Now, gentlemen, I am at your service."

But Athos was standing with his eyes
fixed on a black line which bordered the
banks of the Tyne and seemed to extend
double the length of the camp.

"What is that line?" cried Athos, whose
vision was still rather obscured by the
uncertain shades and demi-tints of
daybreak. "What is that line? I did not
observe it yesterday."

"It must be the fog rising from the
river," said the king.

"Sire, it is something more opaque than
the fog."

"Indeed!" said Winter, "it appears to me
like a bar of red color."

"It is the enemy, who have made a sortie
from Newcastle and are surrounding us!"
exclaimed Athos.

"The enemy!" cried the king.

"Yes, the enemy. It is too late. Stop a
moment; does not that sunbeam yonder,
just by the side of the town, glitter on
the Ironsides?"

This was the name given the cuirassiers,
whom Cromwell had made his body-guard.

"Ah!" said the king, "we shall soon see
whether my Highlanders have betrayed me
or not."

"What are you going to do?" exclaimed
Athos.

"To give them the order to charge, and
run down these miserable rebels."

And the king, putting spurs to his
horse, set off to the tent of Lord
Leven.

"Follow him," said Athos.

"Come!" exclaimed Aramis.

"Is the king wounded?" cried Lord
Winter. "I see spots of blood on the
ground." And he set off to follow the
two friends.

He was stopped by Athos.

"Go and call out your regiment," said
he; "I can foresee that we shall have
need of it directly."

Winter turned his horse and the two
friends rode on. It had taken but two
minutes for the king to reach the tent
of the Scottish commander; he dismounted
and entered.

The general was there, surrounded by the
more prominent chiefs.

"The king!" they exclaimed, as all rose
in bewilderment.

Charles was indeed in the midst of them,
his hat on his head, his brows bent,
striking his boot with his riding whip.

"Yes, gentlemen, the king in person, the
king who has come to ask for some
account of what has happened."

"What is the matter, sire?" exclaimed
Lord Leven.

"It is this, sir," said the king,
angrily, "that General Cromwell has
reached Newcastle; that you knew it and
I was not informed of it; that the enemy
have left the town and are now closing
the passages of the Tyne against us;
that our sentinels have seen this
movement and I have been left
unacquainted with it; that, by an
infamous treaty you have sold me for two
hundred thousand pounds to Parliament.
Of this treaty, at least, I have been
warned. This is the matter, gentlemen;
answer and exculpate yourselves, for I
stand here to accuse you."

"Sire," said Lord Leven, with
hesitation, "sire, your majesty has been
deceived by false reports."

"My own eyes have seen the enemy extend
itself between myself and Scotland; and
I can almost say that with my own ears I
have heard the clauses of the treaty
debated."

The Scotch chieftains looked at each
other in their turn with frowning brows.

"Sire," murmured Lord Leven, crushed by
shame, "sire, we are ready to give you
every proof of our fidelity."

"I ask but one," said the king; "put the
army in battle array and face the
enemy."

"That cannot be, sire," said the earl.

"How, cannot be? What hinders it?"
exclaimed the king.

"Your majesty is well aware that there
is a truce between us and the English
army."

"And if there is a truce the English
army has broken it by quitting the town,
contrary to the agreement which kept it
there. Now, I tell you, you must pass
with me through this army across to
Scotland, and if you refuse you may
choose betwixt two names, which the
contempt of all honest men will brand
you with -- you are either cowards or
traitors!"

The eyes of the Scotch flashed fire;
and, as often happens on such occasions,
from shame they passed to effrontery and
two heads of clans advanced upon the
king.

"Yes," said they, "we have promised to
deliver Scotland and England from him
who for the last five-and-twenty years
has sucked the blood and gold of
Scotland and England. We have promised
and we will keep our promise. Charles
Stuart, you are our prisoner."

And both extended their hands as if to
seize the king, but before they could
touch him with the tips of their
fingers, both had fallen, one dead, the
other stunned.

Aramis had passed his sword through the
body of the first and Athos had knocked
down the other with the butt end of his
pistol.

Then, as Lord Leven and the other
chieftains recoiled before this
unexpected rescue, which seemed to come
from Heaven for the prince they already
thought was their prisoner, Athos and
Aramis dragged the king from the
perjured assembly into which he had so
imprudently ventured, and throwing
themselves on horseback all three
returned at full gallop to the royal
tent.

On their road they perceived Lord Winter
marching at the head of his regiment.
The king motioned him to accompany them.



56

The Avenger.



They all four entered the tent; they had
no plan ready -- they must think of one.

The king threw himself into an
arm-chair. "I am lost," said he.

"No, sire," replied Athos. "You are only
betrayed."

The king sighed deeply.

"Betrayed! yes betrayed by the Scotch,
amongst whom I was born, whom I have
always loved better than the English.
Oh, traitors that ye are!"

"Sire," said Athos, "this is not a
moment for recrimination, but a time to
show yourself a king and a gentleman.
Up, sire! up! for you have here at least
three men who will not betray you. Ah!
if we had been five!" murmured Athos,
thinking of D'Artagnan and Porthos.

"What do you say?" inquired Charles,
rising.

"I say, sire, that there is now but one
way open. Lord Winter answers for his
regiment, or at least very nearly so --
we will not split straws about words --
let him place himself at the head of his
men, we will place ourselves at the side
of your majesty, and we will mow a swath
through Cromwell's army and reach
Scotland."

"There is another method," said Aramis.
"Let one of us put on the dress and
mount the king's horse. Whilst they
pursue him the king might escape."

"It is good advice," said Athos, "and if
the king will do one of us the honor we
shall be truly grateful to him."

"What do you think of this counsel,
Winter?" asked the king, looking with
admiration at these two men, whose chief
idea seemed to be how they could take on
their shoulders all the dangers that
assailed him.

"I think the only chance of saving your
majesty has just been proposed by
Monsieur d'Herblay. I humbly entreat
your majesty to choose quickly, for we
have not an instant to lose."

"But if I accept, it is death, or at
least imprisonment, for him who takes my
place."

"He will have had the glory of having
saved his king," cried Winter.

The king looked at his old friend with
tears in his eyes; undid the Order of
the Saint Esprit which he wore, to honor
the two Frenchmen who were with him, and
passed it around Winter's neck, who
received on his knees this striking
proof of his sovereign's confidence and
friendship.

"It is right," said Athos; "he has
served your majesty longer than we
have."

The king overheard these words and
turned around with tears in his eyes.

"Wait a moment, sir," said he; "I have
an order for each of you also."

He turned to a closet where his own
orders were locked up, and took out two
ribbons of the Order of the Garter.

"These cannot be for us," said Athos.

"Why not, sir?" asked Charles.

"Such are for royalty, and we are simple
commoners."

"Speak not of crowns. I shall not find
amongst them such great hearts as yours.
No, no, you do yourselves injustice; but
I am here to do you justice. On your
knees, count."

Athos knelt down and the king passed the
ribbon down from left to right as usual,
raised his sword, and instead of
pronouncing the customary formula, "I
make you a knight. Be brave, faithful
and loyal," he said, "You are brave,
faithful and loyal. I knight you,
monsieur le comte."

Then turning to Aramis, he said:

"It is now your turn, monsieur le
chevalier."

The same ceremony recommenced, with the
same words, whilst Winter unlaced his
leather cuirass, that he might disguise
himself like the king. Charles, having
proceeded with Aramis as with Athos,
embraced them both.

"Sire," said Winter, who in this trying
emergency felt all his strength and
energy fire up, "we are ready."

The king looked at the three gentlemen.
"Then we must fly!" said he.

"Flying through an army, sire," said
Athos, "in all countries in the world is
called charging."

"Then I shall die, sword in hand," said
Charles. "Monsieur le comte, monsieur le
chevalier, if ever I am king ---- "

"Sire, you have already done us more
honor than simple gentlemen could ever
aspire to, therefore gratitude is on our
side. But we must not lose time. We have
already wasted too much."

The king again shook hands with all
three, exchanged hats with Winter and
went out.

Winter's regiment was ranged on some
high ground above the camp. The king,
followed by the three friends, turned
his steps that way. The Scotch camp
seemed as if at last awakened; the
soldiers had come out of their tents and
taken up their station in battle array.

"Do you see that?" said the king.
"Perhaps they are penitent and preparing
to march."

"If they are penitent," said Athos, "let
them follow us."

"Well!" said the king, "what shall we
do?"

"Let us examine the enemy's army."

At the same instant the eyes of the
little group were fixed on the same line
which at daybreak they had mistaken for
fog and which the morning sun now
plainly showed was an army in order of
battle. The air was soft and clear, as
it generally is at that early hour of
the morning. The regiments, the
standards, and even the colors of the
horses and uniforms were now clearly
distinct.

On the summit of a rising ground, a
little in advance of the enemy, appeared
a short and heavy looking man; this man
was surrounded by officers. He turned a
spyglass toward the little group amongst
which the king stood.

"Does this man know your majesty
personally?" inquired Aramis.

Charles smiled.

"That man is Cromwell," said he.

"Then draw down your hat, sire, that he
may not discover the substitution."

"Ah!" said Athos, "how much time we have
lost."

"Now," said the king, "give the word and
let us start."

"Will you not give it, sire?" asked
Athos.

"No; I make you my lieutenant-general,"
said the king.

"Listen, then, Lord Winter. Proceed,
sire, I beg. What we are going to say
does not concern your majesty."

The king, smiling, turned a few steps
back.

"This is what I propose to do," said
Athos. "We will divide our regiments
into two squadrons. You will put
yourself at the head of the first. We
and his majesty will lead the second. If
no obstacle occurs we will both charge
together, force the enemy's line and
throw ourselves into the Tyne, which we
must cross, either by fording or
swimming; if, on the contrary, any
repulse should take place, you and your
men must fight to the last man, whilst
we and the king proceed on our road.
Once arrived at the brink of the river,
should we even find them three ranks
deep, as long as you and your regiment
do your duty, we will look to the rest."

"To horse!" said Lord Winter.

"To horse!" re-echoed Athos; "everything
is arranged and decided."

"Now, gentlemen," cried the king,
"forward! and rally to the old cry of
France, `Montjoy and St. Denis!' The war
cry of England is too often in the
mouths of traitors."

They mounted -- the king on Winter's
horse and Winter on that of the king;
then Winter took his place at the head
of the first squadron, and the king,
with Athos on his right and Aramis on
his left, at the head of the second.

The Scotch army stood motionless and
silent, seized with shame at sight of
these preparations.

Some of the chieftains left the ranks
and broke their swords in two.

"There," said the king, "that consoles
me; they are not all traitors."

At this moment Winter's voice was raised
with the cry of "Forward!"

The first squadron moved off; the second
followed, and descended from the
plateau. A regiment of cuirassiers,
nearly equal as to numbers, issued from
behind the hill and came full gallop
toward it.

The king pointed this out.

"Sire," said Athos, "we foresaw this;
and if Lord Winter's men but do their
duty, we are saved, instead of lost."

At this moment they heard above all the
galloping and neighing of the horses
Winter's voice crying out:

"Sword in hand!"

At these words every sword was drawn,
and glittered in the air like lightning.

"Now, gentlemen," said the king in his
turn, excited by this sight, "come,
gentlemen, sword in hand!"

But Aramis and Athos were the only ones
to obey this command and the king's
example.

"We are betrayed," said the king in a
low voice.

"Wait a moment," said Athos, "perhaps
they do not recognize your majesty's
voice, and await the order of their
captain."

"Have they not heard that of their
colonel? But look! look!" cried the
king, drawing up his horse with a sudden
jerk, which threw it on its haunches,
and seizing the bridle of Athos's horse.

"Ah, cowards! traitors!" screamed Lord
Winter, whose voice they heard, whilst
his men, quitting their ranks, dispersed
all over the plain.

About fifteen men were ranged around him
and awaited the charge of Cromwell's
cuirassiers.

"Let us go and die with them!" said the
king.

"Let us go," said Athos and Aramis.

"All faithful hearts with me!" cried out
Winter.

This voice was heard by the two friends,
who set off, full gallop.

"No quarter!" cried a voice in French,
answering to that of Winter, which made
them tremble.

As for Winter, at the sound of that
voice he turned pale, and was, as it
were, petrified.

It was the voice of a cavalier mounted
on a magnificent black horse, who was
charging at the head of the English
regiment, of which, in his ardor, he was
ten steps in advance.

"'Tis he!" murmured Winter, his eyes
glazed and he allowed his sword to fall
to his side.

"The king! the king!" cried out several
voices, deceived by the blue ribbon and
chestnut horse of Winter; "take him
alive."

"No! it is not the king!" exclaimed the
cavalier. "Lord Winter, you are not the
king; you are my uncle."

At the same moment Mordaunt, for it was
he, leveled his pistol at Winter; it
went off and the ball entered the heart
of the old cavalier, who with one bound
on his saddle fell back into the arms of
Athos, murmuring: "He is avenged!"

"Think of my mother!" shouted Mordaunt,
as his horse plunged and darted off at
full gallop.

"Wretch!" exclaimed Aramis, raising his
pistol as he passed by him; but the
powder flashed in the pan and it did not
go off.

At this moment the whole regiment came
up and they fell upon the few men who
had held out, surrounding the two
Frenchmen. Athos, after making sure that
Lord Winter was really dead, let fall
the corpse and said:

"Come, Aramis, now for the honor of
France!" and the two Englishmen who were
nearest to them fell, mortally wounded.

At the same moment a fearful "hurrah!"
rent the air and thirty blades glittered
about their heads.

Suddenly a man sprang out of the English
ranks, fell upon Athos, twined arms of
steel around him, and tearing his sword
from him, said in his ear:

"Silence! yield -- you yield to me, do
you not?"

A giant had seized also Aramis's two
wrists, who struggled in vain to release
himself from this formidable grasp.

"D'Art ---- " exclaimed Athos, whilst
the Gascon covered his mouth with his
hand.

"I am your prisoner," said Aramis,
giving up his sword to Porthos.

"Fire, fire!" cried Mordaunt, returning
to the group surrounding the two
friends.

"And wherefore fire?" said the colonel;
"every one has yielded."

"It is the son of Milady," said Athos to
D'Artagnan.

"I recognize him."

"It is the monk," whispered Porthos to
Aramis.

"I know it."

And now the ranks began to open.
D'Artagnan held the bridle of Athos's
horse and Porthos that of Aramis. Both
of them attempted to lead his prisoner
off the battle-field.

This movement revealed the spot where
Winter's body had fallen. Mordaunt had
found it out and was gazing on his dead
relative with an expression of malignant
hatred.

Athos, though now cool and collected,
put his hand to his belt, where his
loaded pistols yet remained.

"What are you about?" said D'Artagnan.

"Let me kill him."

"We are all four lost, if by the least
gesture you discover that you recognize
him."

Then turning to the young man he
exclaimed:

"A fine prize! a fine prize, friend
Mordaunt; we have both myself and
Monsieur du Vallon, taken two Knights of
the Garter, nothing less."

"But," said Mordaunt, looking at Athos
and Aramis with bloodshot eyes, "these
are Frenchmen, I imagine."

"I'faith, I don't know. Are you French,
sir?" said he to Athos.

"I am," replied the latter, gravely.

"Very well, my dear sir, you are the
prisoner of a fellow countryman."

"But the king -- where is the king?"
exclaimed Athos, anxiously.

D'Artagnan vigorously seized his
prisoner's hand, saying:

"Eh! the king? We have secured him."

"Yes," said Aramis, "through an infamous
act of treason."

Porthos pressed his friend's hand and
said to him:

"Yes, sir, all is fair in war, stratagem
as well as force; look yonder!"

At this instant the squadron, that ought
to have protected Charles's retreat, was
advancing to meet the English regiments.
The king, who was entirely surrounded,
walked alone in a great empty space. He
appeared calm, but it was evidently not
without a mighty effort. Drops of
perspiration trickled down his face, and
from time to time he put a handkerchief
to his mouth to wipe away the blood that
rilled from it.

"Behold Nebuchadnezzar!" exclaimed an
old Puritan soldier, whose eyes flashed
at the sight of the man they called the
tyrant.

"Do you call him Nebuchadnezzar?" said
Mordaunt, with a terrible smile; "no, it
is Charles the First, the king, the good
King Charles, who despoils his subjects
to enrich himself."

Charles glanced a moment at the insolent
creature who uttered this, but did not
recognize him. Nevertheless, the calm
religious dignity of his countenance
abashed Mordaunt.

"Bon jour, messieurs!" said the king to
the two gentlemen who were held by
D'Artagnan and Porthos. "The day has
been unfortunate, but it is not your
fault, thank God! But where is my old
friend Winter?"

The two gentlemen turned away their
heads in silence.

"In Strafford's company," said Mordaunt,
tauntingly.

Charles shuddered. The demon had known
how to wound him. The remembrance of
Strafford was a source of lasting
remorse to him, the shadow that haunted
him by day and night. The king looked
around him. He saw a corpse at his feet.
It was Winter's. He uttered not a word,
nor shed a tear, but a deadly pallor
spread over his face; he knelt down on
the ground, raised Winter's head, and
unfastening the Order of the Saint
Esprit, placed it on his own breast.

"Lord Winter is killed, then?" inquired
D'Artagnan, fixing his eyes on the
corpse.

"Yes," said Athos, "by his own nephew."

"Come, he was the first of us to go;
peace be to him! he was an honest man,"
said D'Artagnan.

"Charles Stuart," said the colonel of
the English regiment, approaching the
king, who had just put on the insignia
of royalty, "do you yield yourself a
prisoner?"

"Colonel Tomlison," said Charles, "kings
cannot yield; the man alone submits to
force."

"Your sword."

The king drew his sword and broke it on
his knee.

At this moment a horse without a rider,
covered with foam, his nostrils extended
and eyes all fire, galloped up, and
recognizing his master, stopped and
neighed with pleasure; it was Arthur.

The king smiled, patted it with his hand
and jumped lightly into the saddle.

"Now, gentlemen," said he, "conduct me
where you will."

Turning back again, he said, "I thought
I saw Winter move; if he still lives, by
all you hold most sacred, do not abandon
him."

"Never fear, King Charles," said
Mordaunt, "the bullet pierced his
heart."

"Do not breathe a word nor make the
least sign to me or Porthos," said
D'Artagnan to Athos and Aramis, "that
you recognize this man, for Milady is
not dead; her soul lives in the body of
this demon."

The detachment now moved toward the town
with the royal captive; but on the road
an aide-de-camp, from Cromwell, sent
orders that Colonel Tomlison should
conduct him to Holdenby Castle.

At the same time couriers started in
every direction over England and Europe
to announce that Charles Stuart was the
prisoner of Oliver Cromwell.



57

Oliver Cromwell.



"Have you been to the general?" said
Mordaunt to D'Artagnan and Porthos; "you
know he sent for you after the action."

"We want first to put our prisoners in a
place of safety," replied D'Artagnan.
"Do you know, sir, these gentlemen are
each of them worth fifteen hundred
pounds?"

"Oh, be assured," said Mordaunt, looking
at them with an expression he vainly
endeavoured to soften, "my soldiers will
guard them, and guard them well, I
promise you."

"I shall take better care of them
myself," answered D'Artagnan; "besides,
all they require is a good room, with
sentinels, or their simple parole that
they will not attempt escape. I will go
and see about that, and then we shall
have the honor of presenting ourselves
to the general and receiving his
commands for his eminence."

"You think of starting at once, then?"
inquired Mordaunt.

"Our mission is ended, and there is
nothing more to detain us now but the
good pleasure of the great man to whom
we were sent."

The young man bit his lips and whispered
to his sergeant:

"You will follow these men and not lose
sight of them; when you have discovered
where they lodge, come and await me at
the town gate."

The sergeant made a sign of
comprehension.

Instead of following the knot of
prisoners that were being taken into the
town, Mordaunt turned his steps toward
the rising ground from whence Cromwell
had witnessed the battle and on which he
had just had his tent pitched.

Cromwell had given orders that no one
was to be allowed admission; but the
sentinel, who knew that Mordaunt was one
of the most confidential friends of the
general, thought the order did not
extend to the young man. Mordaunt,
therefore, raised the canvas, and saw
Cromwell seated before a table, his head
buried in his hands, his back being
turned.

Whether he heard Mordaunt or not as he
entered, Cromwell did not move. Mordaunt
remained standing near the door. At
last, after a few moments, Cromwell
raised his head, and, as if he divined
that some one was there, turned slowly
around.

"I said I wished to be alone," he
exclaimed, on seeing the young man.

"They thought this order did not concern
me, sir; nevertheless, if you wish it, I
am ready to go."

"Ah! is it you, Mordaunt?" said
Cromwell, the cloud passing away from
his face; "since you are here, it is
well; you may remain."

"I come to congratulate you."

"To congratulate me -- what for?"

"On the capture of Charles Stuart. You
are now master of England."

"I was much more really so two hours
ago."

"How so, general?"

"Because England had need of me to take
the tyrant, and now the tyrant is taken.
Have you seen him?"

"Yes, sir." said Mordaunt.

"What is his bearing?"

Mordaunt hesitated; but it seemed as
though he was constrained to tell the
truth.

"Calm and dignified," said he.

"What did he say?"

"Some parting words to his friends."

"His friends!" murmured Cromwell. "Has
he any friends?" Then he added aloud,
"Did he make any resistance?"

"No, sir, with the exception of two or
three friends every one deserted him; he
had no means of resistance."

"To whom did he give up his sword?"

"He did not give it up; he broke it."

"He did well; but instead of breaking
it, he might have used it to still more
advantage."

There was a momentary pause.

"I heard that the colonel of the
regiment that escorted Charles was
killed," said Cromwell, staring very
fixedly at Mordaunt.

"Yes, sir."

"By whom?" inquired Cromwell.

"By me."

"What was his name?"

"Lord Winter."

"Your uncle?" exclaimed Cromwell.

"My uncle," answered Mordaunt; "but
traitors to England are no longer
members of my family."

Cromwell observed the young man a moment
in silence, then, with that profound
melancholy Shakespeare describes so
well:

"Mordaunt," he said, "you are a terrible
servant."

"When the Lord commands," said Mordaunt,
"His commands are not to be disputed.
Abraham raised the knife against Isaac,
and Isaac was his son."

"Yes," said Cromwell, "but the Lord did
not suffer that sacrifice to be
accomplished."

"I have looked around me," said
Mordaunt, "and I have seen neither goat
nor kid caught among the bushes of the
plain."

Cromwell bowed. "You are strong among
the strong, Mordaunt," he said; "and the
Frenchmen, how did they behave?"

"Most fearlessly."

"Yes, yes," murmured Cromwell; "the
French fight well; and if my glass was
good and I mistake not, they were
foremost in the fight."

"They were," replied Mordaunt.

"After you, however," said Cromwell.

"It was the fault of their horses, not
theirs."

Another pause

"And the Scotch?"

"They kept their word and never
stirred," said Mordaunt.

"Wretched men!"

"Their officers wish to see you, sir."

"I have no time to see them. Are they
paid?"

"Yes, to-night."

"Let them be off and return to their own
country, there to hide their shame, if
its hills are high enough; I have
nothing more to do with them nor they
with me. And now go, Mordaunt."

"Before I go," said Mordaunt, "I have
some questions and a favor to ask you,
sir."

"A favor from me?"

Mordaunt bowed.

"I come to you, my leader, my head, my
father, and I ask you, master, are you
contented with me?"

Cromwell looked at him with
astonishment. The young man remained
immovable.

"Yes," said Cromwell; "you have done,
since I knew you, not only your duty,
but more than your duty; you have been a
faithful friend, a cautious negotiator,
a brave soldier."

"Do you remember, sir it was my idea,
the Scotch treaty, for giving up the
king?"

"Yes, the idea was yours. I had no such
contempt for men before."

"Was I not a good ambassador in France?"

"Yes, for Mazarin has granted what I
desire."

"Have I not always fought for your glory
and interests?"

"Too ardently, perhaps; it is what I
have just reproached you for. But what
is the meaning of all these questions?"

"To tell you, my lord, that the moment
has now arrived when, with a single
word, you may recompense all these
services."

"Oh!" said Oliver, with a slight curl of
his lip, "I forgot that every service
merits some reward and that up to this
moment you have not been paid."

"Sir, I can take my pay at this moment,
to the full extent of my wishes."

"How is that?"

"I have the payment under my hand; I
almost possess it."

"What is it? Have they offered you
money? Do you wish a step, or some place
in the government?"

"Sir, will you grant me my request?"

"Let us hear what it is, first."

"Sir, when you have told me to obey an
order did I ever answer, `Let me see
that order '?"

"If, however, your wish should be one
impossible to fulfill?"

"When you have cherished a wish and have
charged me with its fulfillment, have I
ever replied, `It is impossible'?"

"But a request preferred with so much
preparation ---- "

"Ah, do not fear, sir," said Mordaunt,
with apparent simplicity: "it will not
ruin you."

"Well, then," said Cromwell, "I promise,
as far as lies in my power, to grant
your request; proceed."

"Sir, two prisoners were taken this
morning, will you let me have them?"

"For their ransom? have they then
offered a large one?" inquired Cromwell.

"On the contrary, I think they are poor,
sir."

"They are friends of yours, then?"

"Yes, sir," exclaimed Mordaunt, "they
are friends, dear friends of mine, and I
would lay down my life for them."

"Very well, Mordaunt," exclaimed
Cromwell, pleased at having his opinion
of the young man raised once more; "I
will give them to you; I will not even
ask who they are; do as you like with
them."

"Thank you, sir!" exclaimed Mordaunt,
"thank you; my life is always at your
service, and should I lose it I should
still owe you something; thank you; you
have indeed repaid me munificently for
my services."

He threw himself at the feet of
Cromwell, and in spite of the efforts of
the Puritan general, who did not like
this almost kingly homage, he took his
hand and kissed it.

"What!" said Cromwell, arresting him for
a moment as he arose; "is there nothing
more you wish? neither gold nor rank?"

"You have given me all you can give me,
and from to-day your debt is paid."

And Mordaunt darted out of the general's
tent, his heart beating and his eyes
sparkling with joy.

Cromwell gazed a moment after him.

"He has slain his uncle!" he murmured.
"Alas! what are my servants? Possibly
this one, who asks nothing or seems to
ask nothing, has asked more in the eyes
of Heaven than those who tax the country
and steal the bread of the poor. Nobody
serves me for nothing. Charles, who is
my prisoner, may still have friends, but
I have none!"

And with a deep sigh he again sank into
the reverie that had been interrupted by
Mordaunt.



58

Jesus Seigneur.



Whilst Mordaunt was making his way to
Cromwell's tent, D'Artagnan and Porthos
had brought their prisoners to the house
which had been assigned to them as their
dwelling at Newcastle.

The order given by Mordaunt to the
sergeant had been heard by D'Artagnan,
who accordingly, by an expressive
glance, warned Athos and Aramis to
exercise extreme caution. The prisoners,
therefore, had remained silent as they
marched along in company with their
conquerors -- which they could do with
the less difficulty since each of them
had occupation enough in answering his
own thoughts.

It would be impossible to describe
Mousqueton's astonishment when from the
threshold of the door he saw the four
friends approaching, followed by a
sergeant with a dozen men. He rubbed his
eyes, doubting if he really saw before
him Athos and Aramis; and forced at last
to yield to evidence, he was on the
point of breaking forth in exclamations
when he encountered a glance from the
eyes of Porthos, the repressive force of
which he was not inclined to dispute.

Mousqueton remained glued to the door,
awaiting the explanation of this strange
occurrence. What upset him completely
was that the four friends seemed to have
no acquaintance with one another.

The house to which D'Artagnan and
Porthos conducted Athos and Aramis was
the one assigned to them by General
Cromwell and of which they had taken
possession on the previous evening. It
was at the corner of two streets and had
in the rear, bordering on the side
street, stables and a sort of garden.
The windows on the ground floor,
according to a custom in provincial
villages, were barred, so that they
strongly resembled the windows of a
prison.

The two friends made the prisoners enter
the house first, whilst they stood at
the door, desiring Mousqueton to take
the four horses to the stable.

"Why don't we go in with them?" asked
Porthos.

"We must first see what the sergeant
wishes us to do," replied D'Artagnan.

The sergeant and his men took possession
of the little garden.

D'Artagnan asked them what they wished
and why they had taken that position.

"We have had orders," answered the man,
"to help you in taking care of your
prisoners."

There could be no fault to find with
this arrangement; on the contrary, it
seemed to be a delicate attention, to be
gratefully received; D'Artagnan,
therefore, thanked the man and gave him
a crown piece to drink to General
Cromwell's health.

The sergeant answered that Puritans
never drank, and put the crown piece in
his pocket.

"Ah!" said Porthos, "what a fearful day,
my dear D'Artagnan!"

"What! a fearful day, when to-day we
find our friends?"

"Yes; but under what circumstances?"

"'Tis true that our position is an
awkward one; but let us go in and see
more clearly what is to be done."

"Things look black enough," replied
Porthos; "I understand now why Aramis
advised me to strangle that horrible
Mordaunt."

"Silence!" cried the Gascon; "do not
utter that name."

"But," argued Porthos, "I speak French
and they are all English."

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos with that
air of wonder which a cunning man cannot
help feeling at displays of crass
stupidity.

But as Porthos on his side could not
comprehend his astonishment, he merely
pushed him indoors, saying, "Let us go
in."

They found Athos in profound
despondency; Aramis looked first at
Porthos and then at D'Artagnan, without
speaking, but the latter understood his
meaningful look.

"You want to know how we came here? 'Tis
easily guessed. Mazarin sent us with a
letter to General Cromwell."

"But how came you to fall into company
with Mordaunt, whom I bade you
distrust?" asked Athos.

"And whom I advised you to strangle,
Porthos," said Aramis.

"Mazarin again. Cromwell had sent him to
Mazarin. Mazarin sent us to Cromwell.
There is a certain fatality in it."

"Yes, you are right, D'Artagnan, a
fatality that will separate and ruin us!
So, my dear Aramis, say no more about it
and let us prepare to submit to
destiny."

"Zounds! on the contrary, let us speak
about it; for it was agreed among us,
once for all, that we should always hold
together, though engaged on opposing
sides."

"Yes," added Athos, "I now ask you,
D'Artagnan, what side you are on? Ah!
behold for what end the wretched Mazarin
has made use of you. Do you know in what
crime you are to-day engaged? In the
capture of a king, his degradation and
his murder."

"Oh! oh!" cried Porthos, "do you think
so?"

"You are exaggerating, Athos; we are not
so far gone as that," replied the
lieutenant.

"Good heavens! we are on the very eve of
it. I say, why is the king taken
prisoner? Those who wish to respect him
as a master would not buy him as a
slave. Do you think it is to replace him
on the throne that Cromwell has paid for
him two hundred thousand pounds
sterling? They will kill him, you may be
sure of it."

"I don't maintain the contrary," said
D'Artagnan. "But what's that to us? I am
here because I am a soldier and have to
obey orders -- I have taken an oath to
obey, and I do obey; but you who have
taken no such oath, why are you here and
what cause do you represent?"

"That most sacred in the world," said
Athos; "the cause of misfortune, of
religion, royalty. A friend, a wife, a
daughter, have done us the honor to call
us to their aid. We have served them to
the best of our poor means, and God will
recompense the will, forgive the want of
power. You may see matters differently,
D'Artagnan, and think otherwise. I will
not attempt to argue with you, but I
blame you."

"Heyday!" cried D'Artagnan, "what
matters it to me, after all, if
Cromwell, who's an Englishman, revolts
against his king, who is a Scotchman? I
am myself a Frenchman. I have nothing to
do with these things -- why hold me
responsible?"

"Yes," said Porthos.

"Because all gentlemen are brothers,
because you are a gentleman, because the
kings of all countries are the first
among gentlemen, because the blind
populace, ungrateful and brutal, always
takes pleasure in pulling down what is
above them. And you, you, D'Artagnan, a
man sprung from the ancient nobility of
France, bearing an honorable name,
carrying a good sword, have helped to
give up a king to beersellers,
shopkeepers, and wagoners. Ah!
D'Artagnan! perhaps you have done your
duty as a soldier, but as a gentleman, I
say that you are very culpable."

D'Artagnan was chewing the stalk of a
flower, unable to reply and thoroughly
uncomfortable; for when turned from the
eyes of Athos he encountered those of
Aramis.

"And you, Porthos," continued the count,
as if in consideration for D'Artagnan's
embarrassment, "you, the best heart, the
best friend, the best soldier that I
know -- you, with a soul that makes you
worthy of a birth on the steps of a
throne, and who, sooner or later, must
receive your reward from an intelligent
king -- you, my dear Porthos, you, a
gentleman in manners, in tastes and in
courage, you are as culpable as
D'Artagnan."

Porthos blushed, but with pleasure
rather than with confusion; and yet,
bowing his head, as if humiliated, he
said:

"Yes, yes, my dear count, I feel that
you are right."

Athos arose.

"Come," he said, stretching out his hand
to D'Artagnan, "come, don't be sullen,
my dear son, for I have said all this to
you, if not in the tone, at least with
the feelings of a father. It would have
been easier to me merely to have thanked
you for preserving my life and not to
have uttered a word of all this."

"Doubtless, doubtless, Athos. But here
it is: you have sentiments, the devil
knows what, such as every one can't
entertain. Who could suppose that a
sensible man could leave his house,
France, his ward -- a charming youth,
for we saw him in the camp -- to fly to
the aid of a rotten, worm-eaten royalty,
which is going to crumble one of these
days like an old hovel. The sentiments
you air are certainly fine, so fine that
they are superhuman."

"However that may be, D'Artagnan,"
replied Athos, without falling into the
snare which his Gascon friend had
prepared for him by an appeal to his
parental love, "however that may be, you
know in the bottom of your heart that it
is true; but I am wrong to dispute with
my master. D'Artagnan, I am your
prisoner -- treat me as such."

"Ah! pardieu!" said D'Artagnan, "you
know you will not be my prisoner very
long."

"No," said Aramis, "they will doubtless
treat us like the prisoners of the
Philipghauts."

"And how were they treated?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"Why," said Aramis, "one-half were
hanged and the other half were shot."

"Well, I," said D'Artagnan "I answer
that while there remains a drop of blood
in my veins you will be neither hanged
nor shot. Sang Diou! let them come on!
Besides -- do you see that door, Athos?"

"Yes; what then?"

"Well, you can go out by that door
whenever you please; for from this
moment you are free as the air."

"I recognize you there, my brave
D'Artagnan," replied Athos; "but you are
no longer our masters. That door is
guarded, D'Artagnan; you know that."

"Very well, you will force it," said
Porthos. "There are only a dozen men at
the most."

"That would be nothing for us four; it
is too much for us two. No, divided as
we now are, we must perish. See the
fatal example: on the Vendomois road,
D'Artagnan, you so brave, and you,
Porthos, so valiant and so strong -- you
were beaten; to-day Aramis and I are
beaten in our turn. Now that never
happened to us when we were four
together. Let us die, then, as De Winter
has died; as for me, I will fly only on
condition that we all fly together."

"Impossible," said D'Artagnan; "we are
under Mazarin's orders."

"I know it and I have nothing more to
say; my arguments lead to nothing;
doubtless they are bad, since they have
not determined minds so just as yours."

"Besides," said Aramis, "had they taken
effect it would be still better not to
compromise two excellent friends like
D'Artagnan and Porthos. Be assured,
gentlemen, we shall do you honor in our
dying. As for myself, I shall be proud
to face the bullets, or even the rope,
in company with you, Athos; for you have
never seemed to me so grand as you are
to-day."

D'Artagnan said nothing, but, after
having gnawed the flower stalk, he began
to bite his nails. At last:

"Do you imagine," he resumed, "that they
mean to kill you? And wherefore should
they do so? What interest have they in
your death? Moreover, you are our
prisoners."

"Fool!" cried Aramis; "knowest thou not,
then, Mordaunt? I have but exchanged
with him one look, yet that look
convinced me that we were doomed."

"The truth is, I'm very sorry that I did
not strangle him as you advised me,"
said Porthos.

"Eh! I make no account of the harm
Mordaunt can do!" cried D'Artagnan. "Cap
de Diou! if he troubles me too much I
will crush him, the insect! Do not fly,
then. It is useless; for I swear to you
that you are as safe here as you were
twenty years, ago -- you, Athos, in the
Rue Ferou, and you, Aramis, in the Rue
de Vaugirard."

"Stop," cried Athos, extending his hand
to one of the grated windows by which
the room was lighted; "you will soon
know what to expect, for here he is."

"Who?"

"Mordaunt."

In fact, looking at the place to which
Athos pointed, D'Artagnan saw a cavalier
coming toward the house at full gallop.

It was Mordaunt.

D'Artagnan rushed out of the room.

Porthos wanted to follow him.

"Stay," said D'Artagnan, "and do not
come till you hear me drum my fingers on
the door."

When Mordaunt arrived opposite the house
he saw D'Artagnan on the threshold and
the soldiers lying on the grass here and
there, with their arms.

"Halloo!" he cried, "are the prisoners
still there?"

"Yes, sir," answered the sergeant,
uncovering.

"'Tis well; order four men to conduct
them to my lodging."

Four men prepared to do so.

"What is it?" said D'Artagnan, with that
jeering manner which our readers have so
often observed in him since they made
his acquaintance. "What is the matter,
if you please?"

"Sir," replied Mordaunt, "I have ordered
the two prisoners we made this morning
to be conducted to my lodging."

"Wherefore, sir? Excuse curiosity, but I
wish to be enlightened on the subject."

"Because these prisoners, sir, are at my
disposal and I choose to dispose of them
as I like."

"Allow me -- allow me, sir," said
D'Artagnan, "to observe you are in
error. The prisoners belong to those who
take them and not to those who only saw
them taken. You might have taken Lord
Winter -- who, 'tis said, was your
uncle -- prisoner, but you preferred
killing him; 'tis well; we, that is,
Monsieur du Vallon and I, could have
killed our prisoners -- we preferred
taking them."

Mordaunt's very lips grew white with
rage.

D'Artagnan now saw that affairs were
growing worse and he beat the guard's
march upon the door. At the first beat
Porthos rushed out and stood on the
other side of the door.

This movement was observed by Mordaunt.

"Sir!" he thus addressed D'Artagnan,
"your resistance is useless; these
prisoners have just been given me by my
illustrious patron, Oliver Cromwell."

These words struck D'Artagnan like a
thunderbolt. The blood mounted to his
temples, his eyes became dim; he saw
from what fountainhead the ferocious
hopes of the young man arose, and he put
his hand to the hilt of his sword.

As for Porthos, he looked inquiringly at
D'Artagnan.

This look of Porthos's made the Gascon
regret that he had summoned the brute
force of his friend to aid him in an
affair which seemed to require chiefly
cunning.

"Violence," he said to himself, "would
spoil all; D'Artagnan, my friend, prove
to this young serpent that thou art not
only stronger, but more subtle than he
is."

"Ah!" he said, making a low bow, "why
did you not begin by saying that,
Monsieur Mordaunt? What! are you sent by
General Oliver Cromwell, the most
illustrious captain of the age?"

"I have this instant left him," replied
Mordaunt, alighting, in order to give
his horse to a soldier to hold.

"Why did you not say so at once, my dear
sir! all England is with Cromwell; and
since you ask for my prisoners, I bend,
sir, to your wishes. They are yours;
take them."

Mordaunt, delighted, advanced, Porthos
looking at D'Artagnan with open-mouthed
astonishment. Then D'Artagnan trod on
his foot and Porthos began to understand
that this was merely acting.

Mordaunt put his foot on the first step
of the door and, with his hat in hand,
prepared to pass by the two friends,
motioning to the four men to follow him.

"But, pardon," said D'Artagnan, with the
most charming smile and putting his hand
on the young man's shoulder, "if the
illustrious General Oliver Cromwell has
disposed of our prisoners in your
favour, he has, of course, made that act
of donation in writing."

Mordaunt stopped short.

"He has given you some little writing
for me -- the least bit of paper which
may show that you come in his name. Be
pleased to give me that scrap of paper
so that I may justify, by a pretext at
least, my abandoning my countrymen.
Otherwise, you see, although I am sure
that General Oliver Cromwell can intend
them no harm, it would have a bad
appearance."

Mordaunt recoiled; he felt the blow and
discharged a terrible look at
D'Artagnan, who responded by the most
amiable expression that ever graced a
human countenance.

"When I tell you a thing, sir," said
Mordaunt, "you insult me by doubting
it."

"I!" cried D'Artagnan, "I doubt what you
say!" God keep me from it, my dear
Monsieur Mordaunt! On the contrary, I
take you to be a worthy and accomplished
gentleman. And then, sir, do you wish me
to speak freely to you?" continued
D'Artagnan, with his frank expression.

"Speak out, sir," said Mordaunt.

"Monsieur du Vallon, yonder, is rich and
has forty thousand francs yearly, so he
does not care about money. I do not
speak for him, but for myself."

"Well, sir? What more?"

"Well -- I -- I'm not rich. In Gascony
'tis no dishonor, sir, nobody is rich;
and Henry IV., of glorious memory, who
was the king of the Gascons, as His
Majesty Philip IV. is the king of the
Spaniards, never had a penny in his
pocket."

"Go on, sir, I see what you wish to get
at; and if it is simply what I think
that stops you, I can obviate the
difficulty."

"Ah, I knew well," said the Gascon,
"that you were a man of talent. Well,
here's the case, here's where the saddle
hurts me, as we French say. I am an
officer of fortune, nothing else; I have
nothing but what my sword brings me
in -- that is to say, more blows than
banknotes. Now, on taking prisoners,
this morning, two Frenchmen, who seemed
to me of high birth -- in short, two
knights of the Garter -- I said to
myself, my fortune is made. I say two,
because in such circumstances, Monsieur
du Vallon, who is rich, always gives me
his prisoners."

Mordaunt, completely deceived by the
wordy civility of D'Artagnan, smiled
like a man who understands perfectly the
reasons given him, and said:

"I shall have the order signed directly,
sir, and with it two thousand pistoles;
meanwhile, let me take these men away."

"No," replied D'Artagnan; "what
signifies a delay of half an hour? I am
a man of order, sir; let us do things in
order."

"Nevertheless," replied Mordaunt, "I
could compel you; I command here."

"Ah, sir!" said D'Artagnan, "I see that
although we have had the honor of
traveling in your company you do not
know us. We are gentlemen; we are, both
of us, able to kill you and your eight
men -- we two only. For Heaven's sake
don't be obstinate, for when others are
obstinate I am obstinate likewise, and
then I become ferocious and headstrong,
and there's my friend, who is even more
headstrong and ferocious than myself.
Besides, we are sent here by Cardinal
Mazarin, and at this moment represent
both the king and the cardinal, and are,
therefore, as ambassadors, able to act
with impunity, a thing that General
Oliver Cromwell, who is assuredly as
great a politician as he is a general,
is quite the man to understand. Ask him
then, for the written order. What will
that cost you my dear Monsieur
Mordaunt?"

"Yes, the written order," said Porthos,
who now began to comprehend what
D'Artagnan was aiming at, "we ask only
for that."

However inclined Mordaunt was to have
recourse to violence, he understood the
reasons D'Artagnan had given him;
besides, completely ignorant of the
friendship which existed between the
four Frenchmen, all his uneasiness
disappeared when he heard of the
plausible motive of the ransom. He
decided, therefore, not only to fetch
the order, but the two thousand
pistoles, at which he estimated the
prisoners. He therefore mounted his
horse and disappeared.

"Good!" thought D'Artagnan; "a quarter
of an hour to go to the tent, a quarter
of an hour to return; it is more than we
need." Then turning, without the least
change of countenance, to Porthos, he
said, looking him full in the face:
"Friend Porthos, listen to this; first,
not a syllable to either of our friends
of what you have heard; it is
unnecessary for them to know the service
we are going to render them."

"Very well; I understand."

"Go to the stable; you will find
Mousqueton there; saddle your horses,
put your pistols in your saddle-bags,
take out the horses and lead them to the
street below this, so that there will be
nothing to do but mount them; all the
rest is my business."

Porthos made no remark, but obeyed, with
the sublime confidence he had in his
friend.

"I go," he said, "only, shall I enter
the chamber where those gentlemen are?"

"No, it is not worth while."

"Well, do me the kindness to take my
purse. which I left on the mantelpiece."

"All right."

He then proceeded, with his usual calm
gait, to the stable and went into the
very midst of the soldiery, who,
foreigner as he was, could not help
admiring his height and the enormous
strength of his great limbs.

At the corner of the street he met
Mousqueton and took him with him.

D'Artagnan, meantime, went into the
house, whistling a tune which he had
begun before Porthos went away.

"My dear Athos, I have reflected on your
arguments and I am convinced. I am sorry
to have had anything to do with this
matter. As you say, Mazarin is a knave.
I have resolved to fly with you, not a
word -- be ready. Your swords are in the
corner; do not forget them, they are in
many circumstances very useful; there is
Porthos's purse, too."

He put it into his pocket. The two
friends were perfectly stupefied.

"Well, pray, is there anything to be so
surprised at?" he said. "I was blind;
Athos has made me see, that's all; come
here."

The two friends went near him.

"Do you see that street? There are the
horses. Go out by the door, turn to the
right, jump into your saddles, all will
be right; don't be uneasy at anything
except mistaking the signal. That will
be the signal when I call out -- Jesus
Seigneur!"

"But give us your word that you will
come too, D'Artagnan," said Athos.

"I swear I will, by Heaven."

"'Tis settled," said Aramis; "at the cry
`Jesus Seigneur' we go out, upset all
that stands in our way, run to our
horses, jump into our saddles, spur
them; is that all?"

"Exactly."

"See, Aramis, as I have told you,
D'Artagnan is first amongst us all,"
said Athos.

"Very true," replied the Gascon, "but I
always run away from compliments. Don't
forget the signal: `Jesus Seigneur!'"
and he went out as he came in, whistling
the self-same air.

The soldiers were playing or sleeping;
two of them were singing in a corner,
out of tune, the psalm: "On the rivers
of Babylon."

D'Artagnan called the sergeant. "My dear
friend, General Cromwell has sent
Monsieur Mordaunt to fetch me. Guard the
prisoners well, I beg of you."

The sergeant made a sign, as much as to
say he did not understand French, and
D'Artagnan tried to make him comprehend
by signs and gestures. Then he went into
the stable; he found the five horses
saddled, his own amongst the rest.

"Each of you take a horse by the
bridle," he said to Porthos and
Mousqueton; "turn to the left, so that
Athos and Aramis may see you clearly
from the window."

"They are coming, then?" said Porthos.

"In a moment."

"You didn't forget my purse?"

"No; be easy."

"Good."

Porthos and Mousqueton each took a horse
by the bridle and proceeded to their
post.

Then D'Artagnan, being alone, struck a
light and lighted a small bit of tinder,
mounted his horse and stopped at the
door in the midst of the soldiers.
There, caressing as he pretended, the
animal with his hand, he put this bit of
burning tinder in his ear. It was
necessary to be as good a horseman as he
was to risk such a scheme, for no sooner
had the animal felt the burning tinder
than he uttered a cry of pain and reared
and jumped as if he had been mad.

The soldiers, whom he was nearly
trampling, ran away.

"Help! help!" cried D'Artagnan; "stop --
my horse has the staggers."

In an instant the horse's eyes grew
bloodshot and he was white with foam.

"Help!" cried D'Artagnan. "What! will
you let me be killed? Jesus Seigneur!"

No sooner had he uttered this cry than
the door opened and Athos and Aramis
rushed out. The coast, owing to the
Gascon's stratagem, was clear.

"The prisoners are escaping! the
prisoners are escaping!" cried the
sergeant.

"Stop! stop!" cried D'Artagnan, giving
rein to his famous steed, who, darting
forth, overturned several men.

"Stop! stop!" cried the soldiers, and
ran for their arms.

But the prisoners were in their saddles
and lost no time hastening to the
nearest gate.

In the middle of the street they saw
Grimaud and Blaisois, who were coming to
find their masters. With one wave of his
hand Athos made Grimaud, who followed
the little troop, understand everything,
and they passed on like a whirlwind,
D'Artagnan still directing them from
behind with his voice.

They passed through the gate like
apparitions, without the guards thinking
of detaining them, and reached the open
country.

All this time the soldiers were calling
out, "Stop! stop!" and the sergeant, who
began to see that he was the victim of
an artifice, was almost in a frenzy of
despair. Whilst all this was going on, a
cavalier in full gallop was seen
approaching. It was Mordaunt with the
order in his hand.

"The prisoners!" he exclaimed, jumping
off his horse.

The sergeant had not the courage to
reply; he showed him the open door, the
empty room. Mordaunt darted to the
steps, understood all, uttered a cry, as
if his very heart was pierced, and fell
fainting on the stone steps.





59

In which it is shown that under the most
trying Circumstances noble Natures never
lose their Courage, nor good Stomachs
their Appetites.



The little troop, without looking behind
them or exchanging a word, fled at a
rapid gallop, fording a little stream,
of which none of them knew the name, and
leaving on their left a town which Athos
declared to be Durham. At last they came
in sight of a small wood, and spurring
their horses afresh, rode in its
direction.

As soon as they had disappeared behind a
green curtain sufficiently thick to
conceal them from the sight of any one
who might be in pursuit they drew up to
hold a council together. The two grooms
held the horses, that they might take a
little rest without being unsaddled, and
Grimaud was posted as sentinel.

"Come, first of all," said Athos to
D'Artagnan, "my friend, that I may shake
hands with you -- you, our rescuer --
you, the true hero of us all."

"Athos is right -- you have my
adoration," said Aramis, in his turn
pressing his hand. "To what are you not
equal, with your superior intelligence,
infallible eye, your arm of iron and
your enterprising mind!"

"Now," said the Gascon, "that is all
well, I accept for Porthos and myself
everything -- thanks and compliments; we
have plenty of time to spare."

The two friends, recalled by D'Artagnan
to what was also due to Porthos, pressed
his hand in their turn.

"And now," said Athos, "it is not our
plan to run anywhere and like madmen,
but we must map up our campaign. What
shall we do?"

"What are we going to do, i'faith? It is
not very difficult to say."

"Tell us, then, D'Artagnan."

"We are going to reach the nearest
seaport, unite our little resources,
hire a vessel and return to France. As
for me I will give my last sou for it.
Life is the greatest treasure, and
speaking candidly, ours hangs by a
thread."

"What do you say to this, Du Vallon?"

"I," said Porthos, "I am entirely of
D'Artagnan's opinion; this is a
`beastly' country, this England."

"You are quite decided, then, to leave
it?" asked Athos of D'Artagnan.

"Egad! I don't see what is to keep me
here."

A glance was exchanged between Athos and
Aramis.

"Go, then, my friends," said the former,
sighing.

"How, go then?" exclaimed D'Artagnan.
"Let us go, you mean?"

"No, my friend," said Athos, "you must
leave us."

"Leave you!" cried D'Artagnan, quite
bewildered at this unexpected
announcement.

"Bah!" said Porthos, "why separate,
since we are all together?"

"Because you can and ought to return to
France; your mission is accomplished,
but ours is not."

"Your mission is not accomplished?"
exclaimed D'Artagnan, looking in
astonishment at Athos.

"No, my friend," replied Athos, in his
gentle but decided voice, "we came here
to defend King Charles; we have but ill
defended him -- it remains for us to
save him!"

"To save the king?" said D'Artagnan,
looking at Aramis as he had looked at
Athos.

Aramis contented himself by making a
sign with his head.

D'Artagnan's countenance took an
expression of the deepest compassion; he
began to think he had to do with madmen.

"You cannot be speaking seriously,
Athos!" said he; "the king is surrounded
by an army, which is conducting him to
London. This army is commanded by a
butcher, or the son of a butcher -- it
matters little -- Colonel Harrison. His
majesty, I can assure you, will be tried
on his arrival in London; I have heard
enough from the lips of Oliver Cromwell
to know what to expect."

A second look was exchanged between
Athos and Aramis.

"And when the trial is ended there will
be no delay in putting the sentence into
execution," continued D'Artagnan.

"And to what penalty do you think the
king will be condemned?" asked Athos.

"The penalty of death, I greatly fear;
they have gone too far for him to pardon
them, and there is nothing left to them
but one thing, and that is to kill him.
Have you never heard what Oliver
Cromwell said when he came to Paris and
was shown the dungeon at Vincennes where
Monsieur de Vendome was imprisoned?"

"What did he say?" asked Porthos.

"`Princes must be knocked on the head.'"

"I remember it," said Athos.

"And you fancy he will not put his maxim
into execution, now that he has got hold
of the king?"

"On the contrary, I am certain he will
do so. But then that is all the more
reason why we should not abandon the
august head so threatened."

"Athos, you are becoming mad."

"No, my friend," Athos gently replied,
"but De Winter sought us out in France
and introduced us, Monsieur d'Herblay
and myself, to Madame Henrietta. Her
majesty did us the honor to ask our aid
for her husband. We engaged our word;
our word included everything. It was our
strength, our intelligence, our life, in
short, that we promised. It remains now
for us to keep our word. Is that your
opinion, D'Herblay?"

"Yes," said Aramis, "we have promised."

"Then," continued Athos, "we have
another reason; it is this -- listen: In
France at this moment everything is poor
and paltry. We have a king ten years
old, who doesn't yet know what he wants;
we have a queen blinded by a belated
passion; we have a minister who governs
France as he would govern a great
farm -- that is to say, intent only on
turning out all the gold he can by the
exercise of Italian cunning and
invention; we have princes who set up a
personal and egotistic opposition, who
will draw from Mazarin's hands only a
few ingots of gold or some shreds of
power granted as bribes. I have served
them without enthusiasm -- God knows
that I estimated them at their real
value, and that they are not high in my
esteem -- but on principle. To-day I am
engaged in a different affair. I have
encountered misfortune in a high place,
a royal misfortune, a European
misfortune; I attach myself to it. If we
can succeed in saving the king it will
be good; if we die for him it will be
grand."

"So you know beforehand you must
perish!" said D'Artagnan.

"We fear so, and our only regret is to
die so far from both of you."

"What will you do in a foreign land, an
enemy's country?"

"I traveled in England when I was young,
I speak English like an Englishman, and
Aramis, too, knows something of the
language. Ah! if we had you, my friends!
With you, D'Artagnan, with you,
Porthos -- all four reunited for the
first time for twenty years -- we would
dare not only England, but the three
kingdoms put together!"

"And did you promise the queen," resumed
D'Artagnan, petulantly, "to storm the
Tower of London, to kill a hundred
thousand soldiers, to fight victoriously
against the wishes of the nation and the
ambition of a man, and when that man is
Cromwell? Do not exaggerate your duty.
In Heaven's name, my dear Athos, do not
make a useless sacrifice. When I see you
merely, you look like a reasonable
being; when you speak, I seem to have to
do with a madman. Come, Porthos, join
me; say frankly, what do you think of
this business?"

"Nothing good," replied Porthos.

"Come," continued D'Artagnan, who,
irritated that instead of listening to
him Athos seemed to be attending to his
own thoughts, "you have never found
yourself the worse for my advice. Well,
then, believe me, Athos, your mission is
ended, and ended nobly; return to France
with us."

"Friend," said Athos, "our resolution is
irrevocable."

"Then you have some other motive unknown
to us?"

Athos smiled and D'Artagnan struck his
hand together in anger and muttered the
most convincing reasons that he could
discover; but to all these reasons Athos
contented himself by replying with a
calm, sweet smile and Aramis by nodding
his head.

"Very well," cried D'Artagnan, at last,
furious, "very well, since you wish it,
let us leave our bones in this beggarly
land, where it is always cold, where
fine weather is a fog, fog is rain, and
rain a deluge; where the sun represents
the moon and the moon a cream cheese; in
truth, whether we die here or elsewhere
matters little, since we must die."

"Only reflect, my good fellow," said
Athos, "it is but dying rather sooner."

"Pooh! a little sooner or a little
later, it isn't worth quarreling over."

"If I am astonished at anything,"
remarked Porthos, sententiously, "it is
that it has not already happened."

"Oh, it will happen, you may be sure,"
said D'Artagnan. "So it is agreed, and
if Porthos makes no objection ---- "

"I," said Porthos, "I will do whatever
you please; and besides, I think what
the Comte de la Fere said just now is
very good."

"But your future career, D'Artagnan --
your ambition, Porthos?"

"Our future, our ambition!" replied
D'Artagnan, with feverish volubility.
"Need we think of that since we are to
save the king? The king saved -- we
shall assemble our friends together --
we will head the Puritans -- reconquer
England; we shall re-enter London --
place him securely on his throne ---- "

"And he will make us dukes and peers,"
said Porthos, whose eyes sparkled with
joy at this imaginary prospect.

"Or he will forget us," added
D'Artagnan.

"Oh!" said Porthos.

"Well, that has happened, friend
Porthos. It seems to me that we once
rendered Anne of Austria a service not
much less than that which to-day we are
trying to perform for Charles I.; but,
none the less, Anne of Austria has
forgotten us for twenty years."

"Well, in spite of that, D'Artagnan,"
said Athos, "you are not sorry that you
were useful to her?"

"No, indeed," said D'Artagnan; "I admit
even that in my darkest moments I find
consolation in that remembrance."

"You see, then, D'Artagnan, though
princes often are ungrateful, God never
is."

"Athos," said D'Artagnan, "I believe
that were you to fall in with the devil,
you would conduct yourself so well that
you would take him with you to Heaven."

"So, then?" said Athos, offering his
hand to D'Artagnan.

"'Tis settled," replied D'Artagnan. "I
find England a charming country, and I
stay -- but on one condition only."

"What is it?"

"That I am not forced to learn English."

"Well, now," said Athos, triumphantly,
"I swear to you, my friend, by the God
who hears us -- I believe that there is
a power watching over us, and that we
shall all four see France again."

"So be it!" said D'Artagnan, "but I -- I
confess I have a contrary conviction."

"Our good D'Artagnan," said Aramis,
"represents among us the opposition in
parliament, which always says no, and
always does aye."

"But in the meantime saves the country,"
added Athos.

"Well, now that everything is decided,"
cried Porthos, rubbing his hands,
"suppose we think of dinner! It seems to
me that in the most critical positions
of our lives we have always dined."

"Oh! yes, speak of dinner in a country
where for a feast they eat boiled
mutton, and as a treat drink beer. What
the devil did you come to such a country
for, Athos? But I forgot," added the
Gascon, smiling, "pardon, I forgot you
are no longer Athos; but never mind, let
us hear your plan for dinner, Porthos."

"My plan!"

"Yes, have you a plan?"

"No! I am hungry, that is all."

"Pardieu, if that is all, I am hungry,
too; but it is not everything to be
hungry, one must find something to eat,
unless we browse on the grass, like our
horses ---- "

"Ah!" exclaimed Aramis, who was not
quite so indifferent to the good things
of the earth as Athos, "do you remember,
when we were at Parpaillot, the
beautiful oysters that we ate?"

"And the legs of mutton of the salt
marshes," said Porthos, smacking his
lips.

"But," suggested D'Artagnan, "have we
not our friend Mousqueton, who managed
for us so well at Chantilly, Porthos?"

"Yes," said Porthos, "we have
Mousqueton, but since he has been
steward, he has become very heavy; never
mind, let us call him, and to make sure
that he will reply agreeably ----

"Here! Mouston," cried Porthos.

Mouston appeared, with a most piteous
face.

"What is the matter, my dear M.
Mouston?" asked D'Artagnan. "Are you
ill?"

"Sir, I am very hungry," replied
Mouston.

"Well, it is just for that reason that
we have called you, my good M. Mouston.
Could you not procure us a few of those
nice little rabbits, and some of those
delicious partridges, of which you used
to make fricassees at the hotel ---- ?
'Faith, I do not remember the name of
the hotel."

"At the hotel of ---- ," said Porthos;
"by my faith -- nor do I remember it
either."

"It does not matter; and a few of those
bottles of old Burgundy wine, which
cured your master so quickly of his
sprain!"

"Alas! sir," said Mousqueton, "I much
fear that what you ask for are very rare
things in this detestable and barren
country, and I think we should do better
to go and seek hospitality from the
owner of a little house we see on the
fringe of the forest."

"How! is there a house in the
neighborhood?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes, sir," replied Mousqueton.

"Well, let us, as you say, go and ask a
dinner from the master of that house.
What is your opinion, gentlemen, and
does not M. Mouston's suggestion appear
to you full of sense?"

"Oh!" said Aramis, "suppose the master
is a Puritan?"

"So much the better, mordioux!" replied
D'Artagnan; "if he is a Puritan we will
inform him of the capture of the king,
and in honor of the news he will kill
for us his fatted hens."

"But if he should be a cavalier?" said
Porthos.

"In that case we will put on an air of
mourning and he will pluck for us his
black fowls."

"You are very happy," exclaimed Athos,
laughing, in spite of himself, at the
sally of the irresistible Gascon; "for
you see the bright side of everything."

"What would you have?" said D'Artagnan.
"I come from a land where there is not a
cloud in the sky."

"It is not like this, then," said
Porthos stretching out his hand to
assure himself whether a chill sensation
he felt on his cheek was not really
caused by a drop of rain.

"Come, come," said D'Artagnan, "more
reason why we should start on our
journey. Halloo, Grimaud!"

Grimaud appeared.

"Well, Grimaud, my friend, have you seen
anything?" asked the Gascon.

"Nothing!" replied Grimaud.

"Those idiots!" cried Porthos, "they
have not even pursued us. Oh! if we had
been in their place!"

"Yes, they are wrong," said D'Artagnan.
"I would willingly have said two words
to Mordaunt in this little desert. It is
an excellent spot for bringing down a
man in proper style."

"I think, decidedly," observed Aramis,
"gentlemen, that the son hasn't his
mother's energy."

"What, my good fellow!" replied Athos,
"wait awhile; we have scarcely left him
two hours ago -- he does not know yet in
what direction we came nor where we are.
We may say that he is not equal to his
mother when we put foot in France, if we
are not poisoned or killed before then."

"Meanwhile, let us dine," suggested
Porthos.

"I'faith, yes," said Athos, "for I am
hungry."

"Look out for the black fowls!" cried
Aramis.

And the four friends, guided by
Mousqueton, took up the way toward the
house, already almost restored to their
former gayety; for they were now, as
Athos had said, all four once more
united and of single mind.



60

Respect to Fallen Majesty.



As our fugitives approached the house,
they found the ground cut up, as if a
considerable body of horsemen had
preceded them. Before the door the
traces were yet more apparent; these
horsemen, whoever they might be, had
halted there.

"Egad!" cried D'Artagnan, "it's quite
clear that the king and his escort have
been by here."

"The devil!" said Porthos; "in that case
they have eaten everything."

"Bah!" said D'Artagnan, "they will have
left a chicken, at least." He dismounted
and knocked on the door. There was no
response.

He pushed open the door and found the
first room empty and deserted.

"Well?" cried Porthos.

"I can see nobody," said D'Artagnan.
"Aha!"

"What?"

"Blood!"

At this word the three friends leaped
from their horses and entered.
D'Artagnan had already opened the door
of the second room, and from the
expression of his face it was clear that
he there beheld some extraordinary
object.

The three friends drew near and
discovered a young man stretched on the
ground, bathed in a pool of blood. It
was evident that he had attempted to
regain his bed, but had not had
sufficient strength to do so.

Athos, who imagined that he saw him
move, was the first to go up to him.

"Well?" inquired D'Artagnan.

"Well, if he is dead," said Athos, "he
has not been so long, for he is still
warm. But no, his heart is beating. Ho,
there, my friend!"

The wounded man heaved a sigh.
D'Artagnan took some water in the hollow
of his hand and threw it upon his face.
The man opened his eyes, made an effort
to raise his head, and fell back again.
The wound was in the top of his skull
and blood was flawing copiously.

Aramis dipped a cloth into some water
and applied it to the gash. Again the
wounded man opened his eyes and looked
in astonishment at these strangers, who
appeared to pity him.

"You are among friends," said Athos, in
English; "so cheer up, and tell us, if
you have the strength to do so, what has
happened?"

"The king," muttered the wounded man,
"the king is a prisoner."

"You have seen him?" asked Aramis, in
the same language.

The man made no reply.

"Make your mind easy," resumed Athos,
"we are all faithful servants of his
majesty."

"Is what you tell me true?" asked the
wounded man.

"On our honor as gentlemen."

"Then I may tell you all. I am brother
to Parry, his majesty's lackey."

Athos and Aramis remembered that this
was the name by which De Winter had
called the man they had found in the
passage of the king's tent.

"We know him," said Athos, "he never
left the king."

"Yes, that is he. Well, he thought of
me, when he saw the king was taken, and
as they were passing before the house he
begged in the king's name that they
would stop, as the king was hungry. They
brought him into this room and placed
sentinels at the doors and windows.
Parry knew this room, as he had often
been to see me when the king was at
Newcastle. He knew that there was a
trap-door communicating with a cellar,
from which one could get into the
orchard. He made a sign, which I
understood, but the king's guards must
have noticed it and held themselves on
guard. I went out as if to fetch wood,
passed through the subterranean passage
into the cellar, and whilst Parry was
gently bolting the door, pushed up the
board and beckoned to the king to follow
me. Alas! he would not. But Parry
clasped his hands and implored him, and
at last he agreed. I went on first,
fortunately. The king was a few steps
behind me, when suddenly I saw something
rise up in front of me like a huge
shadow. I wanted to cry out to warn the
king, but that very moment I felt a blow
as if the house was falling on my head,
and fell insensible. When I came to
myself again, I was stretched in the
same place. I dragged myself as far as
the yard. The king and his escort were
no longer there. I spent perhaps an hour
in coming from the yard to this place;
then my strength gave out and I fainted
again."

"And now how are you feeling?"

"Very ill," replied the wounded man.

"Can we do anything for you?" asked
Athos.

"Help to put me on the bed; I think I
shall feel better there."

"Have you any one to depend on for
assistance?"

"My wife is at Durham and may return at
any moment. But you -- is there nothing
that you want?"

"We came here with the intention of
asking for something to eat."

"Alas, they have taken everything; there
isn't a morsel of bread in the house."

"You hear, D'Artagnan?" said Athos; "we
shall have to look elsewhere for our
dinner."

"It is all one to me now," said
D'Artagnan; "I am no longer hungry."

"Faith! neither am I," said Porthos.

They carried the man to his bed and
called Grimaud to dress the wound. In
the service of the four friends Grimaud
had had so frequent occasion to make
lint and bandages that he had become
something of a surgeon.

In the meantime the fugitives had
returned to the first room, where they
took counsel together.

"Now," said Aramis, "we know how the
matter stands. The king and his escort
have gone this way; we had better take
the opposite direction, eh?"

Athos did not reply; he reflected.

"Yes," said Porthos, "let us take the
opposite direction; if we follow the
escort we shall find everything devoured
and die of hunger. What a confounded
country this England is! This is the
first time I have gone without my dinner
for ten years, and it is generally my
best meal."

"What do you think, D'Artagnan?" asked
Athos. "Do you agree with Aramis?"

"Not at all," said D'Artagnan; "I am
precisely of the contrary opinion."

"What! you would follow the escort?"
exclaimed Porthos, in dismay.

"No, I would join the escort."

Athos's eyes shone with joy.

"Join the escort!" cried Aramis.

"Let D'Artagnan speak," said Athos; "you
know he always has wise advice to give."

"Clearly," said D'Artagnan, "we must go
where they will not look for us. Now,
they will be far from looking for us
among the Puritans; therefore, with the
Puritans we must go."

"Good, my friend, good!" said Athos. "It
is excellent advice. I was about to give
it when you anticipated me."

"That, then, is your opinion?" asked
Aramis.

"Yes. They will think we are trying to
leave England and will search for us at
the ports; meanwhile we shall reach
London with the king. Once in London we
shall be hard to find -- without
considering," continued Athos, throwing
a glance at Aramis, "the chances that
may come to us on the way."

"Yes," said Aramis, "I understand."

"I, however, do not understand," said
Porthos. "But no matter; since it is at
the same time the opinion of D'Artagnan
and of Athos, it must be the best."

"But," said Aramis, "shall we not be
suspected by Colonel Harrison?"

"Egad!" cried D'Artagnan, "he's just the
man I count upon. Colonel Harrison is
one of our friends. We have met him
twice at General Cromwell's. He knows
that we were sent from France by
Monsieur Mazarin; he will consider us as
brothers. Besides, is he not a butcher's
son? Well, then, Porthos shall show him
how to knock down an ox with a blow of
the fist, and I how to trip up a bull by
taking him by the horns. That will
insure his confidence."

Athos smiled. "You are the best
companion that I know, D'Artagnan," he
said, offering his hand to the Gascon;
"and I am very happy in having found you
again, my dear son."

This was, as we have seen, the term
which Athos applied to D'Artagnan in his
more expansive moods.

At this moment Grimaud came in. He had
stanched the wound and the man was
better.

The four friends took leave of him and
asked if they could deliver any message
for him to his brother.

"Tell him," answered the brave man, "to
let the king know that they have not
killed me outright. However
insignificant I am, I am sure that his
majesty is concerned for me and blames
himself for my death."

"Be easy," said D'Artagnan, "he will
know all before night."

The little troop recommenced their
march, and at the end of two hours
perceived a considerable body of
horsemen about half a league ahead.

"My dear friends," said D'Artagnan,
"give your swords to Monsieur Mouston,
who will return them to you at the
proper time and place, and do not forget
you are our prisoners."

It was not long before they joined the
escort. The king was riding in front,
surrounded by troopers, and when he saw
Athos and Aramis a glow of pleasure
lighted his pale cheeks.

D'Artagnan passed to the head of the
column, and leaving his friends under
the guard of Porthos, went straight to
Harrison, who recognized him as having
met him at Cromwell's and received him
as politely as a man of his breeding and
disposition could. It turned out as
D'Artagnan had foreseen. The colonel
neither had nor could have any
suspicion.

They halted for the king to dine. This
time, however, due precautions were
taken to prevent any attempt at escape.
In the large room of the hotel a small
table was placed for him and a large one
for the officers.

"Will you dine with me?" asked Harrison
of D'Artagnan.

"Gad, I should be very happy, but I have
my companion, Monsieur du Vallon, and
the two prisoners, whom I cannot leave.
Let us manage it better. Have a table
set for us in a corner and send us
whatever you like from yours."

"Good," answered Harrison.

The matter was arranged as D'Artagnan
had suggested, and when he returned he
found the king already seated at his
little table, where Parry waited on him,
Harrison and his officers sitting
together at another table, and, in a
corner, places reserved for himself and
his companions.

The table at which the Puritan officers
were seated was round, and whether by
chance or coarse intention, Harrison sat
with his back to the king.

The king saw the four gentlemen come in,
but appeared to take no notice of them.

They sat down in such a manner as to
turn their backs on nobody. The
officers, table and that of the king
were opposite to them.

"I'faith, colonel," said D'Artagnan, "we
are very grateful for your gracious
invitation; for without you we ran the
risk of going without dinner, as we have
without breakfast. My friend here,
Monsieur du Vallon, shares my gratitude,
for he was particularly hungry."

"And I am so still," said Porthos bowing
to Harrison.

"And how," said Harrison, laughing, "did
this serious calamity of going without
breakfast happen to you?"

"In a very simple manner, colonel," said
D'Artagnan. "I was in a hurry to join
you and took the road you had already
gone by. You can understand our
disappointment when, arriving at a
pretty little house on the skirts of a
wood, which at a distance had quite a
gay appearance, with its red roof and
green shutters, we found nothing but a
poor wretch bathed -- Ah! colonel, pay
my respects to the officer of yours who
struck that blow."

"Yes," said Harrison, laughing, and
looking over at one of the officers
seated at his table. "When Groslow
undertakes this kind of thing there's no
need to go over the ground a second
time."

"Ah! it was this gentleman?" said
D'Artagnan, bowing to the officer. "I am
sorry he does not speak French, that I
might tender him my compliments."

"I am ready to receive and return them,
sir," said the officer, in pretty good
French, "for I resided three years in
Paris."

"Then, sir, allow me to assure you that
your blow was so well directed that you
have nearly killed your man."

"Nearly? I thought I had quite," said
Groslow.

"No. It was a very near thing, but he is
not dead."

As he said this, D'Artagnan gave a
glance at Parry, who was standing in
front of the king, to show him that the
news was meant for him.

The king, too, who had listened in the
greatest agony, now breathed again.

"Hang it," said Groslow, "I thought I
had succeeded better. If it were not so
far from here to the house I would
return and finish him."

"And you would do well, if you are
afraid of his recovering; for you know,
if a wound in the head does not kill at
once, it is cured in a week."

And D'Artagnan threw a second glance
toward Parry, on whose face such an
expression of joy was manifested that
Charles stretched out his hand to him,
smiling.

Parry bent over his master's hand and
kissed it respectfully.

"I've a great desire to drink the king's
health," said Athos.

"Let me propose it, then," said
D'Artagnan.

"Do," said Aramis.

Porthos looked at D'Artagnan, quite
amazed at the resources with which his
companion's Gascon sharpness continually
supplied him. D'Artagnan took up his
camp tin cup, filled it with wine and
arose.

"Gentlemen," said he, "let us drink to
him who presides at the repast. Here's
to our colonel, and let him know that we
are always at his commands as far as
London and farther."

And as D'Artagnan, as he spoke, looked
at Harrison, the colonel imagined the
toast was for himself. He arose and
bowed to the four friends, whose eyes
were fixed on Charles, while Harrison
emptied his glass without the slightest
misgiving.

The king, in return, looked at the four
gentlemen and drank with a smile full of
nobility and gratitude.

"Come, gentlemen," cried Harrison,
regardless of his illustrious captive,
"let us be off."

"Where do we sleep, colonel?"

"At Thirsk," replied Harrison.

"Parry," said the king, rising too, "my
horse; I desire to go to Thirsk."

"Egad!" said D'Artagnan to Athos, "your
king has thoroughly taken me, and I am
quite at his service."

"If what you say is sincere," replied
Athos, "he will never reach London."

"How so?"

"Because before then we shall have
carried him off."

"Well, this time, Athos," said
D'Artagnan, "upon my word, you are mad."

"Have you some plan in your head then?"
asked Aramis.

"Ay!" said Porthos, "the thing would not
be impossible with a good plan."

"I have none," said Athos; "but
D'Artagnan will discover one."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and
they proceeded.



61

D'Artagnan hits on a Plan.



As night closed in they arrived at
Thirsk. The four friends appeared to be
entire strangers to one another and
indifferent to the precautions taken for
guarding the king. They withdrew to a
private house, and as they had reason
every moment to fear for their safety,
they occupied but one room and provided
an exit, which might be useful in case
of an attack. The lackeys were sent to
their several posts, except that Grimaud
lay on a truss of straw across the
doorway.

D'Artagnan was thoughtful and seemed for
the moment to have lost his usual
loquacity. Porthos, who could never see
anything that was not self-evident,
talked to him as usual. He replied in
monosyllables and Athos and Aramis
looked significantly at one another.

Next morning D'Artagnan was the first to
rise. He had been down to the stables,
already taken a look at the horses and
given the necessary orders for the day,
whilst Athos and Aramis were still in
bed and Porthos snoring.

At eight o'clock the march was resumed
in the same order as the night before,
except that D'Artagnan left his friends
and began to renew the acquaintance
which he had already struck up with
Monsieur Groslow.

Groslow, whom D'Artagnan's praises had
greatly pleased, welcomed him with a
gracious smile.

"Really, sir," D'Artagnan said to him,
"I am pleased to find one with whom to
talk in my own poor tongue. My friend,
Monsieur du Vallon, is of a very
melancholy disposition, so much so, that
one can scarcely get three words out of
him all day. As for our two prisoners,
you can imagine that they are but little
in the vein for conversation."

"They are hot royalists," said Groslow.

"The more reason they should be sulky
with us for having captured the Stuart,
for whom, I hope, you're preparing a
pretty trial."

"Why," said Groslow, "that is just what
we are taking him to London for."

"And you never by any chance lose sight
of him, I presume?"

"I should think not, indeed. You see he
has a truly royal escort."

"Ay, there's no fear in the daytime; but
at night?"

"We redouble our precautions."

"And what method of surveillance do you
employ?"

"Eight men remain constantly in his
room."

"The deuce, he is well guarded, then.
But besides these eight men, you
doubtless place some guard outside?"

"Oh, no! Just think. What would you have
two men without arms do against eight
armed men?"

"Two men -- how do you mean?"

"Yes, the king and his lackey."

"Oh! then they allow the lackey to
remain with him?"

"Yes; Stuart begged this favor and
Harrison consented. Under pretense that
he's a king it appears he cannot dress
or undress without assistance."

"Really, captain," said D'Artagnan,
determined to continue on the laudatory
tack on which he had commenced, "the
more I listen to you the more surprised
I am at the easy and elegant manner in
which you speak French. You have lived
three years in Paris? May I ask what you
were doing there?"

"My father, who is a merchant, placed me
with his correspondent, who in turn sent
his son to join our house in London."

"Were you pleased with Paris, sir?"

"Yes, but you are much in want of a
revolution like our own -- not against
your king, who is a mere child, but
against that lazar of an Italian, the
queen's favorite."

"Ah! I am quite of your opinion, sir,
and we should soon make an end of
Mazarin if we had only a dozen officers
like yourself, without prejudices,
vigilant and incorruptible."

"But," said the officer, "I thought you
were in his service and that it was he
who sent you to General Cromwell."

"That is to say I am in the king's
service, and that knowing he wanted to
send some one to England, I solicited
the appointment, so great was my desire
to know the man of genius who now
governs the three kingdoms. So that when
he proposed to us to draw our swords in
honor of old England you see how we
snapped up the proposition."

"Yes, I know that you charged by the
side of Mordaunt."

"On his right and left, sir. Ah! there's
another brave and excellent young man."

"Do you know him?" asked the officer.

"Yes, very well. Monsieur du Vallon and
myself came from France with him."

"It appears, too, you kept him waiting a
long time at Boulogne."

"What would you have? I was like you,
and had a king in keeping."

"Aha!" said Groslow; "what king?"

"Our own, to be sure, the little one --
Louis XIV."

"And how long had you to take care of
him?"

"Three nights; and, by my troth, I shall
always remember those three nights with
a certain pleasure."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that my friends, officers in the
guards and mousquetaires, came to keep
me company and we passed the night in
feasting, drinking, dicing."

"Ah true," said the Englishman, with a
sigh; "you Frenchmen are born boon
companions."

"And don't you play, too, when you are
on guard?"

"Never," said the Englishman.

"In that case you must be horribly
bored, and have my sympathy."

"The fact is, I look to my turn for
keeping guard with horror. It's tiresome
work to keep awake a whole night."

"Yes, but with a jovial partner and
dice, and guineas clinking on the cloth,
the night passes like a dream. You don't
like playing, then?"

"On the contrary, I do."

"Lansquenet, for instance?"

"Devoted to it. I used to play almost
every night in France."

"And since your return to England?"

"I have not handled a card or dice-box."

"I sincerely pity you," said D'Artagnan,
with an air of profound compassion.

"Look here," said the Englishman.

"Well?"

"To-morrow I am on guard."

"In Stuart's room?"

"Yes; come and pass the night with me."

"Impossible!"

"Impossible! why so?"

"I play with Monsieur du Vallon every
night. Sometimes we don't go to bed at
all!"

"Well, what of that?"

"Why, he would be annoyed if I did not
play with him."

"Does he play well?"

"I have seen him lose as much as two
thousand pistoles, laughing all the
while till the tears rolled down."

"Bring him with you, then."

"But how about our prisoners?"

"Let your servants guard them."

"Yes, and give them a chance of
escaping," said D'Artagnan. "Why, one of
them is a rich lord from Touraine and
the other a knight of Malta, of noble
family. We have arranged the ransom of
each of them -- 2,000 on arriving in
France. We are reluctant to leave for a
single moment men whom our lackeys know
to be millionaires. It is true we
plundered them a little when we took
them, and I will even confess that it is
their purse that Monsieur du Vallon and
I draw on in our nightly play. Still,
they may have concealed some precious
stone, some valuable diamond; so that we
are like those misers who are unable to
absent themselves from their treasures.
We have made ourselves the constant
guardians of our men, and while I sleep
Monsieur du Vallon watches."

"Ah! ah!" said Groslow.

"You see, then, why I must decline your
polite invitation, which is especially
attractive to me, because nothing is so
wearisome as to play night after night
with the same person; the chances always
balance and at the month's end nothing
is gained or lost."

"Ah!" said Groslow, sighing; "there is
something still more wearisome, and that
is not to play at all."

"I can understand that," said
D'Artagnan.

"But, come," resumed the Englishman,
"are these men of yours dangerous?"

"In what respect?"

"Are they capable of attempting
violence?"

D'Artagnan burst out laughing at the
idea.

"Jesus Dieu!" he cried; "one of them is
trembling with fever, having failed to
adapt himself to this charming country
of yours, and the other is a knight of
Malta, as timid as a young girl; and for
greater security we have taken from them
even their penknives and pocket
scissors."

"Well, then," said Groslow, "bring them
with you."

"But really ---- " said D'Artagnan.

"I have eight men on guard, you know.
Four of them can guard the king and the
other four your prisoners. I'll manage
it somehow, you will see."

"But," said D'Artagnan, "now I think of
it -- what is to prevent our beginning
to-night?"

"Nothing at all," said Groslow.

"Just so. Come to us this evening and
to-morrow we'll return your visit."

"Capital! This evening with you,
to-morrow at Stuart's, the next day with
me."

"You see, that with a little forethought
one can lead a merry life anywhere and
everywhere," said D'Artagnan.

"Yes, with Frenchmen, and Frenchmen like
you."

"And Monsieur du Vallon," added the
other. "You will see what a fellow he
is; a man who nearly killed Mazarin
between two doors. They employ him
because they are afraid of him. Ah,
there he is calling me now. You'll
excuse me, I know."

They exchanged bows and D'Artagnan
returned to his companions.

"What on earth can you have been saying
to that bulldog?" exclaimed Porthos.

"My dear fellow, don't speak like that
of Monsieur Groslow. He's one of my most
intimate friends."

"One of your friends!" cried Porthos,
"this butcher of unarmed farmers!"

"Hush! my dear Porthos. Monsieur Groslow
is perhaps rather hasty, it's true, but
at bottom I have discovered two good
qualities in him -- he is conceited and
stupid."

Porthos opened his eyes in amazement;
Athos and Aramis looked at one another
and smiled; they knew D'Artagnan, and
knew that he did nothing without a
purpose.

"But," continued D'Artagnan, "you shall
judge of him for yourself. He is coming
to play with us this evening."

"Oho!" said Porthos, his eyes glistening
at the news. "Is he rich?"

"He's the son of one of the wealthiest
merchants in London."

"And knows lansquenet?"

"Adores it."

"Basset?"

"His mania.'

"Biribi?"

"Revels in it."

"Good," said Porthos; "we shall pass an
agreeable evening."

"The more so, as it will be the prelude
to a better."

"How so?"

"We invite him to play to-night; he has
invited us in return to-morrow. But
wait. To-night we stop at Derby; and if
there is a bottle of wine in the town
let Mousqueton buy it. It will be well
to prepare a light supper, of which you,
Athos and Aramis, are not to partake --
Athos, because I told him you had a
fever; Aramis, because you are a knight
of Malta and won't mix with fellows like
us. Do you understand?"

"That's no doubt very fine," said
Porthos; "but deuce take me if I
understand at all."

"Porthos, my friend, you know I am
descended on the father's side from the
Prophets and on the mother's from the
Sybils, and that I only speak in
parables and riddles. Let those who have
ears hear and those who have eyes see; I
can tell you nothing more at present."

"Go ahead, my friend," said Athos; "I am
sure that whatever you do is well done."

"And you, Aramis, are you of that
opinion?"

"Entirely so, my dear D'Artagnan."

"Very good," said D'Artagnan; "here
indeed are true believers; it is a
pleasure to work miracles before them;
they are not like that unbelieving
Porthos, who must see and touch before
he will believe."

"The fact is," said Porthos, with an air
of finesse, "I am rather incredulous."

D'Artagnan gave him playful buffet on
the shoulder, and as they had reached
the station where they were to
breakfast, the conversation ended there.

At five in the evening they sent
Mousqueton on before as agreed upon.
Blaisois went with him.

In crossing the principal street in
Derby the four friends perceived
Blaisois standing in the doorway of a
handsome house. It was there a lodging
was prepared for them.

At the hour agreed upon Groslow came.
D'Artagnan received him as he would have
done a friend of twenty years' standing.
Porthos scanned him from head to foot
and smiled when he discovered that in
spite of the blow he had administered to
Parry's brother, he was not nearly so
strong as himself. Athos and Aramis
suppressed as well as they could the
disgust they felt in the presence of
such coarseness and brutality.

In short, Groslow seemed to be pleased
with his reception.

Athos and Aramis kept themselves to
their role. At midnight they withdrew to
their chamber, the door of which was
left open on the pretext of kindly
consideration. Furthermore, D'Artagnan
went with them, leaving Porthos at play
with Groslow.

Porthos gained fifty pistoles from
Groslow, and found him a more agreeable
companion than he had at first believed
him to be.

As to Groslow, he promised himself that
on the following evening he would
recover from D'Artagnan what he had lost
to Porthos, and on leaving reminded the
Gascon of his appointment.

The next day was spent as usual.
D'Artagnan went from Captain Groslow to
Colonel Harrison and from Colonel
Harrison to his friends. To any one not
acquainted with him he seemed to be in
his normal condition; but to his
friends -- to Athos and Aramis -- was
apparent a certain feverishness in his
gayety.

"What is he contriving?" asked Aramis.

"Wait," said Athos.

Porthos said nothing, but he handled in
his pocket the fifty pistoles he had
gained from Groslow with a degree of
satisfaction which betrayed itself in
his whole bearing.

Arrived at Ryston, D'Artagnan assembled
his friends. His face had lost the
expression of careless gayety it had
worn like a mask the whole day. Athos
pinched Aramis's hand.

"The moment is at hand," he said.

"Yes," returned D'Artagnan, who had
overheard him, "to-night, gentlemen, we
rescue the king."

"D'Artagnan," said Athos, "this is no
joke, I trust? It would quite cut me
up."

"You are a very odd man, Athos," he
replied, "to doubt me thus. Where and
when have you seen me trifle with a
friend's heart and a king's life? I have
told you, and I repeat it, that to-night
we rescue Charles I. You left it to me
to discover the means and I have done
so."

Porthos looked at D'Artagnan with an
expression of profound admiration.
Aramis smiled as one who hopes. Athos
was pale, and trembled in every limb.

"Speak," said Athos.

"We are invited," replied D'Artagnan,
"to pass the night with M. Groslow. But
do you know where?"

"No."

"In the king's room."

"The king's room?" cried Athos.

"Yes, gentlemen, in the king's room.
Groslow is on guard there this evening,
and to pass the time away he has invited
us to keep him company."

"All four of us?" asked Athos.

"Pardieu! certainly, all four; we
couldn't leave our prisoners, could we?"

"Ah! ah!" said Aramis.

"Tell us about it," said Athos,
palpitating.

"We are going, then, we two with our
swords, you with daggers. We four have
got to master these eight fools and
their stupid captain. Monsieur Porthos,
what do you say to that?"

"I say it is easy enough," answered
Porthos.

"We dress the king in Groslow's clothes.
Mousqueton, Grimaud and Blaisois have
our horses saddled at the end of the
first street. We mount them and before
daylight are twenty leagues distant."

Athos placed his two hands on
D'Artagnan's shoulders, and gazed at him
with his calm, sad smile.

"I declare, my friend," said he, "that
there is not a creature under the sky
who equals you in prowess and in
courage. Whilst we thought you
indifferent to our sorrows, which you
couldn't share without crime, you alone
among us have discovered what we were
searching for in vain. I repeat it,
D'Artagnan, you are the best one among
us; I bless and love you, my dear son."

"And to think that I couldn't find that
out," said Porthos, scratching his head;
"it is so simple."

"But," said Aramis, "if I understand
rightly we are to kill them all, eh?"

Athos shuddered and turned pale.

"Mordioux!" answered D'Artagnan, "I
believe we must. I confess I can
discover no other safe and satisfactory
way."

"Let us see," said Aramis, "how are we
to act?"

"I have arranged two plans. Firstly, at
a given signal, which shall be the words
`At last,' you each plunge a dagger into
the heart of the soldier nearest to you.
We, on our side, do the same. That will
be four killed. We shall then be
matched, four against the remaining
five. If these five men give themselves
up we gag them; if they resist, we kill
them. If by chance our Amphitryon
changes his mind and receives only
Porthos and myself, why, then, we must
resort to heroic measures and each give
two strokes instead of one. It will take
a little longer time and may make a
greater disturbance, but you will be
outside with swords and will rush in at
the proper time."

"But if you yourselves should be
struck?" said Athos.

"Impossible!" said D'Artagnan; "those
beer drinkers are too clumsy and
awkward. Besides, you will strike at the
throat, Porthos; it kills as quickly and
prevents all outcry."

"Very good," said Porthos; "it will be a
nice little throat cutting."

"Horrible, horrible," exclaimed Athos.

"Nonsense," said D'Artagnan; "you would
do as much, Mr. Humanity, in a battle.
But if you think the king's life is not
worth what it must cost there's an end
of the matter and I send to Groslow to
say I am ill."

"No, you are right," said Athos.

At this moment a soldier entered to
inform them that Groslow was waiting for
them.

"Where?" asked D'Artagnan.

"In the room of the English
Nebuchadnezzar," replied the staunch
Puritan.

"Good," replied Athos, whose blood
mounted to his face at the insult
offered to royalty; "tell the captain we
are coming."

The Puritan then went out. The lackeys
had been ordered to saddle eight horses
and to wait, keeping together and
without dismounting, at the corner of a
street about twenty steps from the house
where the king was lodged.

It was nine o'clock in the evening; the
sentinels had been relieved at eight and
Captain Groslow had been on guard for an
hour. D'Artagnan and Porthos, armed with
their swords, and Athos and Aramis, each
carrying a concealed poniard, approached
the house which for the time being was
Charles Stuart's prison. The two latter
followed their captors in the humble
guise of captives, without arms.

"Od's bodikins," said Groslow, as the
four friends entered, "I had almost
given you up."

D'Artagnan went up to him and whispered
in his ear:

"The fact is, we, that is, Monsieur du
Vallon and I, hesitated a little."

"And why?"

D'Artagnan looked significantly toward
Athos and Aramis.

"Aha," said Groslow; "on account of
political opinions? No matter. On the
contrary," he added, laughing, "if they
want to see their Stuart they shall see
him.

"Are we to pass the night in the king's
room?" asked D'Artagnan.

"No, but in the one next to it, and as
the door will remain open it comes to
the same thing. Have you provided
yourself with money? I assure you I
intend to play the devil's game
to-night."

D'Artagnan rattled the gold in his
pockets.

"Very good," said Groslow, and opened
the door of the room. "I will show you
the way," and he went in first.

D'Artagnan turned to look at his
friends. Porthos was perfectly
indifferent; Athos, pale, but resolute;
Aramis was wiping a slight moisture from
his brow.

The eight guards were at their posts.
Four in the king's room, two at the door
between the rooms and two at that by
which the friends had entered. Athos
smiled when he saw their bare swords; he
felt it was no longer to be a butchery,
but a fight, and he resumed his usual
good humor.

Charles was perceived through the door,
lying dressed upon his bed, at the head
of which Parry was seated, reading in a
low voice a chapter from the Bible.

A candle of coarse tallow on a black
table lighted up the handsome and
resigned face of the king and that of
his faithful retainer, far less calm.

From time to time Parry stopped,
thinking the king, whose eyes were
closed, was really asleep, but Charles
would open his eyes and say with a
smile:

"Go on, my good Parry, I am listening."

Groslow advanced to the door of the
king's room, replaced on his head the
hat he had taken off to receive his
guests, looked for a moment
contemptuously at this simple, yet
touching scene, then turning to
D'Artagnan, assumed an air of triumph at
what he had achieved.

"Capital!" cried the Gascon, "you would
make a distinguished general."

"And do you think," asked Groslow, "that
Stuart will ever escape while I am on
guard?"

"No, to be sure," replied D'Artagnan;
"unless, forsooth, the sky rains friends
upon him."

Groslow's face brightened.

It is impossible to say whether Charles,
who kept his eyes constantly closed, had
noticed the insolence of the Puritan
captain, but the moment he heard the
clear tone of D'Artagnan's voice his
eyelids rose, in spite of himself.

Parry, too, started and stopped reading.

"What are you thinking about?" said the
king; "go on, my good Parry, unless you
are tired."

Parry resumed his reading.

On a table in the next room were lighted
candles, cards, two dice-boxes, and
dice.

"Gentlemen," said Groslow, "I beg you
will take your places. I will sit facing
Stuart, whom I like so much to see,
especially where he now is, and you,
Monsieur d'Artagnan, opposite to me."

Athos turned red with rage. D'Artagnan
frowned at him.

"That's it," said D'Artagnan; "you,
Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, to the
right of Monsieur Groslow. You,
Chevalier d'Herblay, to his left. Du
Vallon next me. You'll bet for me and
those gentlemen for Monsieur Groslow."

By this arrangement D'Artagnan could
nudge Porthos with his knee and make
signs with his eyes to Athos and Aramis.

At the names Comte de la Fere and
Chevalier d'Herblay, Charles opened his
eyes, and raising his noble head, in
spite of himself, threw a glance at all
the actors in the scene.

At that moment Parry turned over several
leaves of his Bible and read with a loud
voice this verse in Jeremiah:

"God said, `Hear ye the words of the
prophets my servants, whom I have sent
unto you."

The four friends exchanged glances. The
words that Parry had read assured them
that their presence was understood by
the king and was assigned to its real
motive. D'Artagnan's eyes sparkled with
joy.

"You asked me just now if I was in
funds," said D'Artagnan, placing some
twenty pistoles upon the table. "Well,
in my turn I advise you to keep a sharp
lookout on your treasure, my dear
Monsieur Groslow, for I can tell you we
shall not leave this without robbing you
of it."

"Not without my defending it," said
Groslow.

"So much the better," said D'Artagnan.
"Fight, my dear captain, fight. You know
or you don't know, that that is what we
ask of you."

"Oh! yes," said Groslow, bursting with
his usual coarse laugh, "I know you
Frenchmen want nothing but cuts and
bruises."

Charles had heard and understood it all.
A slight color mounted to his cheeks.
The soldiers then saw him stretch his
limbs, little by little, and under the
pretense of much heat throw off the
Scotch plaid which covered him.

Athos and Aramis started with delight to
find that the king was lying with his
clothes on.

The game began. The luck had turned, and
Groslow, having won some hundred
pistoles, was in the merriest possible
humor.

Porthos, who had lost the fifty pistoles
he had won the night before and thirty
more besides, was very cross and
questioned D'Artagnan with a nudge of
the knee as to whether it would not soon
be time to change the game. Athos and
Aramis looked at him inquiringly. But
D'Artagnan remained impassible.

It struck ten. They heard the guard
going its rounds.

"How many rounds do they make a night?"
asked D'Artagnan, drawing more pistoles
from his pocket.

"Five," answered Groslow, "one every two
hours."

D'Artagnan glanced at Athos and Aramis
and for the first time replied to
Porthos's nudge of the knee by a nudge
responsive. Meanwhile, the soldiers
whose duty it was to remain in the
king's room, attracted by that love of
play so powerful in all men, had stolen
little by little toward the table, and
standing on tiptoe, lounged, watching
the game, over the shoulders of
D'Artagnan and Porthos. Those on the
other side had followed their example,
thus favoring the views of the four
friends, who preferred having them close
at hand to chasing them about the
chamber. The two sentinels at the door
still had their swords unsheathed, but
they were leaning on them while they
watched the game.

Athos seemed to grow calm as the
critical moment approached. With his
white, aristocratic hands he played with
the louis, bending and straightening
them again, as if they were made of
pewter. Aramis, less self-controlled,
fumbled continually with his hidden
poniard. Porthos, impatient at his
continued losses, kept up a vigorous
play with his knee.

D'Artagnan turned, mechanically looking
behind him, and between the figures of
two soldiers he could see Parry standing
up and Charles leaning on his elbow with
his hands clasped and apparently
offering a fervent prayer to God.

D'Artagnan saw that the moment was come.
He darted a preparatory glance at Athos
and Aramis, who slyly pushed their
chairs a little back so as to leave
themselves more space for action. He
gave Porthos a second nudge of the knee
and Porthos got up as if to stretch his
legs and took care at the same time to
ascertain that his sword could be drawn
smoothly from the scabbard.

"Hang it!" cried D'Artagnan, "another
twenty pistoles lost. Really, Captain
Groslow, you are too much in fortune's
way. This can't last," and he drew
another twenty from his pocket. "One
more turn, captain; twenty pistoles on
one throw -- only one, the last."

"Done for twenty," replied Groslow.

And he turned up two cards as usual, a
king for D'Artagnan and an ace for
himself.

"A king," said D'Artagnan; "it's a good
omen, Master Groslow -- look out for the
king."

And in spite of his extraordinary
self-control there was a strange
vibration in the Gascon's voice which
made his partner start.

Groslow began turning the cards one
after another. If he turned up an ace
first he won; if a king he lost.

He turned up a king.

"At last!" cried D'Artagnan.

At this word Athos and Aramis jumped up.
Porthos drew back a step. Daggers and
swords were just about to shine, when
suddenly the door was thrown open and
Harrison appeared in the doorway,
accompanied by a man enveloped in a
large cloak. Behind this man could be
seen the glistening muskets of half a
dozen soldiers.

Groslow jumped up, ashamed at being
surprised in the midst of wine, cards,
and dice. But Harrison paid not the
least attention to him, and entering the
king's room, followed by his companion:

"Charles Stuart," said he, "an order has
come to conduct you to London without
stopping day or night. Prepare yourself,
then, to start at once."

"And by whom is this order given?" asked
the king.

"By General Oliver Cromwell. And here is
Mr. Mordaunt, who has brought it and is
charged with its execution."

"Mordaunt!" muttered the four friends,
exchanging glances.

D'Artagnan swept up the money that he
and Porthos had lost and buried it in
his huge pocket. Athos and Aramis placed
themselves behind him. At this movement
Mordaunt turned around, recognized them,
and uttered an exclamation of savage
delight.

"I'm afraid we are prisoners," whispered
D'Artagnan to his friend.

"Not yet," replied Porthos.

"Colonel, colonel," cried Mordaunt, "you
are betrayed. These four Frenchmen have
escaped from Newcastle, and no doubt
want to carry off the king. Arrest
them."

"Ah! my young man," said D'Artagnan,
drawing his sword, "that is an order
sooner given than executed. Fly,
friends, fly!" he added, whirling his
sword around him.

The next moment he darted to the door
and knocked down two of the soldiers who
guarded it, before they had time to cock
their muskets. Athos and Aramis followed
him. Porthos brought up the rear, and
before soldiers, officers, or colonel
had time to recover their surprise all
four were in the street.

"Fire!" cried Mordaunt; "fire upon
them!"

Three or four shots were fired, but with
no other result than to show the four
fugitives turning the corner of the
street safe and sound.

The horses were at the place fixed upon,
and they leaped lightly into their
saddles.

"Forward!" cried D'Artagnan, "and spur
for your dear lives!"

They galloped away and took the road
they had come by in the morning, namely,
in the direction toward Scotland. A few
hundred yards beyond the town D'Artagnan
drew rein.

"Halt!" he cried, "this time we shall be
pursued. We must let them leave the
village and ride after us on the
northern road, and when they have passed
we will take the opposite direction."

There was a stream close by and a bridge
across it.

D'Artagnan led his horse under the arch
of the bridge. The others followed. Ten
minutes later they heard the rapid
gallop of a troop of horsemen. A few
minutes more and the troop passed over
their heads.



62

London.



As soon as the noise of the hoofs was
lost in the distance D'Artagnan
remounted the bank of the stream and
scoured the plain, followed by his three
friends, directing their course, as well
as they could guess, toward London.

"This time," said D'Artagnan, when they
were sufficiently distant to proceed at
a trot, "I think all is lost and we have
nothing better to do than to reach
France. What do you say, Athos, to that
proposition? Isn't it reasonable?"

"Yes, dear friend," Athos replied, "but
you said a word the other day that was
more than reasonable -- it was noble and
generous. You said, `Let us die here!' I
recall to you that word."

"Oh," said Porthos, "death is nothing:
it isn't death that can disquiet us,
since we don't know what it is. What
troubles me is the idea of defeat. As
things are turning out, I foresee that
we must give battle to London, to the
provinces, to all England, and certainly
in the end we can't fail to be beaten."

"We ought to witness this great tragedy
even to its last scene," said Athos.
"Whatever happens, let us not leave
England before the crisis. Don't you
agree with me, Aramis?"

"Entirely, my dear count. Then, too, I
confess I should not be sorry to come
across Mordaunt again. It appears to me
that we have an account to settle with
him, and that it is not our custom to
leave a place without paying our debts,
of this kind, at least."

"Ah! that's another thing," said
D'Artagnan, "and I should not mind
waiting in London a whole year for a
chance of meeting this Mordaunt in
question. Only let us lodge with some
one on whom we can count; for I imagine,
just now, that Noll Cromwell would not
be inclined to trifle with us. Athos, do
you know any inn in the whole town where
one can find white sheets, roast beef
reasonably cooked, and wine which is not
made of hops and gin?"

"I think I know what you want," replied
Athos. "De Winter took us to the house
of a Spaniard, who, he said, had become
naturalized as an Englishman by the
guineas of his new compatriots. What do
you say to it, Aramis?"

"Why, the idea of taking quarters with
Senor Perez seems to me very reasonable,
and for my part I agree to it. We will
invoke the remembrance of that poor De
Winter, for whom he seemed to have a
great regard; we will tell him that we
have come as amateurs to see what is
going on; we will spend with him a
guinea each per day; and I think that by
taking all these precautions we can be
quite undisturbed."

"You forget, Aramis, one precaution of
considerable importance."

"What is that?"

"The precaution of changing our
clothes."

"Changing our clothes!" exclaimed
Porthos. "I don't see why; we are very
comfortable in those we wear."

"To prevent recognition," said
D'Artagnan. "Our clothes have a cut
which would proclaim the Frenchman at
first sight. Now, I don't set sufficient
store on the cut of my jerkin to risk
being hung at Tyburn or sent for change
of scene to the Indies. I shall buy a
chestnut-colored suit. I've remarked
that your Puritans revel in that color."

"But can you find your man?" said Aramis
to Athos.

"Oh! to be sure, yes. He lives at the
Bedford Tavern, Greenhall Street.
Besides, I can find my way about the
city with my eyes shut."

"I wish we were already there," said
D'Artagnan; "and my advice is that we
reach London before daybreak, even if we
kill our horses."

"Come on, then," said Athos, "for unless
I am mistaken in my calculations we have
only eight or ten leagues to go."

The friends urged on their horses and
arrived, in fact, at about five o'clock
in the morning. They were stopped and
questioned at the gate by which they
sought to enter the city, but Athos
replied, in excellent English, that they
had been sent forward by Colonel
Harrison to announce to his colleague,
Monsieur Bridge, the approach of the
king. That reply led to several
questions about the king's capture, and
Athos gave details so precise and
positive that if the gatekeepers had any
suspicions they vanished completely. The
way was therefore opened to the four
friends with all sorts of Puritan
congratulations.

Athos was right. He went direct to the
Bedford Tavern, and the host, who
recognized him, was delighted to see him
again with such a numerous and promising
company.

Though it was scarcely daylight our four
travelers found the town in a great
bustle, owing to the reported approach
of Harrison and the king.

The plan of changing their clothes was
unanimously adopted. The landlord sent
out for every description of garment, as
if he wanted to fit up his wardrobe.
Athos chose a black coat, which gave him
the appearance of a respectable citizen.
Aramis, not wishing to part with his
sword, selected a dark-blue cloak of a
military cut. Porthos was seduced by a
wine-colored doublet and sea-green
breeches. D'Artagnan, who had fixed on
his color beforehand, had only to select
the shade, and looked in his chestnut
suit exactly like a retired sugar
dealer.

"Now," said D'Artagnan, "for the actual
man. We must cut off our hair, that the
populace may not insult us. As we no
longer wear the sword of the gentleman
we may as well have the head of the
Puritan. This, as you know, is the
important point of distinction between
the Covenanter and the Cavalier."

After some discussion this was agreed to
and Mousqueton played the role of
barber.

"We look hideous," said Athos.

"And smack of the Puritan to a frightful
extent," said Aramis.

"My head feels actually cold," said
Porthos.

"As for me, I feel anxious to preach a
sermon," said D'Artagnan.

"Now," said Athos, "that we cannot even
recognize one another and have therefore
no fear of others recognizing us, let us
go and see the king's entrance."

They had not been long in the crowd
before loud cries announced the king's
arrival. A carriage had been sent to
meet him, and the gigantic Porthos, who
stood a head above the entire rabble,
soon announced that he saw the royal
equipage approaching. D'Artagnan raised
himself on tiptoe, and as the carriage
passed, saw Harrison at one window and
Mordaunt at the other.

The next day, Athos, leaning out of his
window, which looked upon the most
populous part of the city, heard the Act
of Parliament, which summoned the
ex-king, Charles I., to the bar,
publicly cried.

"Parliament indeed!" cried Athos.
"Parliament can never have passed such
an act as that."

At this moment the landlord came in.

"Did parliament pass this act?" Athos
asked of him in English.

"Yes, my lord, the pure parliament."

"What do you mean by `the pure
parliament'? Are there, then, two
parliaments?"

"My friend," D'Artagnan interrupted, "as
I don't understand English and we all
understand Spanish, have the kindness to
speak to us in that language, which,
since it is your own, you must find
pleasure in using when you have the
chance."

"Ah! excellent!" said Aramis.

As to Porthos, all his attention was
concentrated on the allurements of the
breakfast table.

"You were asking, then?" said the host
in Spanish.

"I asked," said Athos, in the same
language, "if there are two parliaments,
a pure and an impure?"

"Why, how extraordinary!" said Porthos,
slowly raising his head and looking at
his friends with an air of astonishment,
"I understand English, then! I
understand what you say!"

"That is because we are talking Spanish,
my dear friend," said Athos.

"Oh, the devil!" said Porthos, "I am
sorry for that; it would have been one
language more."

"When I speak of the pure parliament,"
resumed the host, "I mean the one which
Colonel Bridge has weeded."

"Ah! really," said D'Artagnan, "these
people are very ingenious. When I go
back to France I must suggest some such
convenient course to Cardinal Mazarin
and the coadjutor. One of them will weed
the parliament in the name of the court,
and the other in the name of the people;
and then there won't be any parliament
at all."

"And who is this Colonel Bridge?" asked
Aramis, "and how does he go to work to
weed the parliament?"

"Colonel Bridge," replied the Spaniard,
"is a retired wagoner, a man of much
sense, who made one valuable observation
whilst driving his team, namely, that
where there happened to be a stone on
the road, it was much easier to remove
the stone than try and make the wheel
pass over it. Now, of two hundred and
fifty-one members who composed the
parliament, there were one hundred and
ninety-one who were in the way and might
have upset his political wagon. He took
them up, just as he formerly used to
take up the stones from the road, and
threw them out of the house."

"Neat," remarked D'Artagnan. "Very!"

"And all these one hundred and
ninety-one were Royalists?" asked Athos.

"Without doubt, senor; and you
understand that they would have saved
the king."

"To be sure," said Porthos, with
majestic common sense; "they were in the
majority."

"And you think," said Aramis, "he will
consent to appear before such a
tribunal?"

"He will be forced to do so," smiled the
Spaniard.

"Now, Athos!" said D'Artagnan, "do you
begin to believe that it's a ruined
cause, and that what with your
Harrisons, Joyces, Bridges and
Cromwells, we shall never get the upper
hand?"

"The king will be delivered at the
tribunal," said Athos; "the very silence
of his supporters indicates that they
are at work."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.

"But," said Aramis, "if they dare to
condemn their king, it can only be to
exile or imprisonment."

D'Artagnan whistled a little air of
incredulity.

"We shall see," said Athos, "for we
shall go to the sittings, I presume."

"You will not have long to wait," said
the landlord; "they begin to-morrow."

"So, then, they drew up the indictments
before the king was taken?"

"Of course," said D'Artagnan; "they
began the day he was sold."

"And you know," said Aramis, "that it
was our friend Mordaunt who made, if not
the bargain, at least the overtures."

"And you know," added D'Artagnan, "that
whenever I catch him I will kill him,
this Mordaunt."

"And I, too," exclaimed Porthos.

"And I, too," added Aramis.

"Touching unanimity!" cried D'Artagnan,
"which well becomes good citizens like
us. Let us take a turn around the town
and imbibe a little fog."

"Yes," said Porthos, "'twill be at least
a little change from beer."



63

The Trial.



The next morning King Charles I. was
haled by a strong guard before the high
court which was to judge him. All London
was crowding to the doors of the house.
The throng was terrific, and it was not
till after much pushing and some
fighting that our friends reached their
destination. When they did so they found
the three lower rows of benches already
occupied; but being anxious not to be
too conspicuous, all, with the exception
of Porthos, who had a fancy to display
his red doublet, were quite satisfied
with their places, the more so as chance
had brought them to the centre of their
row, so that they were exactly opposite
the arm-chair prepared for the royal
prisoner.

Toward eleven o'clock the king entered
the hall, surrounded by guards, but
wearing his head covered, and with a
calm expression turned to every side
with a look of complete assurance, as if
he were there to preside at an assembly
of submissive subjects, rather than to
meet the accusations of a rebel court.

The judges, proud of having a monarch to
humiliate, evidently prepared to enjoy
the right they had arrogated to
themselves, and sent an officer to
inform the king that it was customary
for the accused to uncover his head.

Charles, without replying a single word,
turned his head in another direction and
pulled his felt hat over it. Then when
the officer was gone he sat down in the
arm-chair opposite the president and
struck his boots with a little cane
which he carried in his hand. Parry, who
accompanied him, stood behind him.

D'Artagnan was looking at Athos, whose
face betrayed all those emotions which
the king, possessing more self-control,
had banished from his own. This
agitation in one so cold and calm as
Athos, frightened him.

"I hope," he whispered to him, "that you
will follow his majesty's example and
not get killed for your folly in this
den."

"Set your mind at rest," replied Athos.

"Aha!" continued D'Artagnan, "it is
clear that they are afraid of something
or other; for look, the sentinels are
being reinforced. They had only halberds
before, now they have muskets. The
halberds were for the audience in the
rear; the muskets are for us."

"Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty-five men,"
said Porthos, counting the
reinforcements.

"Ah!" said Aramis, "but you forget the
officer."

D'Artagnan grew pale with rage. He
recognized Mordaunt, who with bare sword
was marshalling the musketeers behind
the king and opposite the benches.

"Do you think they have recognized us?"
said D'Artagnan. "In that case I should
beat a retreat. I don't care to be shot
in a box."

"No," said Aramis, "he has not seen us.
He sees no one but the king. Mon Dieu!
how he stares at him, the insolent dog!
Does he hate his majesty as much as he
does us?"

"Pardi," answered Athos "we only carried
off his mother; the king has spoiled him
of his name and property."

"True," said Aramis; "but silence! the
president is speaking to the king."

"Stuart," Bradshaw was saying, "listen
to the roll call of your judges and
address to the court any observations
you may have to make."

The king turned his head away, as if
these words had not been intended for
him. Bradshaw waited, and as there was
no reply there was a moment of silence.

Out of the hundred and sixty-three
members designated there were only
seventy-three present, for the rest,
fearful of taking part in such an act,
had remained away.

When the name of Colonel Fairfax was
called, one of those brief but solemn
silences ensued, which announced the
absence of the members who had no wish
to take a personal part in the trial.

"Colonel Fairfax," repeated Bradshaw.

"Fairfax," answered a laughing voice,
the silvery tone of which betrayed it as
that of a woman, "is not such a fool as
to be here."

A loud laugh followed these words,
pronounced with that boldness which
women draw from their own weakness -- a
weakness which removes them beyond the
power of vengeance.

"It is a woman's voice," cried Aramis;
"faith, I would give a good deal if she
is young and pretty." And he mounted on
the bench to try and get a sight of her.

"By my soul," said Aramis, "she is
charming. Look D'Artagnan; everybody is
looking at her; and in spite of
Bradshaw's gaze she has not turned
pale."

"It is Lady Fairfax herself," said
D'Artagnan. "Don't you remember,
Porthos, we saw her at General
Cromwell's?"

The roll call continued.

"These rascals will adjourn when they
find that they are not in sufficient
force," said the Comte de la Fere.

"You don't know them. Athos, look at
Mordaunt's smile. Is that the look of a
man whose victim is likely to escape
him? Ah, cursed basilisk, it will be a
happy day for me when I can cross
something more than a look with you."

"The king is really very handsome," said
Porthos; "and look, too, though he is a
prisoner, how carefully he is dressed.
The feather in his hat is worth at least
five-and-twenty pistoles. Look at it,
Aramis."

The roll call finished, the president
ordered them to read the act of
accusation. Athos turned pale. A second
time he was disappointed in his
expectation. Notwithstanding the judges
were so few the trial was to continue;
the king then, was condemned in advance.

"I told you so, Athos," said D'Artagnan,
shrugging his shoulders. "Now take your
courage in both hands and hear what this
gentleman in black is going to say about
his sovereign, with full license and
privilege."

Never till then had a more brutal
accusation or meaner insults tarnished
kingly majesty.

Charles listened with marked attention,
passing over the insults, noting the
grievances, and, when hatred overflowed
all bounds and the accuser turned
executioner beforehand, replying with a
smile of lofty scorn.

"The fact is," said D'Artagnan, "if men
are punished for imprudence and
triviality, this poor king deserves
punishment. But it seems to me that that
which he is just now undergoing is hard
enough."

"In any case," Aramis replied, "the
punishment should fall not on the king,
but on his ministers; for the first
article of the constitution is, `The
king can do no wrong.'"

"As for me," thought Porthos, giving
Mordaunt his whole attention, "were it
not for breaking in on the majesty of
the situation I would leap down from the
bench, reach Mordaunt in three bounds
and strangle him; I would then take him
by the feet and knock the life out of
these wretched musketeers who parody the
musketeers of France. Meantime,
D'Artagnan, who is full of invention,
would find some way to save the king. I
must speak to him about it."

As to Athos, his face aflame, his fists
clinched, his lips bitten till they
bled, he sat there foaming with rage at
that endless parliamentary insult and
that long enduring royal patience; the
inflexible arm and steadfast heart had
given place to a trembling hand and a
body shaken by excitement.

At this moment the accuser concluded
with these words: "The present
accusation is preferred by us in the
name of the English people."

At these words there was a murmur along
the benches, and a second voice, not
that of a woman, but a man's, stout and
furious, thundered behind D'Artagnan.

"You lie!" it cried. "Nine-tenths of the
English people are horrified at what you
say."

This voice was that of Athos, who,
standing up with outstretched hand and
quite out of his mind, thus assailed the
public accuser.

King, judges, spectators, all turned
their eyes to the bench where the four
friends were seated. Mordaunt did the
same and recognized the gentleman,
around whom the three other Frenchmen
were standing, pale and menacing. His
eyes glittered with delight. He had
discovered those to whose death he had
devoted his life. A movement of fury
called to his side some twenty of his
musketeers, and pointing to the bench
where his enemies were: "Fire on that
bench!" he cried.

But with the rapidity of thought
D'Artagnan seized Athos by the waist,
and followed by Porthos with Aramis,
leaped down from the benches, rushed
into the passages, and flying down the
staircase were lost in the crowd
without, while the muskets within were
pointed on some three thousand
spectators, whose piteous cries and
noisy alarm stopped the impulse already
given to bloodshed.

Charles also had recognized the four
Frenchmen. He put one hand on his heart
to still its beating and the other over
his eyes, that he might not witness the
slaying of his faithful friends.

Mordaunt, pale and trembling with anger,
rushed from the hall sword in hand,
followed by six pikemen, pushing,
inquiring and panting in the crowd; and
then, having found nothing, returned.

The tumult was indescribable. More than
half an hour passed before any one could
make himself heard. The judges were
looking for a new outbreak from the
benches. The spectators saw the muskets
leveled at them, and divided between
fear and curiosity, remained noisy and
excited.

Quiet was at length restored.

"What have you to say in your defense?"
asked Bradshaw of the king.

Then rising, with his head still
covered, in the tone of a judge rather
than a prisoner, Charles began.

"Before questioning me," he said, "reply
to my question. I was free at Newcastle
and had there concluded a treaty with
both houses. Instead of performing your
part of this contract, as I performed
mine, you bought me from the Scotch,
cheaply, I know, and that does honor to
the economic talent of your government.
But because you have paid the price of a
slave, do you imagine that I have ceased
to be your king? No. To answer you would
be to forget it. I shall only reply to
you when you have satisfied me of your
right to question me. To answer you
would be to acknowledge you as my
judges, and I only acknowledge you as my
executioners." And in the middle of a
deathlike silence, Charles, calm, lofty,
and with his head still covered, sat
down again in his arm-chair.

"Why are not my Frenchmen here?" he
murmured proudly and turning his eyes to
the benches where they had appeared for
a moment; "they would have seen that
their friend was worthy of their defense
while alive, and of their tears when
dead."

"Well," said the president, seeing that
Charles was determined to remain silent,
"so be it. We will judge you in spite of
your silence. You are accused of
treason, of abuse of power, and murder.
The evidence will support it. Go, and
another sitting will accomplish what you
have postponed in this."

Charles rose and turned toward Parry,
whom he saw pale and with his temples
dewed with moisture.

"Well, my dear Parry," said he, "what is
the matter, and what can affect you in
this manner?"

"Oh, my king," said Parry, with tears in
his eyes and in a tone of supplication,
"do not look to the left as we leave the
hall."

"And why, Parry?"

"Do not look, I implore you, my king."

"But what is the matter? Speak," said
Charles, attempting to look across the
hedge of guards which surrounded him.

"It is -- but you will not look, will
you? -- it is because they have had the
axe, with which criminals are executed,
brought and placed there on the table.
The sight is hideous."

"Fools," said Charles, "do they take me
for a coward, like themselves? You have
done well to warn me. Thank you, Parry."

When the moment arrived the king
followed his guards out of the hall. As
he passed the table on which the axe was
laid, he stopped, and turning with a
smile, said:

"Ah! the axe, an ingenious device, and
well worthy of those who know not what a
gentleman is; you frighten me not,
executioner's axe," added he, touching
it with the cane which he held in his
hand, "and I strike you now, waiting
patiently and Christianly for you to
return the blow."

And shrugging his shoulders with
unaffected contempt he passed on. When
he reached the door a stream of people,
who had been disappointed in not being
able to get into the house and to make
amends had collected to see him come
out, stood on each side, as he passed,
many among them glaring on him with
threatening looks.

"How many people," thought he, "and not
one true friend."

And as he uttered these words of doubt
and depression within his mind, a voice
beside him said:

"Respect to fallen majesty."

The king turned quickly around, with
tears in his eyes and heart. It was an
old soldier of the guards who could not
see his king pass captive before him
without rendering him this final homage.
But the next moment the unfortunate man
was nearly killed with heavy blows of
sword-hilts, and among those who set
upon him the king recognized Captain
Groslow.

"Alas!" said Charles, "that is a severe
chastisement for a very trifling fault."

He continued his walk, but he had
scarcely gone a hundred paces, when a
furious fellow, leaning between two
soldiers, spat in the king's face, as
once an infamous and accursed Jew spit
in the face of Jesus of Nazareth. Loud
roars of laughter and sullen murmurs
arose together. The crowd opened and
closed again, undulating like a stormy
sea, and the king imagined that he saw
shining in the midst of this living wave
the bright eyes of Athos.

Charles wiped his face and said with a
sad smile: "Poor wretch, for half a
crown he would do as much to his own
father."

The king was not mistaken. Athos and his
friends, again mingling with the throng,
were taking a last look at the martyr
king.

When the soldier saluted Charles,
Athos's heart bounded for joy; and that
unfortunate, on coming to himself, found
ten guineas that the French gentleman
had slipped into his pocket. But when
the cowardly insulter spat in the face
of the captive monarch Athos grasped his
dagger. But D'Artagnan stopped his hand
and in a hoarse voice cried, "Wait!"

Athos stopped. D'Artagnan, leaning on
Athos, made a sign to Porthos and Aramis
to keep near them and then placed
himself behind the man with the bare
arms, who was still laughing at his own
vile pleasantry and receiving the
congratulations of several others.

The man took his way toward the city.
The four friends followed him. The man,
who had the appearance of being a
butcher, descended a little steep and
isolated street, looking on to the
river, with two of his friends. Arrived
at the bank of the river the three men
perceived that they were followed,
turned around, and looking insolently at
the Frenchmen, passed some jests from
one to another.

"I don't know English, Athos," said
D'Artagnan; "but you know it and will
interpret for me."

Then quickening their steps they passed
the three men, but turned back
immediately, and D'Artagnan walked
straight up to the butcher and touching
him on the chest with the tip of his
finger, said to Athos:

"Say this to him in English: `You are a
coward. You have insulted a defenseless
man. You have defouled the face of your
king. You must die.'"

Athos, pale as a ghost, repeated these
words to the man, who, seeing the
bodeful preparations that were making,
put himself in an attitude of defense.
Aramis, at this movement, drew his
sword.

"No," cried D'Artagnan, "no steel. Steel
is for gentlemen."

And seizing the butcher by the throat:

"Porthos," said he, "kill this fellow
for me with a single blow."

Porthos raised his terrible fist, which
whistled through the air like a sling,
and the portentous mass fell with a
smothered crash on the insulter's skull
and crushed it. The man fell like an ox
beneath the poleaxe. His companions,
horror-struck, could neither move nor
cry out.

"Tell them this, Athos," resumed
D'Artagnan; "thus shall all die who
forget that a captive man is sacred and
that a captive king doubly represents
the Lord."

Athos repeated D'Artagnan's words.

The fellows looked at the body of their
companion, swimming in blood, and then
recovering voice and legs together, ran
screaming off.

"Justice is done," said Porthos, wiping
his forehead.

"And now," said D'Artagnan to Athos,
"entertain no further doubts about me; I
undertake all that concerns the king."



64

Whitehall.



The parliament condemned Charles to
death, as might have been foreseen.
Political judgments are generally vain
formalities, for the same passions which
give rise to the accusation ordain to
the condemnation. Such is the atrocious
logic of revolutions.

Although our friends were expecting that
condemnation, it filled them with grief.
D'Artagnan, whose mind was never more
fertile in resources than in critical
emergencies, swore again that he would
try all conceivable means to prevent the
denouement of the bloody tragedy. But by
what means? As yet he could form no
definite plan; all must depend on
circumstances. Meanwhile, it was
necessary at all hazards, in order to
gain time, to put some obstacle in the
way of the execution on the following
day -- the day appointed by the judges.
The only way of doing that was to cause
the disappearance of the London
executioner. The headsman out of the
way, the sentence could not be executed.
True, they could send for the headsman
of the nearest town, but at least a day
would be gained, and a day might be
sufficient for the rescue. D'Artagnan
took upon himself that more than
difficult task.

Another thing, not less essential, was
to warn Charles Stuart of the attempt to
be made, so that he might assist his
rescuers as much as possible, or at
least do nothing to thwart their
efforts. Aramis assumed that perilous
charge. Charles Stuart had asked that
Bishop Juxon might be permitted to visit
him. Mordaunt had called on the bishop
that very evening to apprise him of the
religious desire expressed by the king
and also of Cromwell's permission.
Aramis determined to obtain from the
bishop, through fear or by persuasion,
consent that he should enter in the
bishop's place, and clad in his
sacerdotal robes, the prison at
Whitehall.

Finally, Athos undertook to provide, in
any event, the means of leaving
England -- in case either of failure or
of success.

The night having come they made an
appointment to meet at eleven o'clock at
the hotel, and each started out to
fulfill his dangerous mission.

The palace of Whitehall was guarded by
three regiments of cavalry and by the
fierce anxiety of Cromwell, who came and
went or sent his generals or his agents
continually. Alone in his usual room,
lighted by two candles, the condemned
monarch gazed sadly on the luxury of his
past greatness, just as at the last hour
one sees the images of life more mildly
brilliant than of yore.

Parry had not quitted his master, and
since his condemnation had not ceased to
weep. Charles, leaning on a table, was
gazing at a medallion of his wife and
daughter; he was waiting first for
Juxon, then for martyrdom.

At times he thought of those brave
French gentlemen who had appeared to him
from a distance of a hundred leagues
fabulous and unreal, like the forms that
appear in dreams. In fact, he sometimes
asked himself if all that was happening
to him was not a dream, or at least the
delirium of a fever. He rose and took a
few steps as if to rouse himself from
his torpor and went as far as the
window; he saw glittering below him the
muskets of the guards. He was thereupon
constrained to admit that he was indeed
awake and that his bloody dream was
real.

Charles returned in silence to his
chair, rested his elbow on the table,
bowed his head upon his hand and
reflected.

"Alas!" he said to himself, "if I only
had for a confessor one of those lights
of the church, whose soul has sounded
all the mysteries of life, all the
littlenesses of greatness, perhaps his
utterance would overawe the voice that
wails within my soul. But I shall have a
priest of vulgar mind, whose career and
fortune I have ruined by my misfortune.
He will speak to me of God and death, as
he has spoken to many another dying man,
not understanding that this one leaves
his throne to an usurper, his children
to the cold contempt of public charity."

And he raised the medallion to his lips.

It was a dull, foggy night. A
neighboring church clock slowly struck
the hour. The flickering light of the
two candles showed fitful phantom
shadows in the lofty room. These were
the ancestors of Charles, standing back
dimly in their tarnished frames.

An awful sadness enveloped the heart of
Charles. He buried his brow in his hands
and thought of the world, so beautiful
when one is about to leave it; of the
caresses of children, so pleasing and so
sweet, especially when one is parting
from his children never to see them
again; then of his wife, the noble and
courageous woman who had sustained him
to the last moment. He drew from his
breast the diamond cross and the star of
the Garter which she had sent him by
those generous Frenchmen; he kissed it,
and then, as he reflected, that she
would never again see those things till
he lay cold and mutilated in the tomb,
there passed over him one of those icy
shivers which may be called forerunners
of death.

Then, in that chamber which recalled to
him so many royal souvenirs, whither had
come so many courtiers, the scene of so
much flattering homage, alone with a
despairing servant, whose feeble soul
could afford no support to his own, the
king at last yielded to sorrow, and his
courage sank to a level with that
feebleness, those shadows, and that
wintry cold. That king, who was so
grand, so sublime in the hour of death,
meeting his fate with a smile of
resignation on his lips, now in that
gloomy hour wiped away a tear which had
fallen on the table and quivered on the
gold embroidered cloth.

Suddenly the door opened, an
ecclesiastic in episcopal robes entered,
followed by two guards, to whom the king
waved an imperious gesture. The guards
retired; the room resumed its obscurity.

"Juxon!" cried Charles, "Juxon, thank
you, my last friend; you come at a
fitting moment."

The bishop looked anxiously at the man
sobbing in the ingle-nook.

"Come, Parry," said the king, "cease
your tears."

"If it's Parry," said the bishop, "I
have nothing to fear; so allow me to
salute your majesty and to tell you who
I am and for what I am come."

At this sight and this voice Charles was
about to cry out, when Aramis placed his
finger on his lips and bowed low to the
king of England.

"The chevalier!" murmured Charles.

"Yes, sire," interrupted Aramis, raising
his voice, "Bishop Juxon, the faithful
knight of Christ, obedient to your
majesty's wishes."

Charles clasped his hands, amazed and
stupefied to find that these foreigners,
without other motive than that which
their conscience imposed on them, thus
combated the will of a people and the
destiny of a king.

"You!" he said, "you! how did you
penetrate hither? If they recognize you,
you are lost."

"Care not for me, sire; think only of
yourself. You see, your friends are
wakeful. I know not what we shall do
yet, but four determined men can do
much. Meanwhile, do not be surprised at
anything that happens; prepare yourself
for every emergency."

Charles shook his head.

"Do you know that I die to-morrow at ten
o'clock?"

"Something, your majesty, will happen
between now and then to make the
execution impossible."

The king looked at Aramis with
astonishment.

At this moment a strange noise, like the
unloading of a cart, and followed by a
cry of pain, was heard beneath the
window.

"Do you hear?" said the king.

"I hear," said Aramis, "but I understand
neither the noise nor the cry of pain."

"I know not who can have uttered the
cry," said the king, "but the noise is
easily understood. Do you know that I am
to be beheaded outside this window?
Well, these boards you hear unloaded are
the posts and planks to build my
scaffold. Some workmen must have fallen
underneath them and been hurt."

Aramis shuddered in spite of himself.

"You see," said the king, "that it is
useless for you to resist. I am
condemned; leave me to my death."

"My king," said Aramis, "they well may
raise a scaffold, but they cannot make
an executioner."

"What do you mean?" asked the king.

"I mean that at this hour the headsman
has been got out of the way by force or
persuasion. The scaffold will be ready
by to-morrow, but the headsman will be
wanting and they will put it off till
the day after to-morrow."

"What then?" said the king.

"To-morrow night we shall rescue you."

"How can that be?" cried the king, whose
face was lighted up, in spite of
himself, by a flash of joy.

"Oh! sir," cried Parry, "may you and
yours be blessed!"

"How can it be?" repeated the king. "I
must know, so that I may assist you if
there is any chance."

"I know nothing about it," continued
Aramis, "but the cleverest, the bravest,
the most devoted of us four said to me
when I left him, `Tell the king that
to-morrow at ten o'clock at night, we
shall carry him off.' He has said it and
will do it."

"Tell me the name of that generous
friend," said the king, "that I may
cherish for him an eternal gratitude,
whether he succeeds or not."

"D'Artagnan, sire, the same who had so
nearly rescued you when Colonel Harrison
made his untimely entrance."

"You are, indeed, wonderful men," said
the king; "if such things had been
related to me I should not have believed
them."

"Now, sire," resumed Aramis, "listen to
me. Do not forget for a single instant
that we are watching over your safety;
observe the smallest gesture, the least
bit of song, the least sign from any one
near you; watch everything, hear
everything, interpret everything."

"Oh, chevalier!" cried the king, "what
can I say to you? There is no word,
though it should come from the
profoundest depth of my heart, that can
express my gratitude. If you succeed I
do not say that you will save a king;
no, in presence of the scaffold as I am,
royalty, I assure you, is a very small
affair; but you will save a husband to
his wife, a father to his children.
Chevalier, take my hand; it is that of a
friend who will love you to his last
sigh."

Aramis stooped to kiss the king's hand,
but Charles clasped his and pressed it
to his heart.

At this moment a man entered, without
even knocking at the door. Aramis tried
to withdraw his hand, but the king still
held it. The man was one of those
Puritans, half preacher and half
soldier, who swarmed around Cromwell.

"What do you want, sir?" said the king.

"I desire to know if the confession of
Charles Stuart is at an end?" said the
stranger.

"And what is it to you?" replied the
king; "we are not of the same religion."

"All men are brothers," said the
Puritan. "One of my brothers is about to
die and I come to prepare him."

"Bear with him," whispered Aramis; "it
is doubtless some spy."

"After my reverend lord bishop," said
the king to the man, "I shall hear you
with pleasure, sir."

The man retired, but not before
examining the supposed Juxon with an
attention which did not escape the king.

"Chevalier," said the king, when the
door was closed, "I believe you are
right and that this man only came here
with evil intentions. Take care that no
misfortune befalls you when you leave."

"I thank your majesty," said Aramis,
"but under these robes I have a coat of
mail, a pistol and a dagger."

"Go, then, sir, and God keep you!"

The king accompanied him to the door,
where Aramis pronounced his benediction
upon him, and passing through the
ante-rooms, filled with soldiers, jumped
into his carriage and drove to the
bishop's palace. Juxon was waiting for
him impatiently.

"Well?" said he, on perceiving Aramis.

"Everything has succeeded as I expected;
spies, guards, satellites, all took me
for you, and the king blesses you while
waiting for you to bless him."

"May God protect you, my son; for your
example has given me at the same time
hope and courage."

Aramis resumed his own attire and left
Juxon with the assurance that he might
again have recourse to him.

He had scarcely gone ten yards in the
street when he perceived that he was
followed by a man, wrapped in a large
cloak. He placed his hand on his dagger
and stopped. The man came straight
toward him. It was Porthos.

"My dear friend," cried Aramis.

"You see, we had each our mission," said
Porthos; "mine was to guard you and I am
doing so. Have you seen the king?"

"Yes, and all goes well."

"We are to meet our friends at the hotel
at eleven."

It was then striking half-past ten by
St. Paul's.

Arrived at the hotel it was not long
before Athos entered.

"All's well," he cried, as he entered;
"I have hired a cedar wherry, as light
as a canoe, as easy on the wing as any
swallow. It is waiting for us at
Greenwich, opposite the Isle of Dogs,
manned by a captain and four men, who
for the sum of fifty pounds sterling
will keep themselves at our disposition
three successive nights. Once on board
we drop down the Thames and in two hours
are on the open sea. In case I am
killed, the captain's name is Roger and
the skiff is called the Lightning. A
handkerchief, tied at the four corners,
is to be the signal."

Next moment D'Artagnan entered.

"Empty your pockets," said he; "I want a
hundred pounds, and as for my own ---- "
and he emptied them inside out.

The sum was collected in a minute.
D'Artagnan ran out and returned directly
after.

"There," said he, "it's done. Ough! and
not without a deal of trouble, too."

"Has the executioner left London?" asked
Athos.

"Ah, you see that plan was not sure
enough; he might go out by one gate and
return by another."

"Where is he, then?"

"In the cellar."

"The cellar -- what cellar?"

"Our landlord's, to be sure. Mousqueton
is propped against the door and here's
the key."

"Bravo!" said Aramis, "how did you
manage it?"

"Like everything else, with money; but
it cost me dear."

"How much?" asked Athos.

"Five hundred pounds."

"And where did you get so much money?"
said Athos. "Had you, then, that sum?"

"The queen's famous diamond," answered
D'Artagnan, with a sigh.

"Ah, true," said Aramis. "I recognized
it on your finger."

"You bought it back, then, from Monsieur
des Essarts?" asked Porthos.

"Yes, but it was fated that I should not
keep it."

"So, then, we are all right as regards
the executioner," said Athos; "but
unfortunately every executioner has his
assistant, his man, or whatever you call
him."

"And this one had his," said D'Artagnan;
"but, as good luck would have it, just
as I thought I should have two affairs
to manage, our friend was brought home
with a broken leg. In the excess of his
zeal he had accompanied the cart
containing the scaffolding as far as the
king's window, and one of the crossbeams
fell on his leg and broke it."

"Ah!" cried Aramis, "that accounts for
the cry I heard."

"Probably," said D'Artagnan, "but as he
is a thoughtful young man he promised to
send four expert workmen in his place to
help those already at the scaffold, and
wrote the moment he was brought home to
Master Tom Lowe, an assistant carpenter
and friend of his, to go down to
Whitehall, with three of his friends.
Here's the letter he sent by a
messenger, for sixpence, who sold it to
me for a guinea."

"And what on earth are you going to do
with it?" asked Athos.

"Can't you guess, my dear Athos? You,
who speak English like John Bull
himself, are Master Tom Lowe, we, your
three companions. Do you understand it
now?"

Athos uttered a cry of joy and
admiration, ran to a closet and drew
forth workmen's clothes, which the four
friends immediately put on; they then
left the hotel, Athos carrying a saw,
Porthos a vise, Aramis an axe and
D'Artagnan a hammer and some nails.

The letter from the executioner's
assistant satisfied the master carpenter
that those were the men he expected.



65

The Workmen.



Toward midnight Charles heard a great
noise beneath his window. It arose from
blows of hammer and hatchet, clinking of
pincers and cranching of saws.

Lying dressed upon his bed, the noise
awoke him with a start and found a
gloomy echo in his heart. He could not
endure it, and sent Parry to ask the
sentinel to beg the workmen to strike
more gently and not disturb the last
slumber of one who had been their king.
The sentinel was unwilling to leave his
post, but allowed Parry to pass.

Arriving at the window Parry found an
unfinished scaffold, over which they
were nailing a covering of black serge.
Raised to the height of twenty feet, so
as to be on a level with the window, it
had two lower stories. Parry, odious as
was this sight to him, sought for those
among some eight or ten workmen who were
making the most noise; and fixed on two
men, who were loosening the last hooks
of the iron balcony.

"My friends," said Parry, mounting the
scaffold and standing beside them,
"would you work a little more quietly?
The king wishes to get a sleep."

One of the two, who was standing up, was
of gigantic size and was driving a pick
with all his might into the wall, whilst
the other, kneeling beside him, was
collecting the pieces of stone. The face
of the first was lost to Parry in the
darkness; but as the second turned
around and placed his finger on his lips
Parry started back in amazement.

"Very well, very well," said the workman
aloud, in excellent English. "Tell the
king that if he sleeps badly to-night he
will sleep better to-morrow night."

These blunt words, so terrible if taken
literally, were received by the other
workmen with a roar of laughter. But
Parry withdrew, thinking he was
dreaming.

Charles was impatiently awaiting his
return. At the moment he re-entered, the
sentinel who guarded the door put his
head through the opening, curious as to
what the king was doing. The king was
lying on his bed, resting on his elbow.
Parry closed the door and approaching
the king, his face radiant with joy:

"Sire," he said, in a low voice, "do you
know who these workmen are who are
making so much noise?"

"I? No; how would you have me know?"

Parry bent his head and whispered to the
king: "It is the Comte de la Fere and
his friends."

"Raising my scaffold!" cried the king,
astounded.

"Yes, and at the same time making a hole
in the wall."

The king clasped his hands and raised
his eyes to Heaven; then leaping down
from his bed he went to the window, and
pulling aside the curtain tried to
distinguish the figures outside, but in
vain.

Parry was not wrong. It was Athos he had
recognized, and Porthos who was boring a
hole through the wall.

This hole communicated with a kind of
loft -- the space between the floor of
the king's room and the ceiling of the
one below it. Their plan was to pass
through the hole they were making into
this loft and cut out from below a piece
of the flooring of the king's room, so
as to form a kind of trap-door.

Through this the king was to escape the
next night, and, hidden by the black
covering of the scaffold, was to change
his dress for that of a workman, slip
out with his deliverers, pass the
sentinels, who would suspect nothing,
and so reach the skiff that was waiting
for him at Greenwich.

Day gilded the tops of the houses. The
aperture was finished and Athos passed
through it, carrying the clothes
destined for the king wrapped in black
cloth, and the tools with which he was
to open a communication with the king's
room. He had only two hours' work to do
to open communication with the king and,
according to the calculations of the
four friends, they had the entire day
before them, since, the executioner
being absent, another must be sent for
to Bristol.

D'Artagnan returned to change his
workman's clothes for his
chestnut-colored suit, and Porthos to
put on his red doublet. As for Aramis,
he went off to the bishop's palace to
see if he could possibly pass in with
Juxon to the king's presence. All three
agreed to meet at noon in Whitehall
Place to see how things went on.

Before leaving the scaffold Aramis had
approached the opening where Athos was
concealed to tell him that he was about
to make an attempt to gain another
interview with the king.

"Adieu, then, and be of good courage,"
said Athos. "Report to the king the
condition of affairs. Say to him that
when he is alone it will help us if he
will knock on the floor, for then I can
continue my work in safety. Try, Aramis,
to keep near the king. Speak loud, very
loud, for they will be listening at the
door. If there is a sentinel within the
apartment, kill him without hesitation.
If there are two, let Parry kill one and
you the other. If there are three, let
yourself be slain, but save the king."

"Be easy," said Aramis; "I will take two
poniards and give one to Parry. Is that
all?"

"Yes, go; but urge the king strongly not
to stand on false generosity. While you
are fighting if there is a fight, he
must flee. The trap once replaced over
his head, you being on the trap, dead or
alive, they will need at least ten
minutes to find the hole by which he has
escaped. In those ten minutes we shall
have gained the road and the king will
be saved."

"Everything shall be done as you say,
Athos. Your hand, for perhaps we shall
not see each other again."

Athos put his arm around Aramis's neck
and embraced him.

"For you," he said. "Now if I die, say
to D'Artagnan that I love him as a son,
and embrace him for me. Embrace also our
good and brave Porthos. Adieu."

"Adieu," said Aramis. "I am as sure now
that the king will be saved as I am sure
that I clasp the most loyal hand in the
world."

Aramis parted from Athos, went down from
the scaffold in his turn and took his
way to the hotel, whistling the air of a
song in praise of Cromwell. He found the
other two friends sitting at table
before a good fire, drinking a bottle of
port and devouring a cold chicken.
Porthos was cursing the infamous
parliamentarians; D'Artagnan ate in
silence, revolving in his mind the most
audacious plans.

Aramis related what had been agreed
upon. D'Artagnan approved with a
movement of the head and Porthos with
his voice.

"Bravo!" he said; "besides, we shall be
there at the time of the flight. What
with D'Artagnan, Grimaud and Mousqueton,
we can manage to dispatch eight of them.
I say nothing about Blaisois, for he is
only fit to hold the horses. Two minutes
a man makes four minutes. Mousqueton
will lose another, that's five; and in
five minutes we shall have galloped a
quarter of a league."

Aramis swallowed a hasty mouthful,
gulped a glass of wine and changed his
clothes.

"Now," said he, "I'm off to the
bishop's. Take care of the executioner,
D'Artagnan."

"All right. Grimaud has relieved
Mousqueton and has his foot on the
cellar door."

"Well, don't be inactive."

"Inactive, my dear fellow! Ask Porthos.
I pass my life upon my legs."

Aramis again presented himself at the
bishop's. Juxon consented the more
readily to take him with him, as he
would require an assistant priest in
case the king should wish to
communicate. Dressed as Aramis had been
the night before, the bishop got into
his carriage, and the former, more
disguised by his pallor and sad
countenance than his deacon's dress, got
in by his side. The carriage stopped at
the door of the palace.

It was about nine o'clock in the
morning.

Nothing was changed. The ante-rooms were
still full of soldiers, the passages
still lined by guards. The king was
already sanguine, but when he perceived
Aramis his hope turned to joy. He
embraced Juxon and pressed the hand of
Aramis. The bishop affected to speak in
a loud voice, before every one, of their
previous interview. The king replied
that the words spoken in that interview
had borne their fruit, and that he
desired another under the same
conditions. Juxon turned to those
present and begged them to leave him and
his assistant alone with the king. Every
one withdrew. As soon as the door was
closed:

"Sire," said Aramis, speaking rapidly,
"you are saved; the London executioner
has vanished. His assistant broke his
leg last night beneath your majesty's
window -- the cry we heard was his --
and there is no executioner nearer at
hand than Bristol."

"But the Comte de la Fere?" asked the
king.

"Two feet below you; take the poker from
the fireplace and strike three times on
the floor. He will answer you."

The king did so, and the moment after,
three muffled knocks, answering the
given signal, sounded beneath the floor.

"So," said Charles, "he who knocks down
there ---- "

"Is the Comte de la Fere, sire," said
Aramis. "He is preparing a way for your
majesty to escape. Parry, for his part,
will raise this slab of marble and a
passage will be opened."

"Oh, Juxon," said the king, seizing the
bishop's two hands in his own, "promise
that you will pray all your life for
this gentleman and for the other that
you hear beneath your feet, and for two
others also, who, wherever they may be,
are on the watch for my safety."

"Sire," replied Juxon, "you shall be
obeyed."

Meanwhile, the miner underneath was
heard working away incessantly, when
suddenly an unexpected noise resounded
in the passage. Aramis seized the poker
and gave the signal to stop; the noise
came nearer and nearer. It was that of a
number of men steadily approaching. The
four men stood motionless. All eyes were
fixed on the door, which opened slowly
and with a kind of solemnity.

A parliamentary officer, clothed in
black and with a gravity that augured
ill, entered, bowed to the king, and
unfolding a parchment, read the
sentence, as is usually done to
criminals before their execution.

"What is this?" said Aramis to Juxon.

Juxon replied with a sign which meant
that he knew no more than Aramis about
it.

"Then it is for to-day?" asked the king.

"Was not your majesty warned that it was
to take place this morning?"

"Then I must die like a common criminal
by the hand of the London executioner?"

"The London executioner has disappeared,
your majesty, but a man has offered his
services instead. The execution will
therefore only be delayed long enough
for you to arrange your spiritual and
temporal affairs."

A slight moisture on his brow was the
only trace of emotion that Charles
evinced, as he learned these tidings.
But Aramis was livid. His heart ceased
beating, he closed his eyes and leaned
upon the table. Charles perceived it and
took his hand.

"Come, my friend," said he, "courage."
Then he turned to the officer. "Sir, I
am ready. There is but little reason why
I should delay you. Firstly, I wish to
communicate; secondly, to embrace my
children and bid them farewell for the
last time. Will this be permitted me?"

"Certainly," replied the officer, and
left the room.

Aramis dug his nails into his flesh and
groaned aloud.

"Oh! my lord bishop," he cried, seizing
Juxon's hands, "where is Providence?
where is Providence?"

"My son," replied the bishop, with
firmness, "you see Him not, because the
passions of the world conceal Him."

"My son," said the king to Aramis, "do
not take it so to heart. You ask what
God is doing. God beholds your devotion
and my martyrdom, and believe me, both
will have their reward. Ascribe to men,
then, what is happening, and not to God.
It is men who drive me to death; it is
men who make you weep."

"Yes, sire," said Aramis, "yes, you are
right. It is men whom I should hold
responsible, and I will hold them
responsible."

"Be seated, Juxon," said the king,
falling upon his knees. "I have now to
confess to you. Remain, sir," he added
to Aramis, who had moved to leave the
room. "Remain, Parry. I have nothing to
say that cannot be said before all."

Juxon sat down, and the king, kneeling
humbly before him, began his confession.



66

Remember!



The mob had already assembled when the
confession terminated. The king's
children next arrived -- the Princess
Charlotte, a beautiful, fair-haired
child, with tears in her eyes, and the
Duke of Gloucester, a boy eight or nine
years old, whose tearless eyes and
curling lip revealed a growing pride. He
had wept all night long, but would not
show his grief before the people.

Charles's heart melted within him at the
sight of those two children, whom he had
not seen for two years and whom he now
met at the moment of death. He turned to
brush away a tear, and then, summoning
up all his firmness, drew his daughter
toward him, recommending her to be pious
and resigned. Then he took the boy upon
his knee.

"My son," he said to him, "you saw a
great number of people in the streets as
you came here. These men are going to
behead your father. Do not forget that.
Perhaps some day they will want to make
you king, instead of the Prince of
Wales, or the Duke of York, your elder
brothers. But you are not the king, my
son, and can never be so while they are
alive. Swear to me, then, never to let
them put a crown upon your head unless
you have a legal right to the crown. For
one day -- listen, my son -- one day, if
you do so, they will doom you to
destruction, head and crown, too, and
then you will not be able to die with a
calm conscience, as I die. Swear, my
son."

The child stretched out his little hand
toward that of his father and said, "I
swear to your majesty."

"Henry," said Charles, "call me your
father."

"Father," replied the child, "I swear to
you that they shall kill me sooner than
make me king."

"Good, my child. Now kiss me; and you,
too, Charlotte. Never forget me."

"Oh! never, never!" cried both the
children, throwing their arms around
their father's neck.

"Farewell," said Charles, "farewell, my
children. Take them away, Juxon; their
tears will deprive me of the courage to
die."

Juxon led them away, and this time the
doors were left open.

Meanwhile, Athos, in his concealment,
waited in vain the signal to recommence
his work. Two long hours he waited in
terrible inaction. A deathlike silence
reigned in the room above. At last he
determined to discover the cause of this
stillness. He crept from his hole and
stood, hidden by the black drapery,
beneath the scaffold. Peeping out from
the drapery, he could see the rows of
halberdiers and musketeers around the
scaffold and the first ranks of the
populace swaying and groaning like the
sea.

"What is the matter, then?" he asked
himself, trembling more than the
wind-swayed cloth he was holding back.
"The people are hurrying on, the
soldiers under arms, and among the
spectators I see D'Artagnan. What is he
waiting for? What is he looking at? Good
God! have they allowed the headsman to
escape?"

Suddenly the dull beating of muffled
drums filled the square. The sound of
heavy steps was heard above his head.
The next moment the very planks of the
scaffold creaked with the weight of an
advancing procession, and the eager
faces of the spectators confirmed what a
last hope at the bottom of his heart had
prevented him till then believing. At
the same moment a well-known voice above
him pronounced these words:

"Colonel, I want to speak to the
people."

Athos shuddered from head to foot. It
was the king speaking on the scaffold.

In fact, after taking a few drops of
wine and a piece of bread, Charles,
weary of waiting for death, had suddenly
decided to go to meet it and had given
the signal for movement. Then the two
wings of the window facing the square
had been thrown open, and the people had
seen silently advancing from the
interior of the vast chamber, first, a
masked man, who, carrying an axe in his
hand, was recognized as the executioner.
He approached the block and laid his axe
upon it. Behind him, pale indeed, but
marching with a firm step, was Charles
Stuart, who advanced between two
priests, followed by a few superior
officers appointed to preside at the
execution and attended by two files of
partisans who took their places on
opposite sides of the scaffold.

The sight of the masked man gave rise to
a prolonged sensation. Every one was
full of curiosity as to who that unknown
executioner could be who presented
himself so opportunely to assure to the
people the promised spectacle, when the
people believed it had been postponed
until the following day. All gazed at
him searchingly.

But they could discern nothing but a man
of middle height, dressed in black,
apparently of a certain age, for the end
of a gray beard peeped out from the
bottom of the mask that hid his
features.

The king's request had undoubtedly been
acceded to by an affirmative sign, for
in firm, sonorous accents, which
vibrated in the depths of Athos's heart,
the king began his speech, explaining
his conduct and counseling the welfare
of the kingdom.

"Oh!" said Athos to himself, "is it
indeed possible that I hear what I hear
and that I see what I see? Is it
possible that God has abandoned His
representative on earth and left him to
die thus miserably? And I have not seen
him! I have not said adieu to him!"

A noise was heard like that the
instrument of death would make if moved
upon the block.

"Do not touch the axe," said the king,
and resumed his speech.

At the end of his speech the king looked
tenderly around upon the people. Then
unfastening the diamond ornament which
the queen had sent him, he placed it in
the hands of the priest who accompanied
Juxon. Then he drew from his breast a
little cross set in diamonds, which,
like the order, had been the gift of
Henrietta Maria.

"Sir," said he to the priest, "I shall
keep this cross in my hand till the last
moment. Take it from me when I am --
dead."

"Yes, sire," said a voice, which Athos
recognized as that of Aramis.

He then took his hat from his head and
threw it on the ground. One by one he
undid the buttons of his doublet, took
it off and deposited it by the side of
his hat. Then, as it was cold, he asked
for his gown, which was brought to him.

All the preparations were made with a
frightful calmness. One would have
thought the king was going to bed and
not to his coffin.

"Will these be in your way?" he said to
the executioner, raising his long locks;
"if so, they can be tied up."

Charles accompanied these words with a
look designed to penetrate the mask of
the unknown headsman. His calm, noble
gaze forced the man to turn away his
head. But after the searching look of
the king he encountered the burning eyes
of Aramis.

The king, seeing that he did not reply,
repeated his question.

"It will do," replied the man, in a
tremulous voice, "if you separate them
across the neck."

The king parted his hair with his hands,
and looking at the block he said:

"This block is very low, is there no
other to be had?"

"It is the usual block," answered the
man in the mask.

"Do you think you can behead me with a
single blow?" asked the king.

"I hope so," was the reply. There was
something so strange in these three
words that everybody, except the king,
shuddered.

"I do not wish to be taken by surprise,"
added the king. "I shall kneel down to
pray; do not strike then."

"When shall I strike?"

"When I shall lay my head on the block
and say `Remember!' then strike boldly."

"Gentlemen," said the king to those
around him, "I leave you to brave the
tempest; I go before you to a kingdom
which knows no storms. Farewell."

He looked at Aramis and made a special
sign to him with his head.

"Now," he continued, "withdraw a little
and let me say my prayer, I beseech you.
You, also, stand aside," he said to the
masked man. "It is only for a moment and
I know that I belong to you; but
remember that you are not to strike till
I give the signal."

Then he knelt down, made the sign of the
cross, and lowering his face to the
planks, as if he would have kissed them,
said in a low tone, in French, "Comte de
la Fere, are you there?"

"Yes, your majesty," he answered,
trembling.

"Faithful friend, noble heart!" said the
king, "I should not have been rescued. I
have addressed my people and I have
spoken to God; last of all I speak to
you. To maintain a cause which I
believed sacred I have lost the throne
and my children their inheritance. A
million in gold remains; it is buried in
the cellars of Newcastle Keep. You only
know that this money exists. Make use of
it, then, whenever you think it will be
most useful, for my eldest son's
welfare. And now, farewell."

"Farewell, saintly, martyred majesty,"
lisped Athos, chilled with terror.

A moment's silence ensued and then, in a
full, sonorous voice, the king
exclaimed: "Remember!"

He had scarcely uttered the word when a
heavy blow shook the scaffold and where
Athos stood immovable a warm drop fell
upon his brow. He reeled back with a
shudder and the same moment the drops
became a crimson cataract.

Athos fell on his knees and remained
some minutes as if bewildered or
stunned. At last he rose and taking his
handkerchief steeped it in the blood of
the martyred king. Then as the crowd
gradually dispersed he leaped down,
crept from behind the drapery, glided
between two horses, mingled with the
crowd and was the first to arrive at the
inn.

Having gained his room he raised his
hand to his face, and observing that his
fingers were covered with the monarch's
blood, fell down insensible.



67

The Man in the Mask.



The snow was falling thick and icy.
Aramis was the next to come in and to
discover Athos almost insensible. But at
the first words he uttered the comte
roused himself from the kind of lethargy
in which he had sunk.

"Well," said Aramis, "beaten by fate!"

"Beaten!" said Athos. "Noble and unhappy
king!"

"Are you wounded?" cried Aramis.

"No, this is his blood."

"Where were you, then?"

"Where you left me -- under the
scaffold."

"Did you see it all?"

"No, but I heard all. God preserve me
from another such hour as I have just
passed."

"Then you know that I did not leave
him?"

"I heard your voice up to the last
moment."

"Here is the order he gave me and the
cross I took from his hand; he desired
they should be returned to the queen."

"Then here is a handkerchief to wrap
them in," replied Athos, drawing from
his pocket the one he had steeped in the
king's blood.

"And what," he continued, "has been done
with the poor body?"

"By order of Cromwell royal honors will
be accorded to it. The doctors are
embalming the corpse, and when it is
ready it will be placed in a lighted
chapel."

"Mockery," muttered Athos, savagely;
"royal honors to one whom they have
murdered!"

"Well, cheer up!" said a loud voice from
the staircase, which Porthos had just
mounted. "We are all mortal, my poor
friends."

"You are late, my dear Porthos."

"Yes, there were some people on the way
who delayed me. The wretches were
dancing. I took one of them by the
throat and three-quarters throttled him.
Just then a patrol rode up. Luckily the
man I had had most to do with was some
minutes before he could speak, so I took
advantage of his silence to walk off."

"Have you seen D'Artagnan?"

"We got separated in the crowd and I
could not find him again."

"Oh!" said Athos, satirically, "I saw
him. He was in the front row of the
crowd, admirably placed for seeing; and
as on the whole the sight was curious,
he probably wished to stay to the end."

"Ah Comte de la Fere," said a calm
voice, though hoarse with running, "is
it your habit to calumniate the absent?"

This reproof stung Athos to the heart,
but as the impression produced by seeing
D'Artagnan foremost in a coarse,
ferocious crowd had been very strong, he
contented himself with replying:

"I am not calumniating you, my friend.
They were anxious about you here; I
simply told them where you were. You
didn't know King Charles; to you he was
only a foreigner and you were not
obliged to love him."

So saying, he stretched out his hand,
but the other pretended not to see it
and he let it drop again slowly by his
side.

"Ugh! I am tired," cried D'Artagnan,
sitting down.

"Drink a glass of port," said Aramis;
"it will refresh you."

"Yes, let us drink," said Athos, anxious
to make it up by hobnobbing with
D'Artagnan, "let us drink and get away
from this hateful country. The felucca
is waiting for us, you know; let us
leave to-night, we have nothing more to
do here."

"You are in a hurry, sir count," said
D'Artagnan.

"But what would you have us to do here,
now that the king is dead?"

"Go, sir count," replied D'Artagnan,
carelessly; "you see nothing to keep you
a little longer in England? Well, for my
part, I, a bloodthirsty ruffian, who can
go and stand close to a scaffold, in
order to have a better view of the
king's execution -- I remain."

Athos turned pale. Every reproach his
friend uttered struck deeply in his
heart.

"Ah! you remain in London?" said
Porthos.

"Yes. And you?"

"Hang it!" said Porthos, a little
perplexed between the two, "I suppose,
as I came with you, I must go away with
you. I can't leave you alone in this
abominable country."

"Thanks, my worthy friend. So I have a
little adventure to propose to you when
the count is gone. I want to find out
who was the man in the mask, who so
obligingly offered to cut the king's
throat."

"A man in a mask?" cried Athos. "You did
not let the executioner escape, then?"

"The executioner is still in the cellar,
where, I presume, he has had an
interview with mine host's bottles. But
you remind me. Mousqueton!"

"Sir," answered a voice from the depths
of the earth.

"Let out your prisoner. All is over."

"But," said Athos, "who is the wretch
that has dared to raise his hand against
his king?"

"An amateur headsman," replied Aramis,
"who however, does not handle the axe
amiss."

"Did you not see his face?" asked Athos.

"He wore a mask."

"But you, Aramis, who were close to
him?"

"I could see nothing but a gray beard
under the fringe of the mask."

"Then it must be a man of a certain
age."

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "that matters
little. When one puts on a mask, it is
not difficult to wear a beard under it."

"I am sorry I did not follow him," said
Porthos.

"Well, my dear Porthos," said
D'Artagnan, "that's the very thing it
came into my head to do."

Athos understood all now.

"Pardon me, D'Artagnan," he said. "I
have distrusted God; I could the more
easily distrust you. Pardon me, my
friend."

"We will see about that presently," said
D'Artagnan, with a slight smile.

"Well, then?" said Aramis.

"Well, while I was watching -- not the
king, as monsieur le comte thinks, for I
know what it is to see a man led to
death, and though I ought to be
accustomed to the sight it always makes
me ill -- while I was watching the
masked executioner, the idea came to me,
as I said, to find out who he was. Now,
as we are wont to complete ourselves
each by all the rest and to depend on
one another for assistance, as one calls
his other hand to aid the first, I
looked around instinctively to see if
Porthos was there; for I had seen you,
Aramis, with the king, and you, count, I
knew would be under the scaffold, and
for that reason I forgive you," he
added, offering Athos his hand, "for you
must have suffered much. I was looking
around for Porthos when I saw near me a
head which had been broken, but which,
for better or worse, had been patched
with plaster and with black silk.
`Humph!' thought I, `that looks like my
handiwork; I fancy I must have mended
that skull somewhere or other.' And, in
fact, it was that unfortunate Scotchman,
Parry's brother, you know, on whom
Groslow amused himself by trying his
strength. Well, this man was making
signs to another at my left, and turning
around I recognized the honest Grimaud.
`Oh!' said I to him. Grimaud turned
round with a jerk, recognized me, and
pointed to the man in the mask. `Eh!'
said he, which meant, `Do you see him?'
`Parbleu!' I answered, and we perfectly
understood one another. Well, everything
was finished as you know. The mob
dispersed. I made a sign to Grimaud and
the Scotchman, and we all three retired
into a corner of the square. I saw the
executioner return into the king's room,
change his clothes, put on a black hat
and a large cloak and disappear. Five
minutes later he came down the grand
staircase."

'You followed him?" cried Athos.

"I should think so, but not without
difficulty. Every few minutes he turned
around, and thus obliged us to conceal
ourselves. I might have gone up to him
and killed him. But I am not selfish,
and I thought it might console you all a
little to have a share in the matter. So
we followed him through the lowest
streets in the city, and in half an
hour's time he stopped before a little
isolated house. Grimaud drew out a
pistol. `Eh?' said he, showing it. I
held back his arm. The man in the mask
stopped before a low door and drew out a
key; but before he placed it in the lock
he turned around to see if he was being
followed. Grimaud and I got behind a
tree, and the Scotchman having nowhere
to hide himself, threw himself on his
face in the road. Next moment the door
opened and the man disappeared."

"The scoundrel!" said Aramis. "While you
have been returning hither he will have
escaped and we shall never find him."

"Come, now, Aramis," said D'Artagnan,
"you must be taking me for some one
else."

"Nevertheless," said Athos, "in your
absence ---- "

"Well, in my absence haven't I put in my
place Grimaud and the Scotchman? Before
he had taken ten steps beyond the door I
had examined the house on all sides. At
one of the doors, that by which he had
entered, I placed our Scotchman, making
a sign to him to follow the man wherever
he might go, if he came out again. Then
going around the house I placed Grimaud
at the other exit, and here I am. Our
game is beaten up. Now for the
tally-ho."

Athos threw himself into D'Artagnan's
arms.

"Friend," he said, "you have been too
good in pardoning me; I was wrong, a
hundred times wrong. I ought to have
known you better by this time; but we
are all possessed of a malignant spirit,
which bids us doubt."

"Humph!" said Porthos. "Don't you think
the executioner might be Master
Cromwell, who, to make sure of this
affair, undertook it himself?"

"Ah! just so. Cromwell is stout and
short, and this man thin and lanky,
rather tall than otherwise."

"Some condemned soldier, perhaps,"
suggested Athos, "whom they have
pardoned at the price of regicide."

"No, no," continued D'Artagnan, "it was
not the measured step of a foot soldier,
nor was it the gait of a horseman. If I
am not mistaken we have to do with a
gentleman."

"A gentleman!" exclaimed Athos.
"Impossible! It would be a dishonor to
all the nobility."

"Fine sport, by Jove!" cried Porthos,
with a laugh that shook the windows.
"Fine sport!"

"Are you still bent on departure,
Athos?" asked D'Artagnan.

"No, I remain," replied Athos, with a
threatening gesture that promised no
good to whomsoever it was addressed.

"Swords, then!" cried Aramis, "swords!
let us not lose a moment."

The four friends resumed their own
clothes, girded on their swords, ordered
Mousqueton and Blaisois to pay the bill
and to arrange everything for immediate
departure, and wrapped in their large
cloaks left in search of their game.

The night was dark, snow was falling,
the streets were silent and deserted.
D'Artagnan led the way through the
intricate windings and narrow alleys of
the city and ere long they had reached
the house in question. For a moment
D'Artagnan thought that Parry's brother
had disappeared; but he was mistaken.
The robust Scotchman, accustomed to the
snows of his native hills, had stretched
himself against a post, and like a
fallen statue, insensible to the
inclemency of the weather, had allowed
the snow to cover him. He rose, however,
as they approached.

"Come," said Athos, "here's another good
servant. Really, honest men are not so
scarce as I thought."

"Don't be in a hurry to weave crowns for
our Scotchman. I believe the fellow is
here on his own account, for I have
heard that these gentlemen born beyond
the Tweed are very vindictive. I should
not like to be Groslow, if he meets
him."

"Well?" said Athos, to the man, in
English.

"No one has come out," he replied.

"Then, Porthos and Aramis, will you
remain with this man while we go around
to Grimaud?"

Grimaud had made himself a kind of
sentry box out of a hollow willow, and
as they drew near he put his head out
and gave a low whistle.

"Soho!" cried Athos.

"Yes," said Grimaud.

"Well, has anybody come out?"

"No, but somebody has gone in."

"A man or a woman?"

"A man."

"Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan, "there are
two of them, then!"

"I wish there were four," said Athos;
"the two parties would then be equal."

"Perhaps there are four," said
D'Artagnan.

"What do you mean?"

"Other men may have entered before them
and waited for them."

"We can find out," said Grimaud. At the
same time he pointed to a window,
through the shutters of which a faint
light streamed.

"That is true," said D'Artagnan, "let us
call the others."

They returned around the house to fetch
Porthos and Aramis.

"Have you seen anything?" they asked.

"No, but we are going to," replied
D'Artagnan, pointing to Grimaud, who had
already climbed some five or six feet
from the ground.

All four came up together. Grimaud
continued to climb like a cat and
succeeded at last in catching hold of a
hook, which served to keep one of the
shutters back when opened. Then resting
his foot on a small ledge he made a sign
to show all was right.

"Well?" asked D'Artagnan.

Grimaud showed his closed hand, with two
fingers spread out.

"Speak," said Athos; "we cannot see your
signs. How many are there?"

"Two. One opposite to me, the other with
his back to me."

"Good. And the man opposite to you
is ----

"The man I saw go in."

"Do you know him?"

"I thought I recognized him, and was not
mistaken. Short and stout."

"Who is it?" they all asked together in
a low tone.

"General Oliver Cromwell."

The four friends looked at one another.

"And the other?" asked Athos.

"Thin and lanky."

"The executioner," said D'Artagnan and
Aramis at the same time.

"I can see nothing but his back,"
resumed Grimaud. "But wait. He is
moving; and if he has taken off his mask
I shall be able to see. Ah ---- "

And as if struck in the heart he let go
the hook and dropped with a groan.

"Did you see him?" they all asked.

Yes," said Grimaud, with his hair
standing on end.

"The thin, spare man?"

"Yes."

"The executioner, in short?" asked
Aramis.

"Yes."

"And who is it?" said Porthos.

"He -- he -- is ---- " murmured Grimaud,
pale as a ghost and seizing his master's
hand.

"Who? He?" asked Athos.

"Mordaunt," replied Grimaud.

D'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis uttered a
cry of joy.

Athos stepped back and passed his hand
across his brow.

"Fatality!" he muttered.



68

Cromwell's House.



It was, in fact, Mordaunt whom
D'Artagnan had followed, without knowing
it. On entering the house he had taken
off his mask and imitation beard, then,
mounting a staircase, had opened a door,
and in a room lighted by a single lamp
found himself face to face with a man
seated behind a desk.

This man was Cromwell.

Cromwell had two or three of these
retreats in London, unknown except to
the most intimate of his friends.
Mordaunt was among these.

"It is you, Mordaunt," he said. "You are
late."

"General, I wished to see the ceremony
to the end, which delayed me."

"Ah! I scarcely thought you were so
curious as that."

"I am always curious to see the downfall
of your honor's enemies, and he was not
among the least of them. But you,
general, were you not at Whitehall?"

"No," said Cromwell.

There was a moment's silence.

"Have you had any account of it?"

"None. I have been here since the
morning. I only know that there was a
conspiracy to rescue the king."

"Ah, you knew that?" said Mordaunt.

"It matters little. Four men, disguised
as workmen, were to get the king out of
prison and take him to Greenwich, where
a vessel was waiting."

"And knowing all that, your honor
remained here, far from the city,
tranquil and inactive."

"Tranquil, yes," replied Cromwell. "But
who told you I was inactive?"

"But -- if the plot had succeeded?"

"I wished it to do so."

"I thought your excellence considered
the death of Charles I. as a misfortune
necessary to the welfare of England."

"Yes, his death; but it would have been
more seemly not upon the scaffold."

"Why so?" asked Mordaunt.

Cromwell smiled. "Because it could have
been said that I had had him condemned
for the sake of justice and had let him
escape out of pity."

"But if he had escaped?"

"Impossible; my precautions were taken."

"And does your honor know the four men
who undertook to rescue him?"

"The four Frenchmen, of whom two were
sent by the queen to her husband and two
by Mazarin to me."

"And do you think Mazarin commissioned
them to act as they have done?"

"It is possible. But he will not avow
it."

"How so?"

"Because they failed."

"Your honor gave me two of these
Frenchmen when they were only guilty of
fighting for Charles I. Now that they
are guilty of a conspiracy against
England will your honor give me all four
of them?"

"Take them," said Cromwell.

Mordaunt bowed with a smile of
triumphant ferocity.

"Did the people shout at all?" Cromwell
asked.

"Very little, except `Long live
Cromwell!'"

"Where were you placed?"

Mordaunt tried for a moment to read in
the general's face if this was simply a
useless question, or whether he knew
everything. But his piercing eyes could
by no means penetrate the sombre depths
of Cromwell's.

"I was so situated as to hear and see
everything," he answered.

It was now Cromwell's turn to look
fixedly at Mordaunt, and Mordaunt to
make himself impenetrable.

"It appears," said Cromwell, "that this
improvised executioner did his duty
remarkably well. The blow, so they tell
me at least, was struck with a master's
hand."

Mordaunt remembered that Cromwell had
told him he had had no detailed account,
and he was now quite convinced that the
general had been present at the
execution, hidden behind some screen or
curtain.

"In fact," said Mordaunt, with a calm
voice and immovable countenance, "a
single blow sufficed."

"Perhaps it was some one in that
occupation," said Cromwell.

"Do you think so, sir? He did not look
like an executioner."

"And who else save an executioner would
have wished to fill that horrible
office?"

"But," said Mordaunt, "it might have
been some personal enemy of the king,
who had made a vow of vengeance and
accomplished it in this way. Perhaps it
was some man of rank who had grave
reasons for hating the fallen king, and
who, learning that the king was about to
flee and escape him, threw himself in
the way, with a mask on his face and an
axe in his hand, not as substitute for
the executioner, but as an ambassador of
Fate."

"Possibly."

"And if that were the case would your
honor condemn his action?"

"It is not for me to judge. It rests
between his conscience and his God."

"But if your honor knew this man?"

"I neither know nor wish to know him.
Provided Charles is dead, it is the axe,
not the man, we must thank."

"And yet, without the man, the king
would have been rescued."

Cromwell smiled.

"They would have carried him to
Greenwich," he said, "and put him on
board a felucca with five barrels of
powder in the hold. Once out to sea, you
are too good a politician not to
understand the rest, Mordaunt."

"Yes, they would have all been blown
up."

"Just so. The explosion would have done
what the axe had failed to do. Men would
have said that the king had escaped
human justice and been overtaken by
God's. You see now why I did not care to
know your gentleman in the mask; for
really, in spite of his excellent
intentions, I could not thank him for
what he has done."

Mordaunt bowed humbly. "Sir," he said,
"you are a profound thinker and your
plan was sublime."

"Say absurd, since it has become
useless. The only sublime ideas in
politics are those which bear fruit. So
to-night, Mordaunt, go to Greenwich and
ask for the captain of the felucca
Lightning. Show him a white handkerchief
knotted at the four corners and tell the
crew to disembark and carry the powder
back to the arsenal, unless, indeed ----
"

"Unless?" said Mordaunt, whose face was
lighted by a savage joy as Cromwell
spoke:

"This skiff might be of use to you for
personal projects."

"Oh, my lord, my lord!"

"That title," said Cromwell, laughing,
"is all very well here, but take care a
word like that does not escape your lips
in public."

"But your honor will soon be called so
generally."

"I hope so, at least," said Cromwell,
rising and putting on his cloak.

"You are going, sir?"

"Yes," said Cromwell. "I slept here last
night and the night before, and you know
it is not my custom to sleep three times
in the same bed."

"Then," said Mordaunt, "your honor gives
me my liberty for to-night?"

"And even for all day to-morrow, if you
want it. Since last evening," he added,
smiling, "you have done enough in my
service, and if you have any personal
matters to settle it is just that I
should give you time."

"Thank you, sir; it will be well
employed, I hope."

Cromwell turned as he was going.

"Are you armed?" he asked.

"I have my sword."

"And no one waiting for you outside?"

"No."

"Then you had better come with me."

"Thank you, sir, but the way by the
subterranean passage would take too much
time and I have none to lose."

Cromwell placed his hand on a hidden
handle and opened a door so well
concealed by the tapestry that the most
practiced eye could not have discovered
it. It closed after him with a spring.
This door communicated with a
subterranean passage, leading under the
street to a grotto in the garden of a
house about a hundred yards from that of
the future Protector.

It was just before this that Grimaud had
perceived the two men seated together.

D'Artagnan was the first to recover from
his surprise.

"Mordaunt," he cried. "Ah! by Heaven! it
is God Himself who sent us here."

"Yes," said Porthos, "let us break the
door in and fall upon him."

"No," replied D'Artagnan, "no noise.
Now, Grimaud, you come here, climb up to
the window again and tell us if Mordaunt
is alone and whether he is preparing to
go out or go to bed. If he comes out we
shall catch him. If he stays in we will
break in the window. It is easier and
less noisy than the door."

Grimaud began to scale the wall again.

"Keep guard at the other door, Athos and
Aramis. Porthos and I will stay here."

The friends obeyed.

"He is alone," said Grimaud.

"We did not see his companion come out."

"He may have gone by the other door."

"What is he doing?"

"Putting on his cloak and gloves."

"He's ours," muttered D'Artagnan.

Porthos mechanically drew his dagger
from the scabbard.

"Put it up again, my friend," said
D'Artagnan. "We must proceed in an
orderly manner."

"Hush!" said Grimaud, "he is coming out.
He has put out the lamp, I can see
nothing now."

"Get down then and quickly."

Grimaud leaped down. The snow deadened
the noise of his fall.

"Now go and tell Athos and Aramis to
stand on each side of the door and clap
their hands if they catch him. We will
do the same."

The next moment the door opened and
Mordaunt appeared on the threshold, face
to face with D'Artagnan. Porthos clapped
his hands and the other two came running
around. Mordaunt was livid, but he
uttered no cry nor called for
assistance. D'Artagnan quietly pushed
him in again, and by the light of a lamp
on the staircase made him ascend the
steps backward one by one, keeping his
eyes all the time on Mordaunt's hands,
who, however, knowing that it was
useless, attempted no resistance. At
last they stood face to face in the very
room where ten minutes before Mordaunt
had been talking to Cromwell.

Porthos came up behind, and unhooking
the lamp on the staircase relit that in
the room. Athos and Aramis entered last
and locked the door behind them.

"Oblige me by taking a seat," said
D'Artagnan, pushing a chair toward
Mordaunt, who sat down, pale but calm.
Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan drew
their chairs near him. Athos alone kept
away and sat in the furthest corner of
the room, as if determined to be merely
a spectator of the proceedings. He
seemed to be quite overcome. Porthos
rubbed his hands in feverish impatience.
Aramis bit his lips till the blood came.

D'Artagnan alone was calm, at least in
appearance.

"Monsieur Mordaunt," he said, "since,
after running after one another so long,
chance has at last brought us together,
let us have a little conversation, if
you please."



69

Conversational.



Though Mordaunt had been so completely
taken by surprise and had mounted the
stairs in such utter confusion, when
once seated he recovered himself, as it
were, and prepared to seize any possible
opportunity of escape. His eye wandered
to a long stout sword on his flank and
he instinctively slipped it around
within reach of his right hand.

D'Artagnan was waiting for a reply to
his remark and said nothing. Aramis
muttered to himself, "We shall hear
nothing but the usual commonplace
things."

Porthos sucked his mustache, muttering,
"A good deal of ceremony to-night about
crushing an adder." Athos shrunk into
his corner, pale and motionless as a
bas-relief.

The silence, however, could not last
forever. So D'Artagnan began:

"Sir," he said, with desperate
politeness, "it seems to me that you
change your costume almost as rapidly as
I have seen the Italian mummers do, whom
the Cardinal Mazarin brought over from
Bergamo and whom he doubtless took you
to see during your travels in France."

Mordaunt did not reply.

"Just now," D'Artagnan continued, "you
were disguised -- I mean to say,
attired -- as a murderer, and now ---- "

"And now I look very much like a man who
is going to be murdered."

"Oh! sir," said D'Artagnan, "how can you
talk like that when you are in the
company of gentlemen and have such an
excellent sword at your side?"

"No sword is excellent enough to be of
use against four swords and daggers."

"Well, that is scarcely the question. I
had the honor of asking you why you
altered your costume. The mask and beard
became you very well, and as to the axe,
I do not think it would be out of
keeping even at this moment. Why, then,
have you laid it aside?"

"Because, remembering the scene at
Armentieres, I thought I should find
four axes for one, as I was to meet four
executioners."

"Sir," replied D'Artagnan, in the
calmest manner possible, "you are very
young; I shall therefore overlook your
frivolous remarks. What took place at
Armentieres has no connection whatever
with the present occasion. We could
scarcely have requested your mother to
take a sword and fight us."

"Aha! It is a duel, then?" cried
Mordaunt, as if disposed to reply at
once to the provocation.

Porthos rose, always ready for this kind
of adventure.

"Pardon me," said D'Artagnan. "Do not
let us do things in a hurry. We will
arrange the matter rather better.
Confess, Monsieur Mordaunt, that you are
anxious to kill some of us."

"All," replied Mordaunt.

"Then, my dear sir; I am convinced that
these gentlemen return your kind wishes
and will be delighted to kill you also.
Of course they will do so as honorable
gentlemen, and the best proof I can
furnish is this ---- "

So saying, he threw his hat on the
ground, pushed back his chair to the
wall and bowed to Mordaunt with true
French grace.

"At your service, sir," he continued.
"My sword is shorter than yours, it's
true, but, bah! I think the arm will
make up for the sword."

"Halt!" cried Porthos coming forward. "I
begin, and without any rhetoric."

"Allow me, Porthos," said Aramis.

Athos did not move. He might have been
taken for a statue. Even his breathing
seemed to be arrested.

"Gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, "you shall
have your turn. Monsieur Mordaunt
dislikes you sufficiently not to refuse
you afterward. You can see it in his
eye. So pray keep your places, like
Athos, whose calmness is entirely
laudable. Besides, we will have no words
about it. I have particular business to
settle with this gentleman and I shall
and will begin."

Porthos and Aramis drew back,
disappointed, and drawing his sword
D'Artagnan turned to his adversary:

"Sir, I am waiting for you."

"And for my part, gentlemen, I admire
you. You are disputing which shall fight
me first, but you do not consult me who
am most concerned in the matter. I hate
you all, but not equally. I hope to kill
all four of you, but I am more likely to
kill the first than the second, the
second than the third, and the third
than the last. I claim, then, the right
to choose my opponent. If you refuse
this right you may kill me, but I shall
not fight."

"It is but fair," said Porthos and
Aramis, hoping he would choose one of
them.

Athos and D'Artagnan said nothing, but
their silence seemed to imply consent.

"Well, then," said Mordaunt, "I choose
for my adversary the man who, not
thinking himself worthy to be called
Comte de la Fere, calls himself Athos."

Athos sprang up, but after an instant of
motionless silence he said, to the
astonishment of his friends, "Monsieur
Mordaunt, a duel between us is
impossible. Submit this honour to
somebody else." And he sat down.

"Ah!" said Mordaunt, with a sneer,
"there's one who is afraid."

"Zounds!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, bounding
toward him, "who says that Athos is
afraid?"

"Let him have his say, D'Artagnan," said
Athos, with a smile of sadness and
contempt.

"Is it your decision, Athos?" resumed
the Gascon.

"Irrevocably."

"You hear, sir," said D'Artagnan,
turning to Mordaunt. "The Comte de la
Fere will not do you the honor of
fighting with you. Choose one of us to
replace the Comte de la Fere."

"As long as I don't fight with him it is
the same to me with whom I fight. Put
your names into a hat and draw lots."

"A good idea," said D'Artagnan.

"At least that will conciliate us all,"
said Aramis.

"I should never have thought of that,"
said Porthos, "and yet it is very
simple."

"Come, Aramis," said D'Artagnan, "write
this for us in those neat little
characters in which you wrote to Marie
Michon that the mother of this gentleman
intended to assassinate the Duke of
Buckingham."

Mordaunt sustained this new attack
without wincing. He stood with his arms
folded, apparently as calm as any man
could be in such circumstances. If he
had not courage he had what is very like
it, namely, pride.

Aramis went to Cromwell's desk, tore off
three bits of paper of equal size, wrote
on the first his own name and on the
others those of his two companions, and
presented them open to Mordaunt, who by
a movement of his head indicated that he
left the matter entirely to Aramis. He
then rolled them separately and put them
in a hat, which he handed to Mordaunt.

Mordaunt put his hand into the hat, took
out one of the three papers and
disdainfully dropped it on the table
without reading it.

"Ah! serpent," muttered D'Artagnan, "I
would give my chance of a captaincy in
the mousquetaires for that to be my
name."

Aramis opened the paper, and in a voice
trembling with hate and vengeance read
"D'Artagnan."

The Gascon uttered a cry of joy and
turning to Mordaunt:

"I hope, sir," said he, "you have no
objection to make."

"None, whatever," replied the other,
drawing his sword and resting the point
on his boot.

The moment that D'Artagnan saw that his
wish was accomplished and his man would
not escape him, he recovered his usual
tranquillity. He turned up his cuffs
neatly and rubbed the sole of his right
boot on the floor, but did not fail,
however, to remark that Mordaunt was
looking about him in a singular manner.

"Are you ready, sir?" he said at last.

"I was waiting for you, sir," said
Mordaunt, raising his head and casting
at his opponent a look it would be
impossible to describe.

"Well, then," said the Gascon, "take
care of yourself, for I am not a bad
hand at the rapier."

"Nor I either."

"So much the better; that sets my mind
at rest. Defend yourself."

"One minute," said the young man. "Give
me your word, gentlemen, that you will
not attack me otherwise than one after
the other."

"Is it to have the pleasure of insulting
us that you say that, my little viper?"

"No, but to set my mind at rest, as you
observed just now."

"It is for something else than that, I
imagine," muttered D'Artagnan, shaking
his head doubtfully.

"On the honor of gentlemen," said Aramis
and Porthos.

"In that case, gentlemen, have the
kindness to retire into the corners, so
as to give us ample room. We shall
require it."

"Yes, gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, "we
must not leave this person the slightest
pretext for behaving badly, which, with
all due respect, I fancy he is anxious
still to do."

This new attack made no impression on
Mordaunt. The space was cleared, the two
lamps placed on Cromwell's desk, in
order that the combatants might have as
much light as possible; and the swords
crossed.

D'Artagnan was too good a swordsman to
trifle with his opponent. He made a
rapid and brilliant feint which Mordaunt
parried.

"Aha!" he cried with a smile of
satisfaction.

And without losing a minute, thinking he
saw an opening, he thrust his right in
and forced Mordaunt to parry a counter
en quarte so fine that the point of the
weapon might have turned within a
wedding ring.

This time it was Mordaunt who smiled.

"Ah, sir," said D'Artagnan, "you have a
wicked smile. It must have been the
devil who taught it you, was it not?"

Mordaunt replied by trying his
opponent's weapon with an amount of
strength which the Gascon was astonished
to find in a form apparently so feeble;
but thanks to a parry no less clever
than that which Mordaunt had just
achieved, he succeeded in meeting his
sword, which slid along his own without
touching his chest.

Mordaunt rapidly sprang back a step.

"Ah! you lose ground, you are turning?
Well, as you please, I even gain
something by it, for I no longer see
that wicked smile of yours. You have no
idea what a false look you have,
particularly when you are afraid. Look
at my eyes and you will see what no
looking-glass has ever shown you -- a
frank and honorable countenance."

To this flow of words, not perhaps in
the best taste, but characteristic of
D'Artagnan, whose principal object was
to divert his opponent's attention,
Mordaunt did not reply, but continuing
to turn around he succeeded in changing
places with D'Artagnan.

He smiled more and more sarcastically
and his smile began to make the Gascon
anxious.

"Come, come," cried D'Artagnan, "we must
finish with this," and in his turn he
pressed Mordaunt hard, who continued to
lose ground, but evidently on purpose
and without letting his sword leave the
line for a moment. However, as they were
fighting in a room and had not space to
go on like that forever, Mordaunt's foot
at last touched the wall, against which
he rested his left hand.

"Ah, this time you cannot lose ground,
my fine friend!" exclaimed D'Artagnan.
"Gentlemen, did you ever see a scorpion
pinned to a wall? No. Well, then, you
shall see it now."

In a second D'Artagnan had made three
terrible thrusts at Mordaunt, all of
which touched, but only pricked him. The
three friends looked on, panting and
astonished. At last D'Artagnan, having
got up too close, stepped back to
prepare a fourth thrust, but the moment
when, after a fine, quick feint, he was
attacking as sharply as lightning, the
wall seemed to give way, Mordaunt
disappeared through the opening, and
D'Artagnan's blade, caught between the
panels, shivered like a sword of glass.
D'Artagnan sprang back; the wall had
closed again.

Mordaunt, in fact, while defending
himself, had manoeuvred so as to reach
the secret door by which Cromwell had
left, had felt for the knob with his
left hand, pressed it and disappeared.

The Gascon uttered a furious
imprecation, which was answered by a
wild laugh on the other side of the iron
panel.

"Help me, gentlemen," cried D'Artagnan,
"we must break in this door."

"It is the devil in person!" said
Aramis, hastening forward.

"He escapes us," growled Porthos,
pushing his huge shoulder against the
hinges, but in vain. "'Sblood! he
escapes us."

"So much the better," muttered Athos.

"I thought as much," said D'Artagnan,
wasting his strength in useless efforts.
"Zounds, I thought as much when the
wretch kept moving around the room. I
thought he was up to something."

"It's a misfortune, to which his friend,
the devil, treats us," said Aramis.

"It's a piece of good fortune sent from
Heaven," said Athos, evidently much
relieved.

"Really!" said D'Artagnan, abandoning
the attempt to burst open the panel
after several ineffectual attempts,
"Athos, I cannot imagine how you can
talk to us in that way. You cannot
understand the position we are in. In
this kind of game, not to kill is to let
one's self be killed. This fox of a
fellow will be sending us a hundred
iron-sided beasts who will pick us off
like sparrows in this place. Come, come,
we must be off. If we stay here five
minutes more there's an end of us."

"Yes, you are right."

"But where shall we go?" asked Porthos.

"To the hotel, to be sure, to get our
baggage and horses; and from there, if
it please God, to France, where, at
least, I understand the architecture of
the houses."

So, suiting the action to the word,
D'Artagnan thrust the remnant of his
sword into its scabbard, picked up his
hat and ran down the stairs, followed by
the others.



70

The Skiff "Lightning."



D'Artagnan had judged correctly;
Mordaunt felt that he had no time to
lose, and he lost none. He knew the
rapidity of decision and action that
characterized his enemies and resolved
to act with reference to that. This time
the musketeers had an adversary who was
worthy of them.

After closing the door carefully behind
him Mordaunt glided into the
subterranean passage, sheathing on the
way his now useless sword, and thus
reached the neighboring house, where he
paused to examine himself and to take
breath.

"Good!" he said, "nothing, almost
nothing -- scratches, nothing more; two
in the arm and one in the breast. The
wounds that I make are better than
that -- witness the executioner of
Bethune, my uncle and King Charles. Now,
not a second to lose, for a second lost
will perhaps save them. They must die --
die all together -- killed at one stroke
by the thunder of men in default of
God's. They must disappear, broken,
scattered, annihilated. I will run,
then, till my legs no longer serve, till
my heart bursts in my bosom but I will
arrive before they do."

Mordaunt proceeded at a rapid pace to
the nearest cavalry barracks, about a
quarter of a league distant. He made
that quarter of a league in four or five
minutes. Arrived at the barracks he made
himself known, took the best horse in
the stables, mounted and gained the high
road. A quarter of an hour later he was
at Greenwich.

"There is the port," he murmured. "That
dark point yonder is the Isle of Dogs.
Good! I am half an hour in advance of
them, an hour, perhaps. Fool that I was!
I have almost killed myself by my
needless haste. Now," he added, rising
in the stirrups and looking about him,
"which, I wonder, is the Lightning?"

At this moment, as if in reply to his
words, a man lying on a coil of cables
rose and advanced a few steps toward
him. Mordaunt drew a handkerchief from
his pocket, and tying a knot at each
corner -- the signal agreed upon --
waved it in the air and the man came up
to him. He was wrapped in a large rough
cape, which concealed his form and
partly his face.

"Do you wish to go on the water, sir?"
said the sailor.

"Yes, just so. Along the Isle of Dogs."

"And perhaps you have a preference for
one boat more than another. You would
like one that sails as rapidly as ---- "

"Lightning," interrupted Mordaunt.

"Then mine is the boat you want, sir.
I'm your man."

"I begin to think so, particularly if
you have not forgotten a certain
signal."

"Here it is, sir," and the sailor took
from his coat a handkerchief, tied at
each corner.

"Good, quite right!" cried Mordaunt,
springing off his horse. "There's not a
moment to lose; now take my horse to the
nearest inn and conduct me to your
vessel."

"But," asked the sailor, "where are your
companions? I thought there were four of
you."

"Listen to me, sir. I'm not the man you
take me for; you are in Captain Rogers's
post, are you not? under orders from
General Cromwell. Mine, also, are from
him!"

"Indeed, sir, I recognize you; you are
Captain Mordaunt."

Mordaunt was startled.

"Oh, fear nothing," said the skipper,
showing his face. "I am a friend."

"Captain Groslow!" cried Mordaunt.

"Himself. The general remembered that I
had formerly been a naval officer and he
gave me the command of this expedition.
Is there anything new in the wind?"

"Nothing."

"I thought, perhaps, that the king's
death ---- "

"Has only hastened their flight; in ten
minutes they will perhaps be here."

"What have you come for, then?"

"To embark with you."

"Ah! ah! the general doubted my
fidelity?"

"No, but I wish to have a share in my
revenge. Haven't you some one who will
relieve me of my horse?"

Groslow whistled and a sailor appeared.

"Patrick," said Groslow, "take this
horse to the stables of the nearest inn.
If any one asks you whose it is you can
say that it belongs to an Irish
gentleman."

The sailor departed without reply.

"Now," said Mordaunt, "are you not
afraid that they will recognize you?"

"There is no danger, dressed as I am in
this pilot coat, on a night as dark as
this. Besides even you didn't recognize
me; they will be much less likely to."

"That is true," said Mordaunt, "and they
will be far from thinking of you.
Everything is ready, is it not?"

"Yes."

"The cargo on board?"

"Yes."

"Five full casks?"

"And fifty empty ones."

"Good."

"We are carrying port wine to Anvers."

"Excellent. Now take me aboard and
return to your post, for they will soon
be here."

"I am ready."

"It is important that none of your crew
should see me."

"I have but one man on board, and I am
as sure of him as I am of myself.
Besides, he doesn't know you; like his
mates he is ready to obey our orders
knowing nothing of our plan."

"Very well; let us go."

They then went down to the Thames. A
boat was fastened to the shore by a
chain fixed to a stake. Groslow jumped
in, followed by Mordaunt, and in five
minutes they were quite away from that
world of houses which then crowded the
outskirts of London; and Mordaunt could
discern the little vessel riding at
anchor near the Isle of Dogs. When they
reached the side of this felucca,
Mordaunt, dexterous in his eagerness for
vengeance, seized a rope and climbed up
the side of the vessel with a coolness
and agility very rare among landsmen. He
went with Groslow to the captain's
berth, a sort of temporary cabin of
planks, for the chief apartment had been
given up by Captain Rogers to the
passengers, who were to be accommodated
at the other end of the boat.

"They will have nothing to do, then at
this end?" said Mordaunt.

"Nothing at all."

"That's a capital arrangement. Return to
Greenwich and bring them here. I shall
hide myself in your cabin. You have a
longboat?"

"That in which we came."

"It appeared light and well
constructed."

"Quite a canoe."

"Fasten it to the poop with a rope; put
the oars into it, so that it may follow
in the track and there will be nothing
to do except to cut the cord. Put a good
supply of rum and biscuit in it for the
seamen; should the night happen to be
stormy they will not be sorry to find
something to console themselves with."

"Consider all this done. Do you wish to
see the powder-room?"

"No. When you return I will set the fuse
myself, but be careful to conceal your
face, so that you cannot be recognized
by them."

"Never fear."

"There's ten o'clock striking at
Greenwich."

Groslow, then, having given the sailor
on duty an order to be on the watch with
more than usual vigilance, went down
into the longboat and soon reached
Greenwich. The wind was chilly and the
jetty was deserted, as he approached it;
but he had no sooner landed than he
heard a noise of horses galloping upon
the paved road.

These horsemen were our friends, or
rather, an avant garde, composed of
D'Artagnan and Athos. As soon as they
arrived at the spot where Groslow stood
they stopped, as if guessing that he was
the man they wanted. Athos alighted and
calmly opened the handkerchief tied at
each corner, whilst D'Artagnan, ever
cautious, remained on horseback, one
hand upon his pistol, leaning forward
watchfully.

On seeing the appointed signal, Groslow,
who had at first crept behind one of the
cannon planted on that spot, walked
straight up to the gentlemen. He was so
well wrapped up in his cloak that it
would have been impossible to see his
face even if the night had not been so
dark as to render precaution
superfluous; nevertheless, the keen
glance of Athos perceived at once it was
not Rogers who stood before them.

"What do you want with us?" he asked of
Groslow.

"I wish to inform you, my lord," replied
Groslow, with an Irish accent, feigned
of course, "that if you are looking for
Captain Rogers you will not find him. He
fell down this morning and broke his
leg. But I'm his cousin; he told me
everything and desired me to watch
instead of him, and in his place to
conduct, wherever they wished to go, the
gentlemen who should bring me a
handkerchief tied at each corner, like
that one which you hold and one which I
have in my pocket."

And he drew out the handkerchief.

"Was that all he said?" inquired Athos.

"No, my lord; he said you had engaged to
pay seventy pounds if I landed you safe
and sound at Boulogne or any other port
you choose in France."

"What do you think of all this?" said
Athos, in a low tone to D'Artagnan,
after explaining to him in French what
the sailor had said in English.

"It seems a likely story to me."

"And to me, too."

"Besides, we can but blow out his brains
if he proves false," said the Gascon;
"and you, Athos, you know something of
everything and can be our captain. I
dare say you know how to navigate,
should he fail us."

"My dear friend, you guess well. My
father meant me for the navy and I have
some vague notions about navigation."

"You see!" cried D'Artagnan.

They then summoned their friends, who,
with Blaisois, Mousqueton and Grimaud,
promptly joined them, leaving Parry
behind them, who was to take back to
London the horses of the gentlemen and
of their lackeys, which had been sold to
the host in settlement of their account
with him. Thanks to this stroke of
business the four friends were able to
take away with them a sum of money
which, if not large, was sufficient as a
provision against delays and accidents.

Parry parted from his friends
regretfully; they had proposed his going
with them to France, but he had
straightway declined.

"It is very simple," Mousqueton had
said; "he is thinking of Groslow."

It was Captain Groslow, the reader will
remember, who had broken Parry's head.

D'Artagnan resumed immediately the
attitude of distrust that was habitual
with him. He found the wharf too
completely deserted, the night too dark,
the captain too accommodating. He had
reported to Aramis what had taken place,
and Aramis, not less distrustful than
he, had increased his suspicions. A
slight click of the tongue against his
teeth informed Athos of the Gascon's
uneasiness.

"We have no time now for suspicions,"
said Athos. "The boat is waiting for us;
come."

"Besides," said Aramis, "what prevents
our being distrustful and going aboard
at the same time? We can watch the
skipper."

"And if he doesn't go straight I will
crush him, that's all."

"Well said, Porthos," replied
D'Artagnan. "Let us go, then. You first,
Mousqueton," and he stopped his friends,
directing the valets to go first, in
order to test the plank leading from the
pier to the boat.

The three valets passed without
accident. Athos followed them, then
Porthos, then Aramis. D'Artagnan went
last, still shaking his head.

"What in the devil is the matter with
you, my friend?" said Porthos. "Upon my
word you would make Caesar afraid."

"The matter is," replied D'Artagnan,
"that I can see upon this pier neither
inspector nor sentinel nor exciseman."

"And you complain of that!" said
Porthos. "Everything goes as if in
flowery paths."

"Everything goes too well, Porthos. But
no matter; we must trust in God."

As soon as the plank was withdrawn the
captain took his place at the tiller and
made a sign to one of the sailors, who,
boat-hook in hand, began to push out
from the labyrinth of boats in which
they were involved. The other sailor had
already seated himself on the port side
and was ready to row. As soon as there
was room for rowing, his companion
rejoined him and the boat began to move
more rapidly.

"At last we are off!" exclaimed Porthos.

"Alas," said Athos, "we depart alone."

"Yes; but all four together and without
a scratch; which is a consolation."

"We are not yet at our destination,"
observed the prudent D'Artagnan; "beware
of misadventure."

"Ah, my friend!" cried Porthos, "like
the crows, you always bring bad omens.
Who could intercept us on such a night
as this, pitch dark, when one does not
see more than twenty yards before one?"

"Yes, but to-morrow morning ---- "

"To-morrow we shall be at Boulogne."

"I hope so, with all my heart," said the
Gascon, "and I confess my weakness. Yes,
Athos, you may laugh, but as long as we
were within gunshot of the pier or of
the vessels lying by it I was looking
for a frightful discharge of musketry
which would crush us."

"But," said Porthos, with great wisdom,
"that was impossible, for they would
have killed the captain and the
sailors."

"Bah! much Monsieur Mordaunt would care.
You don't imagine he would consider a
little thing like that?"

"At any rate," said Porthos, "I am glad
to hear D'Artagnan admit that he is
afraid."

"I not only confess it, but am proud of
it," returned the Gascon; "I'm not such
a rhinoceros as you are. Oho! what's
that?"

"The Lightning," answered the captain,
"our felucca."

"So far, so good," laughed Athos.

They went on board and the captain
instantly conducted them to the berth
prepared for them -- a cabin which was
to serve for all purposes and for the
whole party; he then tried to slip away
under pretext of giving orders to some
one.

"Stop a moment," cried D'Artagnan; "pray
how many men have you on board,
captain?"

"I don't understand," was the reply.

"Explain it, Athos."

Groslow, on the question being
interpreted, answered, "Three, without
counting myself."

D'Artagnan understood, for while
replying the captain had raised three
fingers. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "I begin to
be more at my ease, however, whilst you
settle yourselves, I shall make the
round of the boat."

"As for me," said Porthos, "I will see
to the supper."

"A very good idea, Porthos," said the
Gascon. "Athos lend me Grimaud, who in
the society of his friend Parry has
perhaps picked up a little English, and
can act as my interpreter."

"Go, Grimaud," said Athos.

D'Artagnan, finding a lantern on the
deck, took it up and with a pistol in
his hand he said to the captain, in
English, "Come," (being, with the
classic English oath, the only English
words he knew), and so saying he
descended to the lower deck.

This was divided into three
compartments -- one which was covered by
the floor of that room in which Athos,
Porthos and Aramis were to pass the
night; the second was to serve as the
sleeping-room for the servants, the
third, under the prow of the ship, was
under the temporary cabin in which
Mordaunt was concealed.

"Oho!" cried D'Artagnan, as he went down
the steps of the hatchway, preceded by
the lantern, "what a number of barrels!
one would think one was in the cave of
Ali Baba. What is there in them?" he
added, putting his lantern on one of the
casks.

The captain seemed inclined to go upon
deck again, but controlling himself he
answered:

"Port wine."

"Ah! port wine! 'tis a comfort," said
the Gascon, "since we shall not die of
thirst. Are they all full?"

Grimaud translated the question, and
Groslow, who was wiping the perspiration
from off his forehead, answered:

"Some full, others empty."

D'Artagnan struck the barrels with his
hand, and having ascertained that he
spoke the truth, pushed his lantern,
greatly to the captain's alarm, into the
interstices between the barrels, and
finding that there was nothing concealed
in them:

"Come along," he said; and he went
toward the door of the second
compartment.

"Stop!" said the Englishman, "I have the
key of that door;" and he opened the
door, with a trembling hand, into the
second compartment, where Mousqueton and
Blaisois were preparing supper.

Here there was evidently nothing to seek
or to apprehend and they passed rapidly
to examine the third compartment.

This was the room appropriated to the
sailors. Two or three hammocks hung upon
the ceiling, a table and two benches
composed the entire furniture.
D'Artagnan picked up two or three old
sails hung on the walls, and meeting
nothing to suspect, regained by the
hatchway the deck of the vessel.

"And this room?" he asked, pointing to
the captain's cabin.

"That's my room," replied Groslow.

"Open the door."

The captain obeyed. D'Artagnan stretched
out his arm in which he held the
lantern, put his head in at the half
opened door, and seeing that the cabin
was nothing better than a shed:

"Good," he said. "If there is an army on
board it is not here that it is hidden.
Let us see what Porthos has found for
supper." And thanking the captain, he
regained the state cabin, where his
friends were.

Porthos had found nothing, and with him
fatigue had prevailed over hunger. He
had fallen asleep and was in a profound
slumber when D'Artagnan returned. Athos
and Aramis were beginning to close their
eyes, which they half opened when their
companion came in again.

"Well!" said Aramis.

"All is well; we may sleep tranquilly."

On this assurance the two friends fell
asleep; and D'Artagnan, who was very
weary, bade good-night to Grimaud and
laid himself down in his cloak, with
naked sword at his side, in such a
manner that his body barricaded the
passage, and it should be impossible to
enter the room without upsetting him.



71

Port Wine.



In ten minutes the masters slept; not so
the servants ---hungry, and more thirsty
than hungry.

Blaisois and Mousqueton set themselves
to preparing their bed which consisted
of a plank and a valise. On a hanging
table, which swung to and fro with the
rolling of the vessel, were a pot of
beer and three glasses.

"This cursed rolling!" said Blaisois. "I
know it will serve me as it did when we
came over."

"And to think," said Mousqueton, "that
we have nothing to fight seasickness
with but barley bread and hop beer.
Pah!"

"But where is your wicker flask,
Monsieur Mousqueton? Have you lost it?"
asked Blaisois.

"No," replied Mousqueton, "Parry kept
it. Those devilish Scotchmen are always
thirsty. And you, Grimaud," he said to
his companion, who had just come in
after his round with D'Artagnan, "are
you thirsty?"

"As thirsty as a Scotchman!" was
Grimaud's laconic reply.

And he sat down and began to cast up the
accounts of his party, whose money he
managed.

"Oh, lackadaisy! I'm beginning to feel
queer!" cried Blaisois.

"If that's the case," said Mousqueton,
with a learned air, "take some
nourishment."

"Do you call that nourishment?" said
Blaisois, pointing to the barley bread
and pot of beer upon the table.

"Blaisois," replied Mousqueton,
"remember that bread is the true
nourishment of a Frenchman, who is not
always able to get bread, ask Grimaud."

"Yes, but beer?" asked Blaisois sharply,
"is that their true drink?"

"As to that," answered Mousqueton,
puzzled how to get out of the
difficulty, "I must confess that to me
beer is as disagreeable as wine is to
the English."

"What! Monsieur Mousqueton! The
English -- do they dislike wine?"

"They hate it."

"But I have seen them drink it."

"As a punishment. For example, an
English prince died one day because they
had put him into a butt of Malmsey. I
heard the Chevalier d'Herblay say so."

"The fool!" cried Blaisois, "I wish I
had been in his place."

"Thou canst be," said Grimaud, writing
down his figures.

"How?" asked Blaisois, "I can? Explain
yourself."

Grimaud went on with his sum and cast up
the whole.

"Port," he said, extending his hand in
the direction of the first compartment
examined by D'Artagnan and himself.

"Eh? eh? ah? Those barrels I saw through
the door?"

"Port!" replied Grimaud, beginning a
fresh sum.

"I have heard," said Blaisois, "that
port is a very good wine."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Mousqueton,
smacking his lips. "Excellent; there is
port wine in the cellar of Monsieur le
Baron de Bracieux."

"Suppose we ask these Englishmen to sell
us a bottle," said the honest Blaisois.

"Sell!" cried Mousqueton, about whom
there was a remnant of his ancient
marauding character left. "One may well
perceive, young man, that you are
inexperienced. Why buy what one can
take?"

"Take!" said Blaisois; "covet the goods
of your neighbor? That is forbidden, it
seems to me."

"Where forbidden?" asked Mousqueton.

"In the commandments of God, or of the
church, I don't know which. I only know
it says, `Thou shalt not covet thy
neighbor's goods, nor yet his wife.'"

"That is a child's reason, Monsieur
Blaisois," said Mousqueton in his most
patronizing manner. "Yes, you talk like
a child -- I repeat the word. Where have
you read in the Scriptures, I ask you,
that the English are your neighbors?"

"Where, that is true," said Blaisois;
"at least, I can't now recall it."

"A child's reason -- I repeat it,"
continued Mousqueton. "If you had been
ten years engaged in war, as Grimaud and
I have been, my dear Blaisois, you would
know the difference there is between the
goods of others and the goods of
enemies. Now an Englishman is an enemy;
this port wine belongs to the English,
therefore it belongs to us."

"And our masters?" asked Blaisois,
stupefied by this harangue, delivered
with an air of profound sagacity, "will
they be of your opinion?"

Mousqueton smiled disdainfully.

"I suppose that you think it necessary
that I should disturb the repose of
these illustrious lords to say,
`Gentlemen, your servant, Mousqueton, is
thirsty.' What does Monsieur Bracieux
care, think you, whether I am thirsty or
not?"

"'Tis a very expensive wine," said
Blaisois, shaking his head.

"Were it liquid gold, Monsieur Blaisois,
our masters would not deny themselves
this wine. Know that Monsieur de
Bracieux is rich enough to drink a tun
of port wine, even if obliged to pay a
pistole for every drop." His manner
became more and more lofty every
instant; then he arose and after
finishing off the beer at one draught he
advanced majestically to the door of the
compartment where the wine was. "Ah!
locked!" he exclaimed; "these devils of
English, how suspicious they are!"

"Locked!" said Blaisois; "ah! the deuce
it is; unlucky, for my stomach is
getting more and more upset."

"Locked!" repeated Mousqueton.

"But," Blaisois ventured to say, "I have
heard you relate, Monsieur Mousqueton,
that once on a time, at Chantilly, you
fed your master and yourself by taking
partridges in a snare, carp with a line,
and bottles with a slipnoose."

"Perfectly true; but there was an
airhole in the cellar and the wine was
in bottles. I cannot throw the loop
through this partition nor move with a
pack-thread a cask of wine which may
perhaps weigh two hundred pounds."

"No, but you can take out two or three
boards of the partition," answered
Blaisois, "and make a hole in the cask
with a gimlet."

Mousqueton opened his great round eyes
to the utmost, astonished to find in
Blaisois qualities for which he did not
give him credit.

"'Tis true," he said; "but where can I
get a chisel to take the planks out, a
gimlet to pierce the cask?"

"Trousers," said Grimaud, still squaring
his accounts.

"Ah, yes!" said Mousqueton.

Grimaud, in fact, was not only the
accountant, but the armorer of the
party; and as he was a man full of
forethought, these trousers, carefully
rolled up in his valise, contained every
sort of tool for immediate use.

Mousqueton, therefore, was soon provided
with tools and he began his task. In a
few minutes he had extracted three
boards. He tried to pass his body
through the aperture, but not being like
the frog in the fable, who thought he
was larger than he really was, he found
he must take out three or four more
before he could get through.

He sighed and set to work again.

Grimaud had now finished his accounts.
He arose and stood near Mousqueton.

"I," he said.

"What?" said Mousqueton.

"I can pass."

"That is true," said Mousqueton,
glancing at his friend's long and thin
body, "you will pass easily."

"And he knows the full casks," said
Blaisois, "for he has already been in
the hold with Monsieur le Chevalier
d'Artagnan. Let Monsieur Grimaud go in,
Monsieur Mouston."

"I could go in as well as Grimaud," said
Mousqueton, a little piqued.

"Yes, but that would take too much time
and I am thirsty. I am getting more and
more seasick."

"Go in, then, Grimaud," said Mousqueton,
handing him the beer pot and gimlet.

"Rinse the glasses," said Grimaud. Then
with a friendly gesture toward
Mousqueton, that he might forgive him
for finishing an enterprise so
brilliantly begun by another, he glided
like a serpent through the opening and
disappeared.

Blaisois was in a state of great
excitement; he was in ecstasies. Of all
the exploits performed since their
arrival in England by the extraordinary
men with whom he had the honor to be
associated, this seemed without question
to be the most wonderful.

"You are about to see" said Mousqueton,
looking at Blaisois with an expression
of superiority which the latter did not
even think of questioning, "you are
about to see, Blaisois, how we old
soldiers drink when we are thirsty."

"My cloak," said Grimaud, from the
bottom of the hold.

"What do you want?" asked Blaisois.

"My cloak -- stop up the aperture with
it."

"Why?" asked Blaisois.

"Simpleton!" exclaimed Mousqueton;
"suppose any one came into the room."

"Ah, true," cried Blaisois, with evident
admiration; "but it will be dark in the
cellar."

"Grimaud always sees, dark or light,
night as well as day," answered
Mousqueton.

"That is lucky," said Blaisois. "As for
me, when I have no candle I can't take
two steps without knocking against
something."

"That's because you haven't served,"
said Mousqueton. "Had you been in the
army you would have been able to pick up
a needle on the floor of a closed oven.
But hark! I think some one is coming."

Mousqueton made, with a low whistling
sound, the sign of alarm well known to
the lackeys in the days of their youth,
resumed his place at the table and made
a sign to Blaisois to follow his
example.

Blaisois obeyed.

The door of their cabin was opened. Two
men, wrapped in their cloaks, appeared.

"Oho!" said they, "not in bed at a
quarter past eleven. That's against all
rules. In a quarter of an hour let every
one be in bed and snoring."

These two men then went toward the
compartment in which Grimaud was
secreted; opened the door, entered and
shut it after them.

"Ah!" cried Blaisois, "he is lost!"

"Grimaud's a cunning fellow," murmured
Mousqueton.

They waited for ten minutes, during
which time no noise was heard that might
indicate that Grimaud was discovered,
and at the expiration of that anxious
interval the two men returned, closed
the door after them, and repeating their
orders that the servants should go to
bed and extinguish their lights,
disappeared.

"Shall we obey?" asked Blaisois. "All
this looks suspicious."

"They said a quarter of an hour. We
still have five minutes," replied
Mousqueton.

"Suppose we warn the masters."

"Let's wait for Grimaud."

"But perhaps they have killed him."

"Grimaud would have cried out."

"You know he is almost dumb."

"We should have heard the blow, then."

"But if he doesn't return?"

"Here he is."

At that very moment Grimaud drew back
the cloak which hid the aperture and
came in with his face livid, his eyes
staring wide open with terror, so that
the pupils were contracted almost to
nothing, with a large circle of white
around them. He held in his hand a
tankard full of a dark substance, and
approaching the gleam of light shed by
the lamp he uttered this single
monosyllable: "Oh!" with such an
expression of extreme terror that
Mousqueton started, alarmed, and
Blaisois was near fainting from fright.

Both, however, cast an inquisitive
glance into the tankard -- it was full
of gunpowder.

Convinced that the ship was full of
powder instead of having a cargo of
wine, Grimaud hastened to awake
D'Artagnan, who had no sooner beheld him
than he perceived that something
extraordinary had taken place. Imposing
silence, Grimaud put out the little
night lamp, then knelt down and poured
into the lieutenant's ear a recital
melodramatic enough not to require play
of feature to give it pith.

This was the gist of his strange story:

The first barrel that Grimaud had found
on passing into the compartment he
struck -- it was empty. He passed on to
another -- it, also, was empty, but the
third which he tried was, from the dull
sound it gave out, evidently full. At
this point Grimaud stopped and was
preparing to make a hole with his
gimlet, when he found a spigot; he
therefore placed his tankard under it
and turned the spout; something,
whatever it was the cask contained, fell
silently into the tankard.

Whilst he was thinking that he should
first taste the liquor which the tankard
contained before taking it to his
companions, the door of the cellar
opened and a man with a lantern in his
hands and enveloped in a cloak, came and
stood just before the hogshead, behind
which Grimaud, on hearing him come in,
instantly crept. This was Groslow. He
was accompanied by another man, who
carried in his hand something long and
flexible rolled up, resembling a washing
line. His face was hidden under the wide
brim of his hat. Grimaud, thinking that
they had come, as he had, to try the
port wine, effaced himself behind his
cask and consoled himself with the
reflection that if he were discovered
the crime was not a great one.

"Have you the wick?" asked the one who
carried the lantern.

"Here it is," answered the other.

At the voice of this last speaker,
Grimaud started and felt a shudder
creeping through his very marrow. He
rose gently, so that his head was just
above the round of the barrel, and under
the large hat he recognized the pale
face of Mordaunt.

"How long will this fuse burn?" asked
this person.

"About five minutes," replied the
captain.

That voice also was known to Grimaud. He
looked from one to the other and after
Mordaunt he recognized Groslow.

"Then tell the men to be in readiness --
don't tell them why now. When the clock
strikes a quarter after midnight collect
your men. Get down into the longboat."

"That is, when I have lighted the
match?"

"I will undertake that. I wish to be
sure of my revenge. Are the oars in the
boat?"

"Everything is ready."

"'Tis well."

Mordaunt knelt down and fastened one end
of the train to the spigot, in order
that he might have nothing to do but to
set it on fire at the opposite end with
the match.

He then arose.

"You hear me -- at a quarter past
midnight -- in fact, in twenty minutes."

"I understand all perfectly, sir,"
replied Groslow; "but allow me to say
there is great danger in what you
undertake; would it not be better to
intrust one of the men to set fire to
the train?"

"My dear Groslow," answered Mordaunt,
"you know the French proverb, `Nothing
one does not do one's self is ever well
done.' I shall abide by that rule."

Grimaud had heard all this, if he had
not understood it. But what he saw made
good what he lacked in perfect
comprehension of the language. He had
seen the two mortal enemies of the
musketeers, had seen Mordaunt adjust the
fuse; he had heard the proverb, which
Mordaunt had given in French. Then he
felt and felt again the contents of the
tankard he held in his hand; and,
instead of the lively liquor expected by
Blaisois and Mousqueton, he found
beneath his fingers the grains of some
coarse powder.

Mordaunt went away with the captain. At
the door he stopped to listen.

"Do you hear how they sleep?" he asked.

In fact, Porthos could be heard snoring
through the partition.

"'Tis God who gives them into our
hands," answered Groslow.

"This time the devil himself shall not
save them," rejoined Mordaunt.

And they went out together.



72

End of the Port Wine Mystery.



Grimaud waited till he heard the bolt
grind in the lock and when he was
satisfied that he was alone he slowly
rose from his recumbent posture.

"Ah!" he said, wiping with his sleeve
large drops of sweat from his forehead,
"how lucky it was that Mousqueton was
thirsty!"

He made haste to pass out by the
opening, still thinking himself in a
dream; but the sight of the gunpowder in
the tankard proved to him that his dream
was a fatal nightmare.

It may be imagined that D'Artagnan
listened to these details with
increasing interest; before Grimaud had
finished he rose without noise and
putting his mouth to Aramis's ear, and
at the same time touching him on the
shoulder to prevent a sudden movement:

"Chevalier," he said, "get up and don't
make the least noise."

Aramis awoke. D'Artagnan, pressing his
hand, repeated his call. Aramis obeyed.

"Athos is near you," said D'Artagnan;
"warn him as I have warned you."

Aramis easily aroused Athos, whose sleep
was light, like that of all persons of a
finely organized constitution. But there
was more difficulty in arousing Porthos.
He was beginning to ask full explanation
of that breaking in on his sleep, which
was very annoying to him, when
D'Artagnan, instead of explaining,
closed his mouth with his hand.

Then our Gascon, extending his arms,
drew to him the heads of his three
friends till they almost touched one
another.

"Friends," he said, "we must leave this
craft at once or we are dead men."

"Bah!" said Athos, "are you still
afraid?"

"Do you know who is captain of this
vessel?"

"No."

"Captain Groslow."

The shudder of the three musketeers
showed to D'Artagnan that his words
began to make some impression on them.

"Groslow!" said Aramis; "the devil!

"Who is this Groslow?" asked Porthos. "I
don't remember him."

"Groslow is the man who broke Parry's
head and is now getting ready to break
ours."

"Oh! oh!"

"And do you know who is his lieutenant?"

"His lieutenant? There is none," said
Athos. "They don't have lieutenants in a
felucca manned by a crew of four."

"Yes, but Monsieur Groslow is not a
captain of the ordinary kind; he has a
lieutenant, and that lieutenant is
Monsieur Mordaunt."

This time the musketeers did more than
shudder -- they almost cried out. Those
invincible men were subject to a
mysterious and fatal influence which
that name had over them; the mere sound
of it filled them with terror.

"What shall we do?" said Athos.

"We must seize the felucca," said
Aramis.

"And kill him," said Porthos.

"The felucca is mined," said D'Artagnan.
"Those casks which I took for casks of
port wine are filled with powder. When
Mordaunt finds himself discovered he
will destroy all, friends and foes; and
on my word he would be bad company in
going either to Heaven or to hell."

"You have some plan, then?" asked Athos.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Have you confidence in me?"

"Give your orders," said the three
musketeers.

"Very well; come this way."

D'Artagnan went toward a very small, low
window, just large enough to let a man
through. He turned it gently on its
hinges.

"There," he said, "is our road."

"The deuce! it is a very cold one, my
dear friend," said Aramis.

"Stay here, if you like, but I warn you
'twill be rather too warm presently."

"But we cannot swim to the shore."

"The longboat is yonder, lashed to the
felucca. We will take possession of it
and cut the cable. Come, my friends."

"A moment's delay," said Athos; "our
servants?"

"Here we are!" they cried.

Meantime the three friends were standing
motionless before the awful sight which
D'Artagnan, in raising the shutters, had
disclosed to them through the narrow
opening of the window.

Those who have once beheld such a
spectacle know that there is nothing
more solemn, more striking, than the
raging sea, rolling, with its deafening
roar, its dark billows beneath the pale
light of a wintry moon.

"Gracious Heaven, we are hesitating!"
cried D'Artagnan; "if we hesitate what
will the servants do?"

"I do not hesitate, you know," said
Grimaud.

"Sir," interposed Blaisois, "I warn you
that I can only swim in rivers."

"And I not at all," said Mousqueton.

But D'Artagnan had now slipped through
the window.

"You have decided, friend?" said Athos.

"Yes," the Gascon answered; "Athos! you,
who are a perfect being, bid spirit
triumph over body. Do you, Aramis, order
the servants. Porthos, kill every one
who stands in your way."

And after pressing the hand of Athos,
D'Artagnan chose a moment when the ship
rolled backward, so that he had only to
plunge into the water, which was already
up to his waist.

Athos followed him before the felucca
rose again on the waves; the cable which
tied the boat to the vessel was then
seen plainly rising out of the sea.

D'Artagnan swam to it and held it,
suspending himself by this rope, his
head alone out of water.

In one second Athos joined him.

Then they saw, as the felucca turned,
two other heads peeping, those of Aramis
and Grimaud.

"I am uneasy about Blaisois," said
Athos; "he can, he says, only swim in
rivers."

"When people can swim at all they can
swim anywhere. To the boat! to the
boat!"

"But Porthos, I do not see him."

"Porthos is coming -- he swims like
Leviathan."

In fact, Porthos did not appear; for a
scene, half tragedy and half comedy, had
been performed by him with Mousqueton
and Blaisois, who, frightened by the
noise of the sea, by the whistling of
the wind, by the sight of that dark
water yawning like a gulf beneath them,
shrank back instead of going forward.

"Come, come!" said Porthos; "jump in."

"But, monsieur," said Mousqueton, "I
can't swim; let me stay here."

"And me, too, monsieur," said Blaisois.

"I assure you, I shall be very much in
the way in that little boat," said
Mousqueton.

"And I know I shall drown before
reaching it," continued Blaisois.

"Come along! I shall strangle you both
if you don't get out," said Porthos at
last, seizing Mousqueton by the throat.
"Forward, Blaisois!"

A groan, stifled by the grasp of
Porthos, was all the reply of poor
Blaisois, for the giant, taking him neck
and heels, plunged him into the water
headforemost, pushing him out of the
window as if he had been a plank.

"Now, Mousqueton," he said, "I hope you
don't mean to desert your master?"

"Ah, sir," replied Mousqueton, his eyes
filling with tears, "why did you
re-enter the army? We were all so happy
in the Chateau de Pierrefonds!"

And without any other complaint, passive
and obedient, either from true devotion
to his master or from the example set by
Blaisois, Mousqueton leaped into the sea
headforemost. A sublime action, at all
events, for Mousqueton looked upon
himself as dead. But Porthos was not a
man to abandon an old servant, and when
Mousqueton rose above the water, blind
as a new-born puppy, he found he was
supported by the large hand of Porthos
and that he was thus enabled, without
having occasion even to move, to advance
toward the cable with the dignity of a
very triton.

In a few minutes Porthos had rejoined
his companions, who were already in the
boat; but when, after they had all got
in, it came to his turn, there was great
danger that in putting his huge leg over
the edge of the boat he would upset the
little vessel. Athos was the last to
enter.

"Are you all here?" he asked.

"Ah! have you your sword, Athos?" cried
D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"Cut the cable, then."

Athos drew a sharp poniard from his belt
and cut the cord. The felucca went on,
the boat continued stationary, rocked
only by the swashing waves.

"Come, Athos!" said D'Artagnan, giving
his hand to the count; "you are going to
see something curious," added the
Gascon.



73

Fatality.



Scarcely had D'Artagnan uttered these
words when a ringing and sudden noise
was heard resounding through the
felucca, which had now become dim in the
obscurity of the night.

"That, you may be sure," said the
Gascon, "means something."

They then at the same instant perceived
a large lantern carried on a pole appear
on the deck, defining the forms of
shadows behind it.

Suddenly a terrible cry, a cry of
despair, was wafted through space; and
as if the shrieks of anguish had driven
away the clouds, the veil which hid the
moon was cleated away and the gray sails
and dark shrouds of the felucca were
plainly visible beneath the silvery
light.

Shadows ran, as if bewildered, to and
fro on the vessel, and mournful cries
accompanied these delirious walkers. In
the midst of these screams they saw
Mordaunt upon the poop with a torch in
hand.

The agitated figures, apparently wild
with terror, consisted of Groslow, who
at the hour fixed by Mordaunt had
collected his men and the sailors.
Mordaunt, after having listened at the
door of the cabin to hear if the
musketeers were still asleep, had gone
down into the cellar, convinced by their
silence that they were all in a deep
slumber. Then he had run to the train,
impetuous as a man who is excited by
revenge, and full of confidence, as are
those whom God blinds, he had set fire
to the wick of nitre.

All this while Groslow and his men were
assembled on deck.

"Haul up the cable and draw the boat to
us," said Groslow.

One of the sailors got down the side of
the ship, seized the cable, and drew it;
it came without the least resistance.

"The cable is cut!" he cried, "no boat!"

"How! no boat!" exclaimed Groslow; "it
is impossible."

"'Tis true, however," answered the
sailor; "there's nothing in the wake of
the ship; besides, here's the end of the
cable."

"What's the matter?" cried Mordaunt,
who, coming up out of the hatchway,
rushed to the stern, waving his torch.

"Only that our enemies have escaped;
they have cut the cord and gone off with
the boat."

Mordaunt bounded with one step to the
cabin and kicked open the door.

"Empty!" he exclaimed; "the infernal
demons!"

"We must pursue them," said Groslow,
"they can't be gone far, and we will
sink them, passing over them."

"Yes, but the fire," ejaculated
Mordaunt; "I have lighted it."

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Groslow,
rushing to the hatchway; "perhaps there
is still time to save us."

Mordaunt answered only by a terrible
laugh, threw his torch into the sea and
plunged in after it. The instant Groslow
put his foot upon the hatchway steps the
ship opened like the crater of a
volcano. A burst of flame rose toward
the skies with an explosion like that of
a hundred cannon; the air burned,
ignited by flaming embers, then the
frightful lightning disappeared, the
brands sank, one after another, into the
abyss, where they were extinguished, and
save for a slight vibration in the air,
after a few minutes had elapsed one
would have thought that nothing had
happened.

Only -- the felucca had disappeared from
the surface of the sea and Groslow and
his three sailors were consumed.

The four friends saw all this -- not a
single detail of this fearful scene
escaped them. At one moment, bathed as
they were in a flood of brilliant light,
which illumined the sea for the space of
a league, they might each be seen, each
by his own peculiar attitude and manner
expressing the awe which, even in their
hearts of bronze, they could not help
experiencing. Soon a torrent of vivid
sparks fell around them -- then, at
last, the volcano was extinguished --
then all was dark and still -- the
floating bark and heaving ocean.

They sat silent and dejected.

"By Heaven!" at last said Athos, the
first to speak, "by this time, I think,
all must be over."

"Here, my lords! save me! help!" cried a
voice, whose mournful accents, reaching
the four friends, seemed to proceed from
some phantom of the ocean.

All looked around; Athos himself stared.

"'Tis he! it is his voice!"

All still remained silent, the eyes of
all were turned in the direction where
the vessel had disappeared, endeavoring
in vain to penetrate the darkness. After
a minute or two they were able to
distinguish a man, who approached them,
swimming vigorously.

Athos extended his arm toward him,
pointing him out to his companions.

"Yes, yes, I see him well enough," said
D'Artagnan.

"He -- again!" cried Porthos, who was
breathing like a blacksmith's bellows;
"why, he is made of iron."

"Oh, my God!" muttered Athos.

Aramis and D'Artagnan whispered to each
other.

Mordaunt made several strokes more, and
raising his arm in sign of distress
above the waves: "Pity, pity on me,
gentlemen, in Heaven's name! my strength
is failing me; I am dying."

The voice that implored aid was so
piteous that it awakened pity in the
heart of Athos.

"Poor fellow!" he exclaimed.

"Indeed!" said D'Artagnan, "monsters
have only to complain to gain your
sympathy. I believe he's swimming toward
us. Does he think we are going to take
him in? Row, Porthos, row." And setting
the example he plowed his oar into the
sea; two strokes took the bark on twenty
fathoms further.

"Oh! you will not abandon me! You will
not leave me to perish! You will not be
pitiless!" cried Mordaunt.

"Ah! ah!" said Porthos to Mordaunt, "I
think we have you now, my hero! and
there are no doors by which you can
escape this time but those of hell."

"Oh! Porthos!" murmured the Comte de la
Fere.

"Oh, pray, for mercy's sake, don't fly
from me. For pity's sake!" cried the
young man, whose agony-drawn breath at
times, when his head went under water,
under the wave, exhaled and made the icy
waters bubble.

D'Artagnan, however, who had consulted
with Aramis, spoke to the poor wretch.
"Go away," he said; "your repentance is
too recent to inspire confidence. See!
the vessel in which you wished to fry us
is still smoking; and the situation in
which you are is a bed of roses compared
to that in which you wished to place us
and in which you have placed Monsieur
Groslow and his companions."

"Sir!" replied Mordaunt, in a tone of
deep despair, "my penitence is sincere.
Gentlemen, I am young, scarcely
twenty-three years old. I was drawn on
by a very natural resentment to avenge
my mother. You would have done what I
did."

Mordaunt wanted now only two or three
fathoms to reach the boat, for the
approach of death seemed to give him
supernatural strength.

"Alas!" he said, "I am then to die? You
are going to kill the son, as you killed
the mother! Surely, if I am culpable and
if I ask for pardon, I ought to be
forgiven."

Then, as if his strength failed him, he
seemed unable to sustain himself above
the water and a wave passed over his
head, which drowned his voice.

"Oh! this is torture to me," cried
Athos.

Mordaunt reappeared.

"For my part," said D'Artagnan, "I say
this must come to an end; murderer, as
you were, of your uncle! executioner, as
you were, of King Charles! incendiary! I
recommend you to sink forthwith to the
bottom of the sea; and if you come
another fathom nearer, I'll stave your
wicked head in with this oar."

"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan!" cried Athos,
"my son, I entreat you; the wretch is
dying, and it is horrible to let a man
die without extending a hand to save
him. I cannot resist doing so; he must
live."

"Zounds!" replied D'Artagnan, "why don't
you give yourself up directly, feet and
hands bound, to that wretch? Ah! Comte
de la Fere, you wish to perish by his
hands! I, your son, as you call me -- I
will not let you!"

'Twas the first time D'Artagnan had ever
refused a request from Athos.

Aramis calmly drew his sword, which he
had carried between his teeth as he
swam.

"If he lays his hand on the boat's edge
I will cut it off, regicide that he is."

"And I," said Porthos. "Wait."

"What are you going to do?" asked
Aramis.

"Throw myself in the water and strangle
him."

"Oh, gentlemen!" cried Athos, "be men!
be Christians! See! death is depicted on
his face! Ah! do not bring on me the
horrors of remorse! Grant me this poor
wretch's life. I will bless you --
I ---- "

"I am dying!" cried Mordaunt, "come to
me! come to me!"

D'Artagnan began to be touched. The boat
at this moment turned around, and the
dying man was by that turn brought
nearer Athos.

"Monsieur the Comte de la Fere," he
cried, "I supplicate you! pity me! I
call on you -- where are you? I see you
no longer -- I am dying -- help me! help
me!"

"Here I am, sir!" said Athos, leaning
and stretching out his arm to Mordaunt
with that air of dignity and nobility of
soul habitual to him; "here I am, take
my hand and jump into our boat."

Mordaunt made a last effort -- rose --
seized the hand thus extended to him and
grasped it with the vehemence of
despair.

"That's right," said Athos; "put your
other hand here. "And he offered him his
shoulder as another stay and support, so
that his head almost touched that of
Mordaunt; and these two mortal enemies
were in as close an embrace as if they
had been brothers.

"Now, sir," said the count, "you are
safe -- calm yourself."

"Ah! my mother," cried Mordaunt, with
eyes on fire with a look of hate
impossible to paint, "I can only offer
thee one victim, but it shall at any
rate be the one thou wouldst thyself
have chosen!"

And whilst D'Artagnan uttered a cry,
Porthos raised the oar, and Aramis
sought a place to strike, a frightful
shake given to the boat precipitated
Athos into the sea; whilst Mordaunt,
with a shout of triumph, grasped the
neck of his victim, and in order to
paralyze his movements, twined arms and
legs around the musketeer. For an
instant, without an exclamation, without
a cry for help, Athos tried to sustain
himself on the surface of the waters,
but the weight dragged him down; he
disappeared by degrees; soon nothing was
to be seen except his long, floating
hair; then both men disappeared and the
bubbling of the water, which, in its
turn, was soon effaced, alone indicated
the spot where these two had sunk.

Mute with horror, the three friends had
remained open-mouthed, their eyes
dilated, their arms extended like
statues, and, motionless as they were,
the beating of their hearts was audible.
Porthos was the first who came to
himself. He tore his hair.

"Oh!" he cried, "Athos! Athos! thou man
of noble heart; woe is me! I have let
thee perish!"

At this instant, in the midst of the
silver circle illumined by the light of
the moon the same whirlpool which had
been made by the sinking men was again
obvious, and first were seen, rising
above the waves, a wisp of hair, then a
pale face with open eyes, yet,
nevertheless, the eyes of death; then a
body, which, after rising of itself even
to the waist above the sea, turned
gently on its back, according to the
caprice of the waves, and floated.

In the bosom of this corpse was plunged
a poniard, the gold hilt of which shone
in the moonbeams.

"Mordaunt! Mordaunt!" cried the three
friends; "'tis Mordaunt!"

"But Athos!" exclaimed D'Artagnan.

Suddenly the boat leaned on one side
beneath a new and unexpected weight and
Grimaud uttered a shout of joy; every
one turned around and beheld Athos,
livid, his eyes dim and his hands
trembling, supporting himself on the
edge of the boat. Eight vigorous arms
lifted him up immediately and laid him
in the boat, where directly Athos was
warmed and reanimated, reviving with the
caresses and cares of his friends, who
were intoxicated with joy.

"You are not hurt?" asked D'Artagnan.

"No," replied Athos; "and he ---- "

"Oh, he! now we may say at last, thank
Heaven! he is really dead. Look!" and
D'Artagnan, obliging Athos to look in
the direction he pointed, showed him the
body of Mordaunt floating on its back,
which, sometimes submerged, sometimes
rising, seemed still to pursue the four
friends with looks of insult and mortal
hatred.

At last he sank. Athos had followed him
with a glance in which the deepest
melancholy and pity were expressed.

"Bravo! Athos!" cried Aramis, with an
emotion very rare in him.

"A capital blow you gave!" cried
Porthos.

"I have a son. I wished to live," said
Athos.

"In short," said D'Artagnan, "this has
been the will of God."

"It was not I who killed him," said
Athos in a soft, low tone, "'twas
destiny."



74

How Mousqueton, after being very nearly
roasted, had a Narrow Escape of being
eaten.



A deep silence reigned for a long time
in the boat after the fearful scene
described.

The moon, which had shone for a short
time, disappeared behind the clouds;
every object was again plunged in the
obscurity that is so awful in the
deserts and still more so in that liquid
desert, the ocean, and nothing was heard
save the whistling of the west wind
driving along the tops of the crested
billows.

Porthos was the first to speak.

"I have seen," he said, "many dreadful
things, but nothing that ever agitated
me so much as what I have just
witnessed. Nevertheless, even in my
present state of perturbation, I protest
that I feel happy. I have a hundred
pounds' weight less upon my chest. I
breathe more freely." In fact, Porthos
breathed so loud as to do credit to the
free play of his powerful lungs.

"For my part," observed Aramis, "I
cannot say the same as you do, Porthos.
I am still terrified to such a degree
that I scarcely believe my eyes. I look
around the boat, expecting every moment
to see that poor wretch holding between
his hands the poniard plunged into his
heart."

"Oh! I feel easy," replied Porthos. "The
poniard was pointed at the sixth rib and
buried up to the hilt in his body. I do
not reproach you, Athos, for what you
have done. On the contrary, when one
aims a blow that is the regulation way
to strike. So now, I breathe again -- I
am happy!"

"Don't be in haste to celebrate a
victory, Porthos," interposed
D'Artagnan; "never have we incurred a
greater danger than we are now
encountering. Men may subdue men -- they
cannot overcome the elements. We are now
on the sea, at night, without any pilot,
in a frail bark; should a blast of wind
upset the boat we are lost."

Mousqueton heaved a deep sigh.

"You are ungrateful, D'Artagnan," said
Athos; "yes, ungrateful to Providence,
to whom we owe our safety in the most
miraculous manner. Let us sail before
the wind, and unless it changes we shall
be drifted either to Calais or Boulogne.
Should our bark be upset we are five of
us good swimmers, able enough to turn it
over again, or if not, to hold on by it.
Now we are on the very road which all
the vessels between Dover and Calais
take, 'tis impossible but that we should
meet with a fisherman who will pick us
up."

"But should we not find any fisherman
and should the wind shift to the north?"

"That," said Athos, "would be quite
another thing; and we should nevermore
see land until we were upon the other
side of the Atlantic."

"Which implies that we may die of
hunger," said Aramis.

"'Tis more than possible," answered the
Comte de la Fere.

Mousqueton sighed again, more deeply
than before.

"What is the matter? what ails you?"
asked Porthos.

"I am cold, sir," said Mousqueton.

"Impossible! your body is covered with a
coating of fat which preserves it from
the cold air."

"Ah! sir, 'tis this very coating of fat
that makes me shiver."

"How is that, Mousqueton?

"Alas! your honor, in the library of the
Chateau of Bracieux there are a lot of
books of travels."

"What then?"

"Amongst them the voyages of Jean
Mocquet in the time of Henry IV."

"Well?"

"In these books, your honor, 'tis told
how hungry voyagers, drifting out to
sea, have a bad habit of eating each
other and beginning with ---- "

"The fattest among them!" cried
D'Artagnan, unable in spite of the
gravity of the occasion to help
laughing.

"Yes, sir," answered Mousqueton; "but
permit me to say I see nothing laughable
in it. However," he added, turning to
Porthos, "I should not regret dying,
sir, were I sure that by doing so I
might still be useful to you."

"Mouston," replied Porthos, much
affected, "should we ever see my castle
of Pierrefonds again you shall have as
your own and for your descendants the
vineyard that surrounds the farm."

"And you should call it `Devotion,'"
added Aramis; "the vineyard of
self-sacrifice, to transmit to latest
ages the recollection of your devotion
to your master."

"Chevalier," said D'Artagnan, laughing,
"you could eat a piece of Mouston,
couldn't you, especially after two or
three days of fasting?"

"Oh, no," replied Aramis, "I should much
prefer Blaisois; we haven't known him so
long."

One may readily conceive that during
these jokes which were intended chiefly
to divert Athos from the scene which had
just taken place, the servants, with the
exception of Grimaud, were not silent.
Suddenly Mousqueton uttered a cry of
delight, taking from beneath one of the
benches a bottle of wine; and on looking
more closely in the same place he
discovered a dozen similar bottles,
bread, and a monster junk of salted
beef.

"Oh, sir!" he cried, passing the bottle
to Porthos, "we are saved -- the bark is
supplied with provisions."

This intelligence restored every one
save Athos to gayety.

"Zounds!" exclaimed Porthos, "'tis
astonishing how empty violent agitation
makes the stomach."

And he drank off half a bottle at a
draught and bit great mouthfuls of the
bread and meat.

"Now," said Athos, "sleep, or try to
sleep, my friends, and I will watch."

In a few moments, notwithstanding their
wet clothes, the icy blast that blew and
the previous scene of terror, these
hardy adventurers, with their iron
frames, inured to every hardship, threw
themselves down, intending to profit by
the advice of Athos, who sat at the
helm, pensively wakeful, guiding the
little bark the way it was to go, his
eyes fixed on the heavens, as if he
sought to verify not only the road to
France, but the benign aspect of
protecting Providence. After some hours
of repose the sleepers were aroused by
Athos.

Dawn was shedding its pallid, placid
glimmer on the purple ocean, when at the
distance of a musket shot from them was
seen a dark gray mass, above which
gleamed a triangular sail; then masters
and servants joined in a fervent cry to
the crew of that vessel to hear them and
to save.

"A bark!" all cried together.

It was, in fact, a small craft from
Dunkirk bound for Boulogne.

A quarter of an hour afterward the
rowboat of this craft took them all
aboard. Grimaud tendered twenty guineas
to the captain, and at nine o'clock in
the morning, having a fair wind, our
Frenchmen set foot on their native land.

"Egad! how strong one feels here!" said
Porthos, almost burying his large feet
in the sands. "Zounds! I could defy a
nation!"

"Be quiet, Porthos," said D'Artagnan,
"we are observed."

"We are admired, i'faith," answered
Porthos.

"These people who are looking at us are
only merchants," said Athos, "and are
looking more at the cargo than at us."

"I shall not trust to that," said the
lieutenant, "and I shall make for the
Dunes* as soon as possible."



*Sandy hills about Dunkirk, from which
it derives its name.



The party followed him and soon
disappeared with him behind the hillocks
of sand unobserved. Here, after a short
conference, they proposed to separate.

"And why separate?" asked Athos.

"Because," answered the Gascon, "we were
sent, Porthos and I, by Cardinal Mazarin
to fight for Cromwell; instead of
fighting for Cromwell we have served
Charles I. -- not the same thing by any
means. In returning with the Comte de la
Fere and Monsieur d'Herblay our crime
would be confirmed. We have circumvented
Cromwell, Mordaunt, and the sea, but we
shall find a certain difficulty in
circumventing Mazarin."

"You forget," replied Athos, "that we
consider ourselves your prisoners and
not free from the engagement we entered
into."

"Truly, Athos," interrupted D'Artagnan,
"I am vexed that such a man as you are
should talk nonsense which schoolboys
would be ashamed of. Chevalier," he
continued, addressing Aramis, who,
leaning proudly on his sword, seemed to
agree with his companion, "Chevalier,
Porthos and I run no risk; besides,
should any ill-luck happen to two of us,
will it not be much better that the
other two should be spared to assist
those who may be apprehended? Besides,
who knows whether, divided, we may not
obtain a pardon -- you from the queen,
we from Mazarin -- which, were we all
four together, would never be granted.
Come, Athos and Aramis, go to the right;
Porthos, come with me to the left; these
gentlemen should file off into Normandy,
whilst we, by the nearest road, reach
Paris."

He then gave his friends minute
directions as to their route.

"Ah! my dear friend," exclaimed Athos,
"how I should admire the resources of
your mind did I not stop to adore those
of your heart."

And he gave him his hand.

"Isn't this fox a genius, Athos?" asked
the Gascon. "No! he knows how to crunch
fowls, to dodge the huntsman and to find
his way home by day or by night, that's
all. Well, is all said?"

"All."

"Then let's count our money and divide
it. Ah! hurrah! there's the sun! A merry
morning to you, Sunshine. 'Tis a long
time since I saw thee!"

"Come, come, D'Artagnan," said Athos,
"do not affect to be strong-minded;
there are tears in your eyes. Let us be
open with each other and sincere."

"What!" cried the Gascon, "do you think,
Athos, we can take leave, calmly, of two
friends at a time not free from danger
to you and Aramis?"

"No," answered Athos; "embrace me, my
son."

"Zounds!" said Porthos, sobbing, "I
believe I'm crying; but how foolish all
this is!"

Then they embraced. At that moment their
fraternal bond of union was closer than
ever, and when they parted, each to take
the route agreed on, they turned back to
utter affectionate expressions, which
the echoes of the Dunes repeated. At
last they lost sight of each other.

"Sacrebleu! D'Artagnan," said Porthos,
"I must out with it at once, for I can't
keep to myself anything I have against
you; I haven't been able to recognize
you in this matter."

"Why not?" said D'Artagnan, with his
wise smile.

"Because if, as you say, Athos and
Aramis are in real danger, this is not
the time to abandon them. For my part, I
confess to you that I was all ready to
follow them and am still ready to rejoin
them, in spite of all the Mazarins in
the world."

"You would be right, Porthos, but for
one thing, which may change the current
of your ideas; and that is, that it is
not those gentlemen who are in the
greatest danger, it is ourselves; it is
not to abandon them that we have
separated, but to avoid compromising
them."

"Really?" said Porthos, opening his eyes
in astonishment.

"Yes, no doubt. If they are arrested
they will only be put in the Bastile; if
we are arrested it is a matter of the
Place de Greve."

"Oh! oh!" said Porthos, "there is quite
a gap between that fate and the baronial
coronet you promised me, D'Artagnan."

"Bah! perhaps not so great as you think,
Porthos; you know the proverb, `All
roads lead to Rome.'"

"But how is it that we are incurring
greater risks than Athos and Aramis?"
asked Porthos.

"Because they have but fulfilled the
mission confided to them by Queen
Henrietta and we have betrayed that
confided to us by Mazarin; because,
going hence as emissaries to Cromwell,
we became partisans of King Charles;
because, instead of helping cut off the
royal head condemned by those fellows
called Mazarin, Cromwell, Joyce, Bridge,
Fairfax, etc., we very nearly succeeded
in saving it."

"Upon my word that is true," said
Porthos; "but how can you suppose, my
dear friend, that in the midst of his
great preoccupations General Cromwell
has had time to think ---- "

"Cromwell thinks of everything; Cromwell
has time for everything; and believe me,
dear friend, we ought not to lose our
time -- it is precious. We shall not be
safe till we have seen Mazarin, and
then ---- "

"The devil!" said Porthos; "what can we
say to Mazarin?"

"Leave that to me -- I have my plan. He
laughs best who laughs last. Cromwell is
mighty, Mazarin is tricky, but I would
rather have to do with them than with
the late Monsieur Mordaunt."

"Ah!" said Porthos, "it is very pleasant
to be able to say `the late Monsieur
Mordaunt.'"

"My faith, yes," said D'Artagnan. "But
we must be going."

The two immediately started across
country toward the road to Paris,
followed by Mousqueton, who, after being
too cold all night, at the end of a
quarter of an hour found himself too
warm.



75

The Return.



During the six weeks that Athos and
Aramis had been absent from France, the
Parisians, finding themselves one
morning without either queen or king,
were greatly annoyed at being thus
deserted, and the absence of Mazarin, a
thing so long desired, did not
compensate for that of the two august
fugitives.

The first feeling that pervaded Paris on
hearing of the flight to Saint Germain,
was that sort of affright which seizes
children when they awake in the night
and find themselves alone. A deputation
was therefore sent to the queen to
entreat her to return to Paris; but she
not only declined to receive the
deputies, but sent an intimation by
Chancellor Seguier, implying that if the
parliament did not humble itself before
her majesty by negativing all the
questions that had been the cause of the
quarrel, Paris would be besieged the
very next day.

This threatening answer, unluckily for
the court, produced quite a different
effect to that which was intended. It
wounded the pride of the parliament,
which, supported by the citizens,
replied by declaring that Cardinal
Mazarin was the cause of all the
discontent; denounced him as the enemy
both of the king and the state, and
ordered him to retire from the court
that same day and from France within a
week afterward; enjoining, in case of
disobedience on his part, all the
subjects of the king to pursue and take
him.

Mazarin being thus placed beyond the
pale of the protection of the law,
preparations on both sides were
commenced -- by the queen, to attack
Paris, by the citizens, to defend it.
The latter were occupied in breaking up
the pavement and stretching chains
across the streets, when, headed by the
coadjutor, appeared the Prince de Conti
(the brother of the Prince de Conde) and
the Duc de Longueville, his
brother-in-law. This unexpected band of
auxiliaries arrived in Paris on the
tenth of January and the Prince of Conti
was named, but not until after a stormy
discussion, generalissimo of the army of
the king, out of Paris.

As for the Duc de Beaufort, he arrived
from Vendome, according to the annals of
the day, bringing with him his high
bearing and his long and beautiful hair,
qualifications which gained him the
sovereignty of the marketplaces.

The Parisian army had organized with the
promptness characteristic of the
bourgeois whenever they are moved by any
sentiment whatever to disguise
themselves as soldiers. On the
nineteenth the impromptu army had
attempted a sortie, more to assure
itself and others of its actual
existence than with any more serious
intention. They carried a banner, on
which could be read this strange device:
"We are seeking our king."

The next following days were occupied in
trivial movements which resulted only in
the carrying off of a few herds of
cattle and the burning of two or three
houses.

That was still the situation of affairs
up to the early days of February. On the
first day of that month our four
companions had landed at Boulogne, and,
in two parties, had set out for Paris.
Toward the end of the fourth day of the
journey Athos and Aramis reached
Nanterre, which place they cautiously
passed by on the outskirts, fearing that
they might encounter some troop from the
queen's army.

It was against his will that Athos took
these precautions, but Aramis had very
judiciously reminded him that they had
no right to be imprudent, that they had
been charged by King Charles with a
supreme and sacred mission, which,
received at the foot of the scaffold,
could be accomplished only at the feet
of Queen Henrietta. Upon that, Athos
yielded.

On reaching the capital Athos and Aramis
found it in arms. The sentinel at the
gate refused even to let them pass, and
called his sergeant.

The sergeant, with the air of importance
which such people assume when they are
clad with military dignity, said:

"Who are you, gentlemen?"

"Two gentlemen."

"And where do you come from?"

"From London."

"And what are you going to do in Paris?"

"We are going with a mission to Her
Majesty, the Queen of England."

"Ah, every one seems to be going to see
the queen of England. We have already at
the station three gentlemen whose
passports are under examination, who are
on their way to her majesty. Where are
your passports?"

"We have none; we left England, ignorant
of the state of politics here, having
left Paris before the departure of the
king."

"Ah!" said the sergeant, with a cunning
smile, "you are Mazarinists, who are
sent as spies."

"My dear friend," here Athos spoke,
"rest assured, if we were Mazarinists we
should come well prepared with every
sort of passport. In your situation
distrust those who are well provided
with every formality."

"Enter the guardroom," said the
sergeant; "we will lay your case before
the commandant of the post."

The guardroom was filled with citizens
and common people, some playing, some
drinking, some talking. In a corner,
almost hidden from view, were three
gentlemen, who had preceded Athos and
Aramis, and an officer was examining
their passports. The first impulse of
these three, and of those who last
entered, was to cast an inquiring glance
at each other. The first arrivals wore
long cloaks, in whose drapery they were
carefully enveloped; one of them,
shorter than the rest, remained
pertinaciously in the background.

When the sergeant on entering the room
announced that in all probability he was
bringing in two Mazarinists, it appeared
to be the unanimous opinion of the
officers on guard that they ought not to
pass.

"Be it so," said Athos; "yet it is
probable, on the contrary, that we shall
enter, because we seem to have to do
with sensible people. There seems to be
only one thing to do, which is, to send
our names to Her Majesty the Queen of
England, and if she engages to answer
for us I presume we shall be allowed to
enter."

On hearing these words the shortest of
the other three men seemed more
attentive than ever to what was going
on, wrapping his cloak around him more
carefully than before.

"Merciful goodness!" whispered Aramis to
Athos, "did you see?"

"What?" asked Athos.

"The face of the shortest of those three
gentlemen?"

"No."

"He looked to me -- but 'tis
impossible."

At this instant the sergeant, who had
been for his orders, returned, and
pointing to the three gentlemen in
cloaks, said:

"The passports are in order; let these
three gentlemen pass."

The three gentlemen bowed and hastened
to take advantage of this permission.

Aramis looked after them, and as the
last of them passed close to him he
pressed the hand of Athos.

"What is the matter with you, my
friend?" asked the latter.

"I have -- doubtless I am dreaming; tell
me, sir," he said to the sergeant, "do
you know those three gentlemen who are
just gone out?"

"Only by their passports; they are three
Frondists, who are gone to rejoin the
Duc de Longueville."

"'Tis strange," said Aramis, almost
involuntarily; "I fancied that I
recognized Mazarin himself."

The sergeant burst into a fit of
laughter.

"He!" he cried; "he venture himself
amongst us, to be hung! Not so foolish
as all that."

"Ah!" muttered Athos, "I may be
mistaken, I haven't the unerring eye of
D'Artagnan."

"Who is speaking of Monsieur
D'Artagnan?" asked an officer who
appeared at that moment upon the
threshold of the room.

"What!" cried Aramis and Athos, "what!
Planchet!"

"Planchet," added Grimaud; "Planchet,
with a gorget, indeed!"

"Ah, gentlemen!" cried Planchet, "so you
are back again in Paris. Oh, how happy
you make us! no doubt you come to join
the princes!"

"As thou seest, Planchet," said Aramis,
whilst Athos smiled on seeing what
important rank was held in the city
militia by the former comrade of
Mousqueton, Bazin and Grimaud.

"And Monsieur d'Artagnan, of whom you
spoke just now, Monsieur d'Herblay; may
I ask if you have any news of him?"

"We parted from him four days ago and we
have reason to believe that he has
reached Paris before us."

"No, sir; I am sure he hasn't yet
arrived. But then he may have stopped at
Saint Germain."

"I don't think so; we appointed to meet
at La Chevrette."

"I was there this very day."

"And had the pretty Madeleine no news?"
asked Aramis, smiling.

"No, sir, and it must be admitted that
she seemed very anxious."

"In fact," said Aramis, "there is no
time lost and we made our journey
quickly. Permit me, then, my dear Athos,
without inquiring further about our
friend, to pay my respects to M.
Planchet."

"Ah, monsieur le chevalier," said
Planchet, bowing.

"Lieutenant?" asked Aramis.

"Lieutenant, with a promise of becoming
captain."

"'Tis capital; and pray, how did you
acquire all these honors?"

"In the first place, gentlemen, you know
that I was the means of Monsieur de
Rochefort's escape; well, I was very
near being hung by Mazarin and that made
me more popular than ever."

"So, owing to your popularity ---- "

"No; thanks to something better. You
know, gentlemen, that I served the
Piedmont regiment and had the honor of
being a sergeant?"

"Yes."

"Well, one day when no one could drill a
mob of citizens, who began to march,
some with the right foot, others with
the left, I succeeded, I did, in making
them all begin with the same foot, and I
was made lieutenant on the spot."

"So I presume," said Athos, "that you
have a large number of the nobles with
you?"

"Certainly. There are the Prince de
Conti, the Duc de Longueville, the Duc
de Beaufort, the Duc de Bouillon, the
Marechal de la Mothe, the Marquis de
Sevigne, and I don't know who, for my
part."

"And the Vicomte Raoul de Bragelonne?"
inquired Athos, in a tremulous voice.
"D'Artagnan told me that he had
recommended him to your care, in
parting."

"Yes, count; nor have I lost sight of
him for a single instant since."

"Then," said Athos in a tone of delight,
"he is well? no accident has happened to
him?"

"None, sir."

"And he lives?"

"Still at the Hotel of the Great
Charlemagne."

"And passes his time?"

"Sometimes with the queen of England,
sometimes with Madame de Chevreuse. He
and the Count de Guiche are like each
other's shadows."

"Thanks, Planchet, thanks!" cried Athos,
extending his hand to the lieutenant.

"Oh, sir!" Planchet only touched the
tips of the count's fingers.

"Well, what are you doing, count -- to a
former lackey?

"My friend," said Athos, "he has given
me news of Raoul."

"And now, gentlemen," said Planchet, who
had not heard what they were saying,
"what do you intend to do?"

"Re-enter Paris, if you will let us, my
good Planchet."

"Let you. sir? Now, as ever, I am
nothing but your servant." Then turning
to his men:

"Allow these gentlemen to pass," he
said; "they are friends of the Duc de
Beaufort."

"Long live the Duc de Beaufort!" cried
the sentinels.

The sergeant drew near to Planchet.

"What! without passports?" he murmured.

"Without passports," said Planchet.

"Take notice, captain," he continued,
giving Planchet his expected title,
"take notice that one of the three men
who just now went out from here told me
privately to distrust these gentlemen."

"And I," said Planchet, with dignity, "I
know them and I answer for them."

As he said this, he pressed Grimaud's
hand, who seemed honored by the
distinction.

"Farewell till we meet again," said
Aramis, as they took leave of Planchet;
"if anything happens to us we shall
blame you for it."

"Sir," said Planchet, "I am in all
things at your service."

"That fellow is no fool," said Aramis,
as he got on his horse.

"How should he be?" replied Athos,
whilst mounting also, "seeing he was
used so long to brush your hats."



76

The Ambassadors.



The two friends rode rapidly down the
declivity of the Faubourg, but on
arriving at the bottom were surprised to
find that the streets of Paris had
become rivers, and the open places
lakes; after the great rains which fell
in January the Seine had overflowed its
banks and the river inundated half the
capital. The two gentlemen were obliged,
therefore, to get off their horses and
take a boat; and in that strange manner
they approached the Louvre.

Night had closed in, and Paris, seen
thus, by the light of lanterns
flickering on the pools of water,
crowded with ferry-boats of every kind,
including those that glittered with the
armed patrols, with the watchword,
passing from post to post -- Paris
presented such an aspect as to strongly
seize the senses of Aramis, a man most
susceptible to warlike impressions.

They reached the queen's apartments, but
were compelled to stop in the
ante-chamber, since her majesty was at
that moment giving audience to gentlemen
bringing her news from England.

"We, too," said Athos, to the footman
who had given him that answer, "not only
bring news from England, but have just
come from there."

"What? then, are your names, gentlemen?"

"The Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier
d'Herblay," said Aramis.

"Ah! in that case, gentlemen," said the
footman, on hearing the names which the
queen had so often pronounced with hope,
"in that case it is another thing, and I
think her majesty will pardon me for not
keeping you here a moment. Please follow
me," and he went on before, followed by
Athos and Aramis.

On arriving at the door of the room
where the queen was receiving he made a
sign for them to wait and opening the
door:

"Madame," he said, "I hope your majesty
will forgive me for disobeying your
orders, when you learn that the
gentlemen I have come to announce are
the Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier
d'Herblay."

On hearing those two names the queen
uttered a cry of joy, which the two
gentlemen heard.

"Poor queen!" murmured Athos.

"Oh, let them come in! let them come
in," cried the young princess, bounding
to the door.

The poor child was constant in her
attendance on her mother and sought by
her filial attentions to make her forget
the absence of her two sons and her
other daughter.

"Come in, gentlemen," repeated the
princess, opening the door herself.

The queen was seated on a fauteuil and
before her were standing two or three
gentlemen, and among them the Duc de
Chatillon, the brother of the nobleman
killed eight or nine years previously in
a duel on account of Madame de
Longueville, on the Place Royale. All
these gentlemen had been noticed by
Athos and Aramis in the guardhouse, and
when the two friends were announced they
started and exchanged some words in a
low tone. "Well, sirs!" cried the queen,
on perceiving the two friends, "you have
come, faithful friends! But the royal
couriers have been more expeditious than
you, and here are Monsieur de Flamarens
and Monsieur de Chatillon, who bring me
from Her Majesty the Queen Anne of
Austria, the very latest intelligence."

Aramis and Athos were astounded by the
calmness, even the gayety of the queen's
manner.

"Go on with your recital, sirs," said
the queen, turning to the Duc de
Chatillon. "You said that His Majesty,
King Charles, my august consort, had
been condemned to death by a majority of
his subjects!"

"Yes, madame," Chatillon stammered out.

Athos and Aramis were more and more
astonished.

"And that being conducted to the
scaffold," resumed the queen -- "oh, my
lord! oh, my king! -- and that being led
to the scaffold he had been saved by an
indignant people."

"Just so madame," replied Chatillon, in
so low a voice that though the two
friends were listening eagerly they
could hardly hear this affirmation.

The queen clasped her hands in
enthusiastic gratitude, whilst her
daughter threw her arms around her
mother's neck and kissed her -- her own
eyes streaming with tears.

"Now, madame, nothing remains to me
except to proffer my respectful homage,"
said Chatillon, who felt confused and
ashamed beneath the stern gaze of Athos.

"One moment, yes," answered the queen.
"One moment -- I beg -- for here are the
Chevalier d'Herblay and the Comte de la
Fere, just arrived from London, and they
can give you, as eye-witnesses, such
details as you can convey to the queen,
my royal sister. Speak, gentlemen,
speak -- I am listening; conceal
nothing, gloss over nothing. Since his
majesty still lives, since the honor of
the throne is safe, everything else is a
matter of indifference to me."

Athos turned pale and laid his hand on
his heart.

"Well!" exclaimed the queen, who
remarked this movement and his paleness.
"Speak, sir! I beg you to do so."

"I beg you to excuse me, madame; I wish
to add nothing to the recital of these
gentlemen until they perceive themselves
that they have perhaps been mistaken."

"Mistaken!" cried the queen, almost
suffocated by emotion; "mistaken! what
has happened, then?"

"Sir," interposed Monsieur de Flamarens
to Athos, "if we are mistaken the error
has originated with the queen. I do not
suppose you will have the presumption to
set it to rights -- that would be to
accuse Her Majesty, Queen Anne, of
falsehood."

"With the queen, sir?" replied Athos, in
his calm, vibrating voice.

"Yes," murmured Flamarens, lowering his
eyes.

Athos sighed deeply.

"Or rather, sir," said Aramis, with his
peculiar irritating politeness, "the
error of the person who was with you
when we met you in the guardroom; for if
the Comte de la Fere and I are not
mistaken, we saw you in the company of a
third gentleman."

Chatillon and Flamarens started.

"Explain yourself, count!" cried the
queen, whose anxiety grew greater every
moment. "On your brow I read despair --
your lips falter ere you announce some
terrible tidings -- your hands tremble.
Oh, my God! my God! what has happened?"

"Lord!" ejaculated the young princess,
falling on her knees, "have mercy on
us!"

"Sir," said Chatillon, "if you bring bad
tidings it will be cruel in you to
announce them to the queen."

Aramis went so close to Chatillon as
almost to touch him.

"Sir," said he, with compressed lips and
flashing eyes, "you have not the
presumption to instruct the Comte de la
Fere and myself what we ought to say
here?"

During this brief altercation Athos,
with his hands on his heart, his head
bent low, approached the queen and in a
voice of deepest sorrow said:

"Madame, princes -- who by nature are
above other men -- receive from Heaven
courage to support greater misfortunes
than those of lower rank, for their
hearts are elevated as their fortunes.
We ought not, therefore, I think, to act
toward a queen so illustrious as your
majesty as we should act toward a woman
of our lowlier condition. Queen,
destined as you are to endure every
sorrow on this earth, hear the result of
our unhappy mission."

Athos, kneeling down before the queen,
trembling and very cold, drew from his
bosom, inclosed in the same case, the
order set in diamonds which the queen
had given to Lord de Winter and the
wedding ring which Charles I. before his
death had placed in the hands of Aramis.
Since the moment he had first received
these two mementoes Athos had never
parted with them.

He opened the case and offered them to
the queen with deep and silent anguish.

The queen stretched out her hand, seized
the ring, pressed it convulsively to her
lips -- and without being able to
breathe a sigh, to give vent to a sob,
she extended her arms, became deadly
pale, and fell senseless in the arms of
her attendants and her daughter.

Athos kissed the hem of the robe of the
widowed queen and rising, with a dignity
that made a deep impression on those
around:

"I, the Comte de la Fere, a gentleman
who has never deceived any human being,
swear before God and before this unhappy
queen, that all that was possible to
save the king of England was done whilst
we were on English ground. Now,
chevalier," he added, turning to Aramis,
"let us go. Our duty is fulfilled."

"Not yet." said Aramis; "we have still a
word to say to these gentlemen."

And turning to Chatillon: "Sir, be so
good as not to go away without giving me
an opportunity to tell you something I
cannot say before the queen."

Chatillon bowed in token of assent and
they all went out, stopping at the
window of a gallery on the ground floor.

"Sir," said Aramis, "you allowed
yourself just now to treat us in a most
extraordinary manner. That would not be
endurable in any case, and is still less
so on the part of those who came to
bring the queen the message of a liar."

"Sir!" cried De Chatillon.

"What have you done with Monsieur de
Bruy? Has he by any possibility gone to
change his face which was too like that
of Monsieur de Mazarin? There is an
abundance of Italian masks at the Palais
Royal, from harlequin even to
pantaloon."

"Chevalier! chevalier!" said Athos.

"Leave me alone," said Aramis
impatiently. "You know well that I don't
like to leave things half finished."

"Conclude, then, sir," answered De
Chatillon, with as much hauteur as
Aramis.

"Gentlemen," resumed Aramis, "any one
but the Comte de la Fere and myself
would have had you arrested -- for we
have friends in Paris -- but we are
contented with another course. Come and
converse with us for just five minutes,
sword in hand, upon this deserted
terrace."

"One moment, gentlemen," cried
Flamarens. "I know well that the
proposition is tempting, but at present
it is impossible to accept it."

"And why not?" said Aramis, in his tone
of raillery. "Is it Mazarin's proximity
that makes you so prudent?"

"Oh, you hear that, Flamarens!" said
Chatillon. "Not to reply would be a blot
on my name and my honor."

"That is my opinion," said Aramis.

"You will not reply, however, and these
gentlemen, I am sure, will presently be
of my opinion."

Aramis shook his head with a motion of
indescribable insolence.

Chatillon saw the motion and put his
hand to his sword.

"Willingly," replied De Chatillon.

"Duke," said Flamarens, "you forget that
to-morrow you are to command an
expedition of the greatest importance,
projected by the prince, assented to by
the queen. Until to-morrow evening you
are not at your own disposal."

"Let it be then the day after
to-morrow," said Aramis.

"To-morrow, rather," said De Chatillon,
"if you will take the trouble of coming
so far as the gates of Charenton."

"How can you doubt it, sir? For the
pleasure of a meeting with you I would
go to the end of the world."

"Very well, to-morrow, sir."

"I shall rely on it. Are you going to
rejoin your cardinal? Swear first, on
your honor, not to inform him of our
return."

"Conditions?"

"Why not?"

"Because it is for victors to make
conditions, and you are not yet victors,
gentlemen."

"Then let us draw on the spot. It is all
one to us -- to us who do not command
to-morrow's expedition."

Chatillon and Flamarens looked at each
other. There was such irony in the words
and in the bearing of Aramis that the
duke had great difficulty in bridling
his anger, but at a word from Flamarens
he restrained himself and contented
himself with saying:

"You promise, sir -- that's agreed --
that I shall find you to-morrow at
Charenton?"

"Oh, don't be afraid, sir," replied
Aramis; and the two gentlemen shortly
afterward left the Louvre.

"For what reason is all this fume and
fury?" asked Athos. "What have they done
to you?"

"They -- did you not see what they did?"

"No."

"They laughed when we swore that we had
done our duty in England. Now, if they
believed us, they laughed in order to
insult us; if they did not believe it
they insulted us all the more. However,
I'm glad not to fight them until
to-morrow. I hope we shall have
something better to do to-night than to
draw the sword."

"What have we to do?"

"Egad! to take Mazarin."

Athos curled his lip with disdain.

"These undertakings do not suit me, as
you know, Aramis."

"Why?"

"Because it is taking people unawares."

"Really, Athos, you would make a
singular general. You would fight only
by broad daylight, warn your foe before
an attack, and never attempt anything by
night lest you should be accused of
taking advantage of the darkness."

Athos smiled.

"You know one cannot change his nature,"
he said. "Besides, do you know what is
our situation, and whether Mazarin's
arrest wouldn't be rather an encumbrance
than an advantage?"

"Say at once you disapprove of my
proposal."

"I think you ought to do nothing, since
you exacted a promise from these
gentlemen not to let Mazarin know that
we were in France."

"I have entered into no engagement and
consider myself quite free. Come, come."

"Where?"

"Either to seek the Duc de Beaufort or
the Duc de Bouillon, and to tell them
about this."

"Yes, but on one condition -- that we
begin by the coadjutor. He is a priest,
learned in cases of conscience, and we
will tell him ours."

It was then agreed that they were to go
first to Monsieur de Bouillon, as his
house came first; but first of all Athos
begged that he might go to the Hotel du
Grand Charlemagne, to see Raoul.

They re-entered the boat which had
brought them to the Louvre and thence
proceeded to the Halles; and taking up
Grimaud and Blaisois, they went on foot
to the Rue Guenegaud.

But Raoul was not at the Hotel du Grand
Charlemagne. He had received a message
from the prince, to whom he had hastened
with Olivain the instant he had received
it.



77

The three Lieutenants of the
Generalissimo.



The night was dark, but still the town
resounded with those noises that
disclose a city in a state of siege.
Athos and Aramis did not proceed a
hundred steps without being stopped by
sentinels placed before the barricades,
who demanded the watchword; and on their
saying that they were going to Monsieur
de Bouillon on a mission of importance a
guide was given them under pretext of
conducting them, but in fact as a spy
over their movements.

On arriving at the Hotel de Bouillon
they came across a little troop of three
cavaliers, who seemed to know every
possible password; for they walked
without either guide or escort, and on
arriving at the barricades had nothing
to do but to speak to those who guarded
them, who instantly let them pass with
evident deference, due probably to their
high birth.

On seeing them Athos and Aramis stood
still.

"Oh!" cried Aramis, "do you see, count?"

"Yes," said Athos.

"Who do these three cavaliers appear to
you to be?"

"What do you think, Aramis?"

"Why, they are our men."

"You are not mistaken; I recognize
Monsieur de Flamarens."

"And I, Monsieur de Chatillon."

"As to the cavalier in the brown
cloak ---- "

"It is the cardinal."

"In person."

"How the devil do they venture so near
the Hotel de Bouillon?"

Athos smiled, but did not reply. Five
minutes afterward they knocked at the
prince's door.

This door was guarded by a sentinel and
there was also a guard placed in the
courtyard, ready to obey the orders of
the Prince de Conti's lieutenant.

Monsieur de Bouillon had the gout, but
notwithstanding his illness, which had
prevented his mounting on horseback for
the last month ---that is, since Paris
had been besieged -- he was ready to
receive the Comte de la Fere and the
Chevalier d'Herblay.

He was in bed, but surrounded with all
the paraphernalia of war. Everywhere
were swords, pistols, cuirasses, and
arquebuses, and it was plain that as
soon as his gout was better Monsieur de
Bouillon would give a pretty tangle to
the enemies of the parliament to
unravel. Meanwhile, to his great regret,
as he said, he was obliged to keep his
bed.

"Ah, gentlemen," he cried, as the two
friends entered, "you are very happy!
you can ride, you can go and come and
fight for the cause of the people. But
I, as you see, am nailed to my bed --
ah! this demon, gout -- this demon,
gout!"

"My lord," said Athos, "we are just
arrived from England and our first
concern is to inquire after your
health."

"Thanks, gentlemen, thanks! As you see,
my health is but indifferent. But you
come from England. And King Charles is
well, as I have just heard?"

"He is dead, my lord!" said Aramis.

"Pooh!" said the duke, too much
astonished to believe it true.

"Dead on the scaffold; condemned by
parliament."

"Impossible!"

"And executed in our presence."

"What, then, has Monsieur de Flamarens
been telling me?"

"Monsieur de Flamarens?"

"Yes, he has just gone out."

Athos smiled. "With two companions?" he
said.

"With two companions, yes," replied the
duke. Then he added with a certain
uneasiness, "Did you meet them?"

"Why, yes, I think so -- in the street,"
said Athos; and he looked smilingly at
Aramis, who looked at him with an
expression of surprise.

"The devil take this gout!" cried
Monsieur de Bouillon, evidently ill at
ease.

"My lord," said Athos, "we admire your
devotion to the cause you have espoused,
in remaining at the head of the army
whilst so ill, in so much pain."

"One must," replied Monsieur de
Bouillon, "sacrifice one's comfort to
the public good; but I confess to you I
am now almost exhausted. My spirit is
willing, my head is clear, but this
demon, the gout, o'ercrows me. I
confess, if the court would do justice
to my claims and give the head of my
house the title of prince, and if my
brother De Turenne were reinstated in
his command I would return to my estates
and leave the court and parliament to
settle things between themselves as they
might."

"You are perfectly right, my lord."

"You think so? At this very moment the
court is making overtures to me;
hitherto I have repulsed them; but since
such men as you assure me that I am
wrong in doing so, I've a good mind to
follow your advice and to accept a
proposition made to me by the Duc de
Chatillon just now."

"Accept it, my lord, accept it," said
Aramis.

"Faith! yes. I am even sorry that this
evening I almost repulsed -- but there
will be a conference to-morrow and we
shall see."

The two friends saluted the duke.

"Go, gentlemen," he said; "you must be
much fatigued after your voyage. Poor
King Charles! But, after all, he was
somewhat to blame in all that business
and we may console ourselves with the
reflection that France has no cause of
reproach in the matter and did all she
could to serve him."

"Oh! as to that," said Aramis, "we are
witnesses. Mazarin especially ---- "

"Yes, do you know, I am very glad to
hear you give that testimony; the
cardinal has some good in him, and if he
were not a foreigner -- well, he would
be more justly estimated. Oh! the devil
take this gout!"

Athos and Aramis took their leave, but
even in the ante-chamber they could
still hear the duke's cries; he was
evidently suffering the tortures of the
damned.

When they reached the street, Aramis
said:

"Well, Athos, what do you think?"

"Of whom?"

"Pardieu! of Monsieur de Bouillon."

"My friend, I think that he is much
troubled with gout."

"You noticed that I didn't breathe a
word as to the purpose of our visit?"

"You did well; you would have caused him
an access of his disease. Let us go to
Monsieur de Beaufort."

The two friends went to the Hotel de
Vendome. It was ten o'clock when they
arrived. The Hotel de Vendome was not
less guarded than the Hotel de Bouillon,
and presented as warlike an appearance.
There were sentinels, a guard in the
court, stacks of arms, and horses
saddled. Two horsemen going out as Athos
and Aramis entered were obliged to give
place to them.

"Ah! ah! gentlemen," said Aramis,
"decidedly it is a night for meetings.
We shall be very unfortunate if, after
meeting so often this evening, we should
not succeed in meeting to-morrow."

"Oh, as to that, sir," replied Chatillon
(for it was he who, with Flamarens, was
leaving the Duc de Beaufort), "you may
be assured; for if we meet by night
without seeking each other, much more
shall we meet by day when wishing it."

"I hope that is true," said Aramis.

"As for me, I am sure of it," said the
duke.

De Flamarens and De Chatillon continued
on their way and Athos and Aramis
dismounted.

Hardly had they given the bridles of
their horses to their lackeys and rid
themselves of their cloaks when a man
approached them, and after looking at
them for an instant by the doubtful
light of the lantern hung in the centre
of the courtyard he uttered an
exclamation of joy and ran to embrace
them.

"Comte de la Fere!" the man cried out;
"Chevalier d'Herblay! How does it happen
that you are in Paris?"

"Rochefort!" cried the two friends.

"Yes! we arrived four or five days ago
from the Vendomois, as you know, and we
are going to give Mazarin something to
do. You are still with us, I presume?"

"More than ever. And the duke?"

"Furious against the cardinal. You know
his success -- our dear duke? He is
really king of Paris; he can't go out
without being mobbed by his admirers."

"Ah! so much the better! Can we have the
honor of seeing his highness?"

"I shall be proud to present you," and
Rochefort walked on. Every door was
opened to him. Monsieur de Beaufort was
at supper, but he rose quickly on
hearing the two friends announced.

"Ah!" he cried, "by Jove! you're
welcome, sirs. You are coming to sup
with me, are you not? Boisgoli, tell
Noirmont that I have two guests. You
know Noirmont, do you not? The successor
of Father Marteau who makes the
excellent pies you know of. Boisgoli,
let him send one of his best, but not
such a one as he made for La Ramee.
Thank God! we don't want either rope
ladders or gag-pears now."

"My lord," said Athos, "do not let us
disturb you. We came merely to inquire
after your health and to take your
orders."

"As to my health, since it has stood
five years of prison, with Monsieur de
Chavigny to boot, 'tis excellent! As to
my orders, since every one gives his own
commands in our party, I shall end, if
this goes on, by giving none at all."

"In short, my lord," said Athos,
glancing at Aramis, "your highness is
discontented with your party?"

"Discontented, sir! say my highness is
furious! To such a degree, I assure you,
though I would not say so to others,
that if the queen, acknowledging the
injuries she has done me, would recall
my mother and give me the reversion of
the admiralty, which belonged to my
father and was promised me at his death,
well! it would not be long before I
should be training dogs to say that
there were greater traitors in France
than the Cardinal Mazarin!"

At this Athos and Aramis could not help
exchanging not only a look but a smile;
and had they not known it for a fact,
this would have told them that De
Chatillon and De Flamarens had been
there.

"My lord," said Athos, "we are
satisfied; we came here only to express
our loyalty and to say that we are at
your lordship's service and his most
faithful servants."

"My most faithful friends, gentlemen, my
most faithful friends; you have proved
it. And if ever I am reconciled with the
court I shall prove to you, I hope, that
I remain your friend, as well as that
of -- what the devil are their names --
D'Artagnan and Porthos?"

"D'Artagnan and Porthos."

"Ah, yes. You understand, then, Comte de
la Fere, you understand, Chevalier
d'Herblay, that I am altogether and
always at your service."

Athos and Aramis bowed and went out.

"My dear Athos," cried Aramis, "I think
you consented to accompany me only to
give me a lesson -- God forgive me!"

"Wait a little, Aramis; it will be time
for you to perceive my motive when we
have paid our visit to the coadjutor."

"Let us then go to the archiepiscopal
palace," said Aramis.

They directed their horses to the city.
On arriving at the cradle from which
Paris sprang they found it inundated
with water, and it was again necessary
to take a boat. The palace rose from the
bosom of the water, and to see the
number of boats around it one would have
fancied one's self not in Paris, but in
Venice. Some of these boats were dark
and mysterious, others noisy and lighted
up with torches. The friends slid in
through this congestion of embarkation
and landed in their turn. The palace was
surrounded with water, but a kind of
staircase had been fixed to the lower
walls; and the only difference was, that
instead of entering by the doors, people
entered by the windows.

Thus did Athos and Aramis make their
appearance in the ante-chamber, where
about a dozen noblemen were collected in
waiting.

"Good heavens!" said Aramis to Athos,
"does the coadjutor intend to indulge
himself in the pleasure of making us
cool our hearts off in his
ante-chamber?"

"My dear friend, we must take people as
we find them. The coadjutor is at this
moment one of the seven kings of Paris,
and has a court. Let us send in our
names, and if he does not send us a
suitable message we will leave him to
his own affairs or those of France. Let
us call one of these lackeys, with a
demi-pistole in the left hand."

"Exactly so," cried Aramis. "Ah! if I'm
not mistaken here's Bazin. Come here,
fellow."

Bazin, who was crossing the ante-chamber
majestically in his clerical dress,
turned around to see who the impertinent
gentleman was who thus addressed him;
but seeing his friends he went up to
them quickly and expressed delight at
seeing them.

"A truce to compliments," said Aramis;
"we want to see the coadjutor, and
instantly, as we are in haste."

"Certainly, sir -- it is not such lords
as you are who are allowed to wait in
the ante-chamber, only just now he has a
secret conference with Monsieur de
Bruy."

"De Bruy!" cried the friends, "'tis then
useless our seeing monsieur the
coadjutor this evening," said Aramis,
"so we give it up."

And they hastened to quit the palace,
followed by Bazin, who was lavish of
bows and compliments.

"Well," said Athos, when Aramis and he
were in the boat again, "are you
beginning to be convinced that we should
have done a bad turn to all these people
in arresting Mazarin?"

"You are wisdom incarnate, Athos,"
Aramis replied.

What had especially been observed by the
two friends was the little interest
taken by the court of France in the
terrible events which had occurred in
England, which they thought should have
arrested the attention of all Europe.

In fact, aside from a poor widow and a
royal orphan who wept in the corner of
the Louvre, no one appeared to be aware
that Charles I. had ever lived and that
he had perished on the scaffold.

The two friends made an appointment for
ten o'clock on the following day; for
though the night was well advanced when
they reached the door of the hotel,
Aramis said that he had certain
important visits to make and left Athos
to enter alone.

At ten o'clock the next day they met
again. Athos had been out since six
o'clock.

"Well, have you any news?" Athos asked.

"Nothing. No one has seen D'Artagnan and
Porthos has, not appeared. Have you
anything?"

"Nothing."

"The devil!" said Aramis.

"In fact," said Athos, "this delay is
not natural; they took the shortest
route and should have arrived before we
did."

"Add to that D'Artagnan's rapidity in
action and that he is not the man to
lose an hour, knowing that we were
expecting him."

"He expected, you will remember, to be
here on the fifth."

"And here we are at the ninth. This
evening the margin of possible delay
expires."

"What do you think should be done,"
asked Athos. "if we have no news of them
to-night?"

"Pardieu! we must go and look for them."

"All right," said Athos.

"But Raoul?" said Aramis.

A light cloud passed over the count's
face.

"Raoul gives me much uneasiness," he
said. "He received yesterday a message
from the Prince de Conde; he went to
meet him at Saint Cloud and has not
returned."

"Have you seen Madame de Chevreuse?"

"She was not at home. And you, Aramis,
you were going, I think, to visit Madame
de Longueville."

"I did go there."

"Well?"

"She was no longer there, but she had
left her new address."

"Where was she?"

"Guess; I give you a thousand chances."

"How should I know where the most
beautiful and active of the Frondists
was at midnight? for I presume it was
when you left me that you went to visit
her."

"At the Hotel de Ville, my dear fellow."

"What! at the Hotel de Ville? Has she,
then, been appointed provost of
merchants?"

"No; but she has become queen of Paris,
ad interim, and since she could not
venture at once to establish herself in
the Palais Royal or the Tuileries, she
is installed at the Hotel de Ville,
where she is on the point of giving an
heir or an heiress to that dear duke."

"You didn't tell me of that, Aramis."

"Really? It was my forgetfulness then;
pardon me."

"Now," asked Athos, "what are we to do
with ourselves till evening? Here we are
without occupation, it seems to me."

"You forget, my friend, that we have
work cut out for us in the direction of
Charenton; I hope to see Monsieur de
Chatillon, whom I've hated for a long
time, there."

"Why have you hated him?"

"Because he is the brother of Coligny."

"Ah, true! he who presumed to be a rival
of yours, for which he was severely
punished; that ought to satisfy you."

"'Yes, but it does not; I am
rancorous -- the only stigma that proves
me to be a churchman. Do you understand?
You understand that you are in no way
obliged to go with me."

"Come, now," said Athos, "you are
joking."

"In that case, my dear friend, if you
are resolved to accompany me there is no
time to lose; the drum beats; I observed
cannon on the road; I saw the citizens
in order of battle on the Place of the
Hotel de Ville; certainly the fight will
be in the direction of Charenton, as the
Duc de Chatillon said."

"I supposed," said Athos, "that last
night's conferences would modify those
warlike arrangements."

"No doubt; but they will fight, none the
less, if only to mask the conferences."

"Poor creatures!" said Athos, "who are
going to be killed, in order that
Monsieur de Bouillon may have his estate
at Sedan restored to him, that the
reversion of the admiralty may be given
to the Duc de Beaufort, and that the
coadjutor may be made a cardinal."

"Come, come, dear Athos, confess that
you would not be so philosophical if
your Raoul were to be involved in this
affair."

"Perhaps you speak the truth, Aramis."

"Well, let us go, then, where the
fighting is, for that is the most likely
place to meet with D'Artagnan, Porthos,
and possibly even Raoul. Stop, there are
a fine body of citizens passing; quite
attractive, by Jupiter! and their
captain -- see! he has the true military
style."

"What, ho!" said Grimaud.

"What?" asked Athos.

"Planchet, sir."

"Lieutenant yesterday," said Aramis,
"captain to-day, colonel, doubtless,
to-morrow; in a fortnight the fellow
will be marshal of France."

"Question him about the fight," said
Athos.

Planchet, prouder than ever of his new
duties, deigned to explain to the two
gentlemen that he was ordered to take up
his position on the Place Royale with
two hundred men, forming the rear of the
army of Paris, and to march on Charenton
when necessary.

"This day will be a warm one," said
Planchet, in a warlike tone.

"No doubt," said Aramis, "but it is far
from here to the enemy."

"Sir, the distance will be diminished,"
said a subordinate.

Aramis saluted, then turning toward
Athos:

"I don't care to camp on the Place
Royale with all these people," he said.
"Shall we go forward? We shall see
better what is going on."

"And then Monsieur de Chatillon will not
come to the Place Royale to look for
you. Come, then, my friend, we will go
forward."

"Haven't you something to say to
Monsieur de Flamarens on your own
account?"

"My friend," said Athos, "I have made a
resolution never to draw my sword save
when it is absolutely necessary."

"And how long ago was that?"

"When I last drew my poniard."

"Ah! Good! another souvenir of Monsieur
Mordaunt. Well, my friend, nothing now
is lacking except that you should feel
remorse for having killed that fellow."

"Hush!" said Athos, putting a finger on
his lips, with the sad smile peculiar to
him; "let us talk no more of Mordaunt --
it will bring bad luck." And Athos set
forward toward Charenton, followed
closely by Aramis.



78

The Battle of Charenton.



As Athos and Aramis proceeded, and
passed different companies on the road,
they became aware that they were
arriving near the field of battle.

"Ah! my friend!" cried Athos, suddenly,
"where have you brought us? I fancy I
perceive around us faces of different
officers in the royal army; is not that
the Duc de Chatillon himself coming
toward us with his brigadiers?"

"Good-day, sirs," said the duke,
advancing; "you are puzzled by what you
see here, but one word will explain
everything. There is now a truce and a
conference. The prince, Monsieur de
Retz, the Duc de Beaufort, the Duc de
Bouillon, are talking over public
affairs. Now one of two things must
happen: either matters will not be
arranged, or they will be arranged, in
which last case I shall be relieved of
my command and we shall still meet
again."

"Sir," said Aramis, "you speak to the
point. Allow me to ask you a question:
Where are the plenipotentiaries?"

"At Charenton, in the second house on
the right on entering from the direction
of Paris."

"And was this conference arranged
beforehand?"

"No, gentlemen, it seems to be the
result of certain propositions which
Mazarin made last night to the
Parisians."

Athos and Aramis exchanged smiles; for
they well knew what those propositions
were, to whom they had been made and who
had made them.

"And that house in which the
plenipotentiaries are," asked Athos,
"belongs to ---- "

"To Monsieur de Chanleu, who commands
your troops at Charenton. I say your
troops, for I presume that you gentlemen
are Frondeurs?"

"Yes, almost," said Aramis.

"We are for the king and the princes,"
added Athos.

"We must understand each other," said
the duke. "The king is with us and his
generals are the Duke of Orleans and the
Prince de Conde, although I must add
'tis almost impossible now to know to
which party any one belongs."

"Yes," answered Athos, "but his right
place is in our ranks, with the Prince
de Conti, De Beaufort, D'Elbeuf, and De
Bouillon; but, sir, supposing that the
conference is broken off -- are you
going to try to take Charenton?"

"Such are my orders."

"Sir, since you command the cavalry ----
"

"Pardon me, I am commander-in-chief."

"So much the better. You must know all
your officers -- I mean those more
distinguished."

"Why, yes, very nearly."

"Will you then kindly tell me if you
have in your command the Chevalier
d'Artagnan, lieutenant in the
musketeers?"

"No, sir, he is not with us; he left
Paris more than six weeks ago and is
believed to have gone on a mission to
England."

"I knew that, but I supposed he had
returned."

"No, sir; no one has seen him. I can
answer positively on that point, for the
musketeers belong to our forces and
Monsieur de Cambon, the substitute for
Monsieur d'Artagnan, still holds his
place."

The two friends looked at each other.

"You see," said Athos.

"It is strange," said Aramis.

"It is absolutely certain that some
misfortune has happened to them on the
way."

"If we have no news of them this
evening, to-morrow we must start."

Athos nodded affirmatively, then
turning:

"And Monsieur de Bragelonne, a young man
fifteen years of age, attached to the
Prince de Conde -- has he the honor of
being known to you?" diffident in
allowing the sarcastic Aramis to
perceive how strong were his paternal
feelings.

"Yes, surely, he came with the prince; a
charming young man; he is one of your
friends then, monsieur le comte?"

"Yes, sir," answered Athos, agitated;
"so much so that I wish to see him if
possible."

"Quite possible, sir; do me the favor to
accompany me and I will conduct you to
headquarters."

"Halloo, there!" cried Aramis, turning
around; "what a noise behind us!"

"A body of cavaliers is coming toward
us," said Chatillon.

"I recognize the coadjutor by his
Frondist hat."

"And I the Duc de Beaufort by his white
plume of ostrich feathers."

"They are coming, full gallop; the
prince is with them -- ah! he is leaving
them!"

"They are beating the rappel!" cried
Chatillon; "we must discover what is
going on."

In fact, they saw the soldiers running
to their arms; the trumpets sounded; the
drums beat; the Duc de Beaufort drew his
sword. On his side the prince sounded a
rappel and all the officers of the
royalist army, mingling momentarily with
the Parisian troops, ran to him.

"Gentlemen," cried Chatillon, "the truce
is broken, that is evident; they are
going to fight; go, then, into
Charenton, for I shall begin in a short
time -- there's a signal from the
prince!"

The cornet of a troop had in fact just
raised the standard of the prince.

"Farewell, till the next time we meet,"
cried Chatillon, and he set off, full
gallop.

Athos and Aramis turned also and went to
salute the coadjutor and the Duc de
Beaufort. As to the Duc de Bouillon, he
had such a fit of gout as obliged him to
return to Paris in a litter; but his
place was well filled by the Duc
d'Elbeuf and his four sons, ranged
around him like a staff. Meantime,
between Charenton and the royal army was
left a space which looked ready to serve
as a last resting place for the dead.

"Gentlemen," cried the coadjutor,
tightening his sash, which he wore,
after the fashion of the ancient
military prelates, over his
archiepiscopal simar, "there's the enemy
approaching. Let us save them half of
their journey."

And without caring whether he were
followed or not he set off; his
regiment, which bore the name of the
regiment of Corinth, from the name of
his archbishopric, darted after him and
began the fight. Monsieur de Beaufort
sent his cavalry, toward Etampes and
Monsieur de Chanleu, who defended the
place, was ready to resist an assault,
or if the enemy were repulsed, to
attempt a sortie.

The battle soon became general and the
coadjutor performed miracles of valor.
His proper vocation had always been the
sword and he was delighted whenever he
could draw it from the scabbard, no
matter for whom or against whom.

Chanleu, whose fire at one time repulsed
the royal regiment, thought that the
moment was come to pursue it; but it was
reformed and led again to the charge by
the Duc de Chatillon in person. This
charge was so fierce, so skillfully
conducted, that Chanleu was almost
surrounded. He commanded a retreat,
which began, step by step, foot by foot;
unhappily, in an instant he fell,
mortally wounded. De Chatillon saw him
fall and announced it in a loud voice to
his men, which raised their spirits and
completely disheartened their enemies,
so that every man thought only of his
own safety and tried to gain the
trenches, where the coadjutor was trying
to reform his disorganized regiment.

Suddenly a squadron of cavalry galloped
up to encounter the royal troops, who
were entering, pele-mele, the
intrenchments with the fugitives. Athos
and Aramis charged at the head of their
squadrons; Aramis with sword and pistol
in his hands, Athos with his sword in
his scabbard, his pistol in his
saddle-bags; calm and cool as if on the
parade, except that his noble and
beautiful countenance became sad as he
saw slaughtered so many men who were
sacrificed on the one side to the
obstinacy of royalty and on the other to
the personal rancor of the princes.
Aramis, on the contrary, struck right
and left and was almost delirious with
excitement. His bright eyes kindled, and
his mouth, so finely formed, assumed a
wicked smile; every blow he aimed was
sure, and his pistol finished the
deed -- annihilated the wounded wretch
who tried to rise again.

On the opposite side two cavaliers, one
covered with a gilt cuirass, the other
wearing simply a buff doublet, from
which fell the sleeves of a vest of blue
velvet, charged in front. The cavalier
in the gilt cuirass fell upon Aramis and
struck a blow that Aramis parried with
his wonted skill.

"Ah! 'tis you, Monsieur de Chatillon,"
cried the chevalier; "welcome to you --
I expected you."

"I hope I have not made you wait too
long, sir," said the duke; "at all
events, here I am."

"Monsieur de Chatillon," cried Aramis,
taking from his saddle-bags a second
pistol, "I think if your pistols have
been discharged you are a dead man."

"Thank God, sir, they are not!"

And the duke, pointing his pistol at
Aramis, fired. But Aramis bent his head
the instant he saw the duke's finger
press the trigger and the ball passed
without touching him.

"Oh! you've missed me," cried Aramis,
"but I swear to Heaven! I will not miss
you."

"If I give you time!" cried the duke,
spurring on his horse and rushing upon
him with his drawn sword.

Aramis awaited him with that terrible
smile which was peculiar to him on such
occasions, and Athos, who saw the duke
advancing toward Aramis with the
rapidity of lightning, was just going to
cry out, "Fire! fire, then!" when the
shot was fired. De Chatillon opened his
arms and fell back on the crupper of his
horse.

The ball had entered his breast through
a notch in the cuirass.

"I am a dead man," he said, and fell
from his horse to the ground.

"I told you this, I am now grieved I
have kept my word. Can I be of any use
to you?"

Chatillon made a sign with his hand and
Aramis was about to dismount when he
received a violent shock; 'twas a thrust
from a sword, but his cuirass turned
aside the blow.

He turned around and seized his new
antagonist by the wrist, when he started
back, exclaiming, "Raoul!"

"Raoul?" cried Athos.

The young man recognized at the same
instant the voices of his father and the
Chevalier d'Herblay; two officers in the
Parisian forces rushed at that instant
on Raoul, but Aramis protected him with
his sword.

"My prisoner!" he cried.

Athos took his son's horse by the bridle
and led him forth out of the melee.

At this crisis of the battle, the
prince, who had been seconding De
Chatillon in the second line, appeared
in the midst of the fight; his eagle eye
made him known and his blows proclaimed
the hero.

On seeing him, the regiment of Corinth,
which the coadjutor had not been able to
reorganize in spite of all his efforts,
threw itself into the midst of the
Parisian forces, put them into confusion
and re-entered Charenton flying. The
coadjutor, dragged along with his
fugitive forces, passed near the group
formed by Athos, Raoul and Aramis.
Aramis could not in his jealousy avoid
being pleased at the coadjutor's
misfortune, and was about to utter some
bon mot more witty than correct, when
Athos stopped him.

"On, on!" he cried, "this is no moment
for compliments; or rather, back, for
the battle seems to be lost by the
Frondeurs."

"It is a matter of indifference to me,"
said Aramis; "I came here only to meet
De Chatillon; I have met him, I am
contented; 'tis something to have met De
Chatillon in a duel!"

"And besides, we have a prisoner," said
Athos, pointing to Raoul.

The three cavaliers continued their road
on full gallop.

"What were you doing in the battle, my
friend?" inquired Athos of the youth;
"'twas not your right place, I think, as
you were not equipped for an
engagement!"

"I had no intention of fighting to-day,
sir; I was charged, indeed, with a
mission to the cardinal and had set out
for Rueil, when, seeing Monsieur de
Chatillon charge, an invincible desire
possessed me to charge at his side. It
was then that he told me two cavaliers
of the Parisian army were seeking me and
named the Comte de la Fere."

"What! you knew we were there and yet
wished to kill your friend the
chevalier?"

"I did not recognize the chevalier in
armor, sir!" said Raoul, blushing;
"though I might have known him by his
skill and coolness in danger."

"Thank you for the compliment, my young
friend," replied Aramis, "we can see
from whom you learned courtesy. Then you
were going to Rueil?"

"Yes! I have a despatch from the prince
to his eminence."

"You must still deliver it," said Athos.

"No false generosity, count! the fate of
our friends, to say nothing of our own,
is perhaps in that very despatch."

"This young man must not, however, fail
in his duty," said Athos.

"In the first place, count, this youth
is our prisoner; you seem to forget
that. What I propose to do is fair in
war; the vanquished must not be dainty
in the choice of means. Give me the
despatch, Raoul."

The young man hesitated and looked at
Athos as if seeking to read in his eyes
a rule of conduct.

"Give him the despatch, Raoul! you are
the chevalier's prisoner."

Raoul gave it up reluctantly; Aramis
instantly seized and read it.

"You," he said, "you, who are so
trusting, read and reflect that there is
something in this letter important for
us to see."

Athos took the letter, frowning, but an
idea that he should find something in
this letter about D'Artagnan conquered
his unwillingness to read it.

"My lord, I shall send this evening to
your eminence in order to reinforce the
troop of Monsieur de Comminges, the ten
men you demand. They are good soldiers,
fit to confront the two violent
adversaries whose address and resolution
your eminence is fearful of."

"Oh!" cried Athos.

"Well," said Aramis, "what think you
about these two enemies whom it
requires, besides Comminges's troop, ten
good soldiers to confront; are they not
as like as two drops of water to
D'Artagnan and Porthos?"

"We'll search Paris all day long," said
Athos, "and if we have no news this
evening we will return to the road to
Picardy; and I feel no doubt that,
thanks to D'Artagnan's ready invention,
we shall then find some clew which will
solve our doubts."

"Yes, let us search Paris and especially
inquire of Planchet if he has yet heard
from his former master."

"That poor Planchet! You speak of him
very much at your ease, Aramis; he has
probably been killed. All those fighting
citizens went out to battle and they
have been massacred."

It was, then, with a sentiment of
uneasiness whether Planchet, who alone
could give them information, was alive
or dead, that the friends returned to
the Place Royale; to their great
surprise they found the citizens still
encamped there, drinking and bantering
each other, although, doubtless, mourned
by their families, who thought they were
at Charenton in the thickest of the
fighting.

Athos and Aramis again questioned
Planchet, but he had seen nothing of
D'Artagnan; they wished to take Planchet
with them, but he could not leave his
troop, who at five o'clock returned
home, saying that they were returning
from the battle, whereas they had never
lost sight of the bronze equestrian
statue of Louis XIII.



79

The Road to Picardy.



On leaving Paris, Athos and Aramis well
knew that they would be encountering
great danger; but we know that for men
like these there could be no question of
danger. Besides, they felt that the
denouement of this second Odyssey was at
hand and that there remained but a
single effort to make.

Besides, there was no tranquillity in
Paris itself. Provisions began to fail,
and whenever one of the Prince de
Conti's generals wished to gain more
influence he got up a little popular
tumult, which he put down again, and
thus for the moment gained a superiority
over his colleagues.

In one of these risings. the Duc de
Beaufort pillaged the house and library
of Mazarin, in order to give the
populace, as he put it, something to
gnaw at. Athos and Aramis left Paris
after this coup-d'etat, which took place
on the very evening of the day in which
the Parisians had been beaten at
Charenton.

They quitted Paris, beholding it
abandoned to extreme want, bordering on
famine; agitated by fear, torn by
faction. Parisians and Frondeurs as they
were, the two friends expected to find
the same misery, the same fears, the
same intrigue in the enemy's camp; but
what was their surprise, after passing
Saint Denis, to hear that at Saint
Germain people were singing and
laughing, and leading generally cheerful
lives. The two gentlemen traveled by
byways in order not to encounter the
Mazarinists scattered about the Isle of
France, and also to escape the
Frondeurs, who were in possession of
Normandy and who never failed to conduct
captives to the Duc de Longueville, in
order that he might ascertain whether
they were friends or foes. Having
escaped these dangers, they returned by
the main road to Boulogne, at Abbeville,
and followed it step by step, examining
every track.

Nevertheless, they were still in a state
of uncertainty. Several inns were
visited by them, several innkeepers
questioned, without a single clew being
given to guide their inquiries, when at
Montreuil Athos felt upon the table that
something rough was touching his
delicate fingers. He turned up the cloth
and found these hieroglyphics carved
upon the wood with a knife:

"Port .... D'Art .... 2d February."

"This is capital!" said Athos to Aramis,
"we were to have slept here, but we
cannot -- we must push on." They rode
forward and reached Abbeville. There the
great number of inns puzzled them; they
could not go to all; how could they
guess in which those whom they were
seeking had stayed?

"Trust me," said Aramis, "do not expect
to find anything in Abbeville. If we had
only been looking for Porthos, Porthos
would have stationed himself in one of
the finest hotels and we could easily
have traced him. But D'Artagnan is
devoid of such weaknesses. Porthos would
have found it very difficult even to
make him see that he was dying of
hunger; he has gone on his road as
inexorable as fate and we must seek him
somewhere else."

They continued their route. It had now
become a weary and almost hopeless task,
and had it not been for the threefold
motives of honor, friendship and
gratitude, implanted in their hearts,
our two travelers would have given up
many a time their rides over the sand,
their interrogatories of the peasantry
and their close inspection of faces.

They proceeded thus to Peronne.

Athos began to despair. His noble nature
felt that their ignorance was a sort of
reflection upon them. They had not
looked carefully enough for their lost
friends. They had not shown sufficient
pertinacity in their inquiries. They
were willing and ready to retrace their
steps, when, in crossing the suburb
which leads to the gates of the town,
upon a white wall which was at the
corner of a street turning around the
rampart, Athos cast his eyes upon a
drawing in black chalk, which
represented, with the awkwardness of a
first attempt, two cavaliers riding
furiously; one of them carried a roll of
paper on which were written these words:
"They are following us."

"Oh!" exclaimed Athos, "here it is, as
clear as day; pursued as he was,
D'Artagnan would not have tarried here
five minutes had he been pressed very
closely, which gives us hopes that he
may have succeeded in escaping."

Aramis shook his head.

"Had he escaped we should either have
seen him or have heard him spoken of."

"You are right, Aramis, let us travel
on."

To describe the impatience and anxiety
of these two friends would be
impossible. Uneasiness took possession
of the tender, constant heart of Athos,
and fearful forecasts were the torment
of the impulsive Aramis. They galloped
on for two or three hours as furiously
as the cavaliers on the wall. All at
once, in a narrow pass, they perceived
that the road was partially barricaded
by an enormous stone. It had evidently
been rolled across the pass by some arm
of giant strength.

Aramis stopped.

"Oh!" he said, looking at the stone,
"this is the work of either Hercules or
Porthos. Let us get down, count, and
examine this rock."

They both alighted. The stone had been
brought with the evident intention of
barricading the road, but some one
having perceived the obstacle had
partially turned it aside.

With the assistance of Blaisois and
Grimaud the friends succeeded in turning
the stone over. Upon the side next the
ground were scratched the following
words:



"Eight of the light dragoons are
pursuing us. If we reach Compiegne we
shall stop at the Peacock. It is kept by
a friend of ours."



"At last we have something definite,"
said Athos; "let us go to the Peacock."

"Yes," answered Aramis, "but if we are
to get there we must rest our horses,
for they are almost broken-winded."

Aramis was right; they stopped at the
first tavern and made each horse swallow
a double quantity of corn steeped in
wine; they gave them three hours' rest
and then set off again. The men
themselves were almost dead with
fatigue, but hope supported them.

In six hours they reached Compiegne and
alighted at the Peacock. The host proved
to be a worthy man, as bald as a
Chinaman. They asked him if some time
ago he had not received in his house two
gentlemen who were pursued by dragoons;
without answering he went out and
brought in the blade of a rapier.

"Do you know that?" he asked.

Athos merely glanced at it.

"'Tis D'Artagnan's sword," he said.

"Does it belong to the smaller or to the
larger of the two?" asked the host.

"To the smaller."

"I see that you are the friends of these
gentlemen."

"Well, what has happened to them?"

"They were pursued by eight of the light
dragoons, who rode into the courtyard
before they had time to close the gate."

"Eight!" said Aramis; "it surprises me
that two such heroes as Porthos and
D'Artagnan should have allowed
themselves to be arrested by eight men."

"The eight men would doubtless have
failed had they not been assisted by
twenty soldiers of the regiment of
Italians in the king's service, who are
in garrison in this town so that your
friends were overpowered by numbers."

"Arrested, were they?" inquired Athos;
"is it known why?"

"No, sir, they were carried off
instantly, and had not even time to tell
me why; but as soon as they were gone I
found this broken sword-blade, as I was
helping to raise two dead men and five
or six wounded ones."

"'Tis still a consolation that they were
not wounded," said Aramis.

"Where were they taken?" asked Athos.

"Toward the town of Louvres," was the
reply.

The two friends having agreed to leave
Blaisois and Grimaud at Compiegne with
the horses, resolved to take post
horses; and having snatched a hasty
dinner they continued their journey to
Louvres. Here they found only one inn,
in which was consumed a liqueur which
preserves its reputation to our time and
which is still made in that town.

"Let us alight here," said Athos.
"D'Artagnan will not have let slip an
opportunity of drinking a glass of this
liqueur, and at the same time leaving
some trace of himself."

They went into the town and asked for
two glasses of liqueur, at the
counter -- as their friends must have
done before them. The counter was
covered with a plate of pewter; upon
this plate was written with the point of
a large pin: "Rueil . . . D . ."

"They went to Rueil," cried Aramis.

"Let us go to Rueil," said Athos.

"It is to throw ourselves into the
wolf's jaws," said Aramis.

"Had I been as great a friend of Jonah
as I am of D'Artagnan I should have
followed him even into the inside of the
whale itself; and you would have done
the same, Aramis."

"Certainly -- but you make me out better
than I am, dear count. Had I been alone
I should scarcely have gone to Rueil
without great caution. But where you go,
I go."

They then set off for Rueil. Here the
deputies of the parliament had just
arrived, in order to enter upon those
famous conferences which were to last
three weeks, and produced eventually
that shameful peace, at the conclusion
of which the prince was arrested. Rueil
was crowded with advocates, presidents
and councillors, who came from the
Parisians, and, on the side of the
court, with officers and guards; it was
therefore easy, in the midst of this
confusion, to remain as unobserved as
any one might wish; besides, the
conferences implied a truce, and to
arrest two gentlemen, even Frondeurs, at
this time, would have been an attack on
the rights of the people.

The two friends mingled with the crowd
and fancied that every one was occupied
with the same thought that tormented
them. They expected to hear some mention
made of D'Artagnan or of Porthos, but
every one was engrossed by articles and
reforms. It was the advice of Athos to
go straight to the minister.

"My friend," said Aramis, "take care;
our safety lies in our obscurity. If we
were to make ourselves known we should
be sent to rejoin our friends in some
deep ditch, from which the devil himself
could not take us out. Let us try not to
find them out by accident, but from our
notions. Arrested at Compiegne, they
have been carried to Rueil; at Rueil
they have been questioned by the
cardinal, who has either kept them near
him or sent them to Saint Germain. As to
the Bastile, they are not there, though
the Bastile is especially for the
Frondeurs. They are not dead, for the
death of D'Artagnan would make a
sensation. As for Porthos, I believe him
to be eternal, like God, although less
patient. Do not let us despond, but wait
at Rueil, for my conviction is that they
are at Rueil. But what ails you? You are
pale."

"It is this," answered Athos, with a
trembling voice.

"I remember that at the Castle of Rueil
the Cardinal Richelieu had some horrible
`oubliettes' constructed."

"Oh! never fear," said Aramis.
"Richelieu was a gentleman, our equal in
birth, our superior in position. He
could, like the king, touch the greatest
of us on the head, and touching them
make such heads shake on their
shoulders. But Mazarin is a low-born
rogue, who can at the most take us by
the collar, like an archer. Be calm --
for I am sure that D'Artagnan and
Porthos are at Rueil, alive and well."

"But," resumed Athos, "I recur to my
first proposal. I know no better means
than to act with candor. I shall seek,
not Mazarin, but the queen, and say to
her, `Madame, restore to us your two
servants and our two friends.'"

Aramis shook his head.

"'Tis a last resource, but let us not
employ it till it is imperatively called
for; let us rather persevere in our
researches."

They continued their inquiries and at
last met with a light dragoon who had
formed one of the guard which had
escorted D'Artagnan to Rueil.

Athos, however, perpetually recurred to
his proposed interview with the queen.

"In order to see the queen," said
Aramis, "we must first see the cardinal;
and when we have seen the cardinal --
remember what I tell you, Athos -- we
shall be reunited to our friends, but
not in the way you wish. Now, that way
of joining them is not very attractive
to me, I confess. Let us act in freedom,
that we may act well and quickly."

"I shall go," he said, "to the queen."

"Well, then," answered Aramis, "pray
tell me a day or two beforehand, that I
may take that opportunity of going to
Paris."

"To whom?"

"Zounds! how do I know? perhaps to
Madame de Longueville. She is
all-powerful yonder; she will help me.
But send me word should you be arrested,
for then I will return directly."

"Why do you not take your chance and be
arrested with me?"

"No, I thank you."

"Should we, by being arrested, be all
four together again, we should not, I am
not sure, be twenty-four hours in prison
without getting free."

"My friend, since I killed Chatillon,
adored of the ladies of Saint Germain, I
am too great a celebrity not to fear a
prison doubly. The queen is likely to
follow Mazarin's counsels and to have me
tried."

"Do you think she loves this Italian so
much as they say she does?"

"Did she not love an Englishman?"

"My friend, she is a woman."

"No, no, you are deceived -- she is a
queen."

"Dear friend, I shall sacrifice myself
and go and see Anne of Austria."

"Adieu, Athos, I am going to raise an
army."

"For what purpose?"

"To come back and besiege Rueil."

"Where shall we meet again?"

"At the foot of the cardinal's gallows."

The two friends departed -- Aramis to
return to Paris, Athos to take measures
preparatory to an interview with the
queen.



80

The Gratitude of Anne of Austria.



Athos found much less difficulty than he
had expected in obtaining an audience of
Anne of Austria. It was granted, and was
to take place after her morning's
"levee," at which, in accordance with
his rights of birth, he was entitled to
be present. A vast crowd filled the
apartments of Saint Germain. Anne had
never at the Louvre had so large a
court; but this crowd represented
chiefly the second class of nobility,
while the Prince de Conti, the Duc de
Beaufort and the coadjutor assembled
around them the first nobility of
France.

The greatest possible gayety prevailed
at court. The particular characteristic
of this was that more songs were made
than cannons fired during its
continuance. The court made songs on the
Parisians and the Parisians on the
court; and the casualties, though not
mortal, were painful, as are all wounds
inflicted by the weapon of ridicule.

In the midst of this seeming hilarity,
nevertheless, people's minds were
uneasy. Was Mazarin to remain the
favorite and minister of the queen? Was
he to be carried back by the wind which
had blown him there? Every one hoped so,
so that the minister felt that all
around him, beneath the homage of the
courtiers, lay a fund of hatred, ill
disguised by fear and interest. He felt
ill at ease and at a loss what to do.

Conde himself, whilst fighting for him,
lost no opportunity of ridiculing, of
humbling him. The queen, on whom he
threw himself as sole support, seemed to
him now not much to be relied upon.

When the hour appointed for the audience
arrived Athos was obliged to stay until
the queen, who was waited upon by a new
deputation from Paris, had consulted
with her minister as to the propriety
and manner of receiving them. All were
fully engrossed with the affairs of the
day; Athos could not therefore have
chosen a more inauspicious moment to
speak of his friends -- poor atoms, lost
in that raging whirlwind.

But Athos was a man of inflexible
determination; he firmly adhered to a
purpose once formed, when it seemed to
him to spring from conscience and to be
prompted by a sense of duty. He insisted
on being introduced, saying that
although he was not a deputy from
Monsieur de Conti, or Monsieur de
Beaufort, or Monsieur de Bouillon, or
Monsieur d'Elbeuf, or the coadjutor, or
Madame de Longueville, or Broussel, or
the Parliament, and although he had come
on his own private account, he
nevertheless had things to say to her
majesty of the utmost importance.

The conference being finished, the queen
summoned him to her cabinet.

Athos was introduced and announced by
name. It was a name that too often
resounded in her majesty's ears and too
often vibrated in her heart for Anne of
Austria not to recognize it; yet she
remained impassive, looking at him with
that fixed stare which is tolerated only
in women who are queens, either by the
power of beauty or by the right of
birth.

"It is then a service which you propose
to render us, count?" asked Anne of
Austria, after a moment's silence.

"Yes, madame, another service," said
Athos, shocked that the queen did not
seem to recognize him.

Athos had a noble heart, and made,
therefore, but a poor courtier.

Anne frowned. Mazarin, who was sitting
at a table folding up papers, as if he
had only been a secretary of state,
looked up.

"Speak," said the queen.

Mazarin turned again to his papers.

"Madame," resumed Athos, "two of my
friends, named D'Artagnan and Monsieur
du Vallon, sent to England by the
cardinal, suddenly disappeared when they
set foot on the shores of France; no one
knows what has become of them."

"Well?" said the queen.

"I address myself, therefore, first to
the benevolence of your majesty, that I
may know what has become of my friends,
reserving to myself, if necessary, the
right of appealing hereafter to your
justice."

"Sir," replied Anne, with a degree of
haughtiness which to certain persons
became impertinence, "this is the reason
that you trouble me in the midst of so
many absorbing concerns! an affair for
the police! Well, sir, you ought to know
that we no longer have a police, since
we are no longer at Paris."

"I think your majesty will have no need
to apply to the police to know where my
friends are, but that if you will deign
to interrogate the cardinal he can reply
without any further inquiry than into
his own recollections."

"But, God forgive me!" cried Anne, with
that disdainful curl of the lips
peculiar to her, "I believe that you are
yourself interrogating."

"Yes, madame, here I have a right to do
so, for it concerns Monsieur
d'Artagnan ---d'Artagnan," he repeated,
in such a manner as to bow the regal
brow with recollections of the weak and
erring woman.

The cardinal saw that it was now high
time to come to the assistance of Anne.

"Sir," he said, "I can tell you what is
at present unknown to her majesty. These
individuals are under arrest. They
disobeyed orders."

"I beg of your majesty, then," said
Athos, calmly and not replying to
Mazarin, "to quash these arrests of
Messieurs d'Artagnan and du Vallon."

"What you ask is merely an affair of
discipline and does not concern me,"
said the queen.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan never made such an
answer as that when the service of your
majesty was concerned," said Athos,
bowing with great dignity. He was going
toward the door when Mazarin stopped
him.

"You, too, have been in England, sir?"
he said, making a sign to the queen, who
was evidently going to issue a severe
order.

"I was a witness of the last hours of
Charles I. Poor king! culpable, at the
most, of weakness, how cruelly punished
by his subjects! Thrones are at this
time shaken and it is to little purpose
for devoted hearts to serve the
interests of princes. This is the second
time that Monsieur d'Artagnan has been
in England. He went the first time to
save the honor of a great queen; the
second, to avert the death of a great
king."

"Sir," said Anne to Mazarin, with an
accent from which daily habits of
dissimulation could not entirely chase
the real expression, "see if we can do
something for these gentlemen."

"I wish to do, madame, all that your
majesty pleases."

"Do what Monsieur de la Fere requests;
that is your name, is it not, sir?"

"I have another name, madame -- I am
called Athos."

"Madame," said Mazarin, with a smile,
"you may rest easy; your wishes shall be
fulfilled."

"You hear, sir?" said the queen.

"Yes, madame, I expected nothing less
from the justice of your majesty. May I
not go and see my friends?"

"Yes, sir, you shall see them. But,
apropos, you belong to the Fronde, do
you not?"

"Madame, I serve the king."

"Yes, in your own way."

"My way is the way of all gentlemen, and
I know only one way," answered Athos,
haughtily.

"Go, sir, then," said the queen; "you
have obtained what you wish and we know
all we desire to know."

Scarcely, however, had the tapestry
closed behind Athos when she said to
Mazarin:

"Cardinal, desire them to arrest that
insolent fellow before he leaves the
court."

"Your majesty," answered Mazarin,
"desires me to do only what I was going
to ask you to let me do. These bravoes
who resuscitate in our epoch the
traditions of another reign are
troublesome; since there are two of them
already there, let us add a third."

Athos was not altogether the queen's
dupe, but he was not a man to run away
on suspicion -- above all, when
distinctly told that he should see his
friends again. He waited, then, in the
ante-chamber with impatience, till he
should be conducted to them.

He walked to the window and looked into
the court. He saw the deputation from
the Parisians enter it; they were coming
to assign the definitive place for the
conference and to make their bow to the
queen. A very imposing escort awaited
them without the gates.

Athos was looking on attentively, when
some one touched him softly on the
shoulder.

"Ah! Monsieur de Comminges," he said.

"Yes, count, and charged with a
commission for which I beg of you to
accept my excuses."

"What is it?"

"Be so good as to give me up your sword,
count."

Athos smiled and opened the window.

"Aramis!" he cried.

A gentleman turned around. Athos fancied
he had seen him among the crowd. It was
Aramis. He bowed with great friendship
to the count.

"Aramis," cried Athos, "I am arrested."

"Good," replied Aramis, calmly.

"Sir," said Athos, turning to Comminges
and giving him politely his sword by the
hilt, "here is my sword; have the
kindness to keep it safely for me until
I quit my prison. I prize it -- it was
given to my ancestor by King Francis I.
In his time they armed gentlemen, not
disarmed them. Now, whither do you
conduct me?"

"Into my room first," replied Comminges;
"the queen will ultimately decide your
place of domicile."

Athos followed Comminges without saying
a single word.



81

Cardinal Mazarin as King.



The arrest produced no sensation, indeed
was almost unknown, and scarcely
interrupted the course of events. To the
deputation it was formally announced
that the queen would receive it.

Accordingly, it was admitted to the
presence of Anne, who, silent and lofty
as ever, listened to the speeches and
complaints of the deputies; but when
they had finished their harangues not
one of them could say, so calm remained
her face, whether or no she had heard
them.

On the other hand, Mazarin, present at
that audience, heard very well what
those deputies demanded. It was purely
and simply his removal, in terms clear
and precise.

The discourse being finished, the queen
remained silent.

"Gentlemen," said Mazarin, "I join with
you in supplicating the queen to put an
end to the miseries of her subjects. I
have done all in my power to ameliorate
them and yet the belief of the public,
you say, is that they proceed from me,
an unhappy foreigner, who has been
unable to please the French. Alas! I
have never been understood, and no
wonder. I succeeded a man of the most
sublime genius that ever upheld the
sceptre of France. The memory of
Richelieu annihilates me. In vain --
were I an ambitious man -- should I
struggle against such remembrances as he
has left; but that I am not ambitious I
am going to prove to you. I own myself
conquered. I shall obey the wishes of
the people. If Paris has injuries to
complain of, who has not some wrongs to
be redressed? Paris has been
sufficiently punished; enough blood has
flowed, enough misery has humbled a town
deprived of its king and of justice.
'Tis not for me, a private individual,
to disunite a queen from her kingdom.
Since you demand my resignation, I
retire."

"Then," said Aramis, in his neighbor's
ear, "the conferences are over. There is
nothing to do but to send Monsieur
Mazarin to the most distant frontier and
to take care that he does not return
even by that, nor any other entrance
into France."

"One instant, sir," said the man in a
gown, whom he addressed; "a plague on't!
how fast you go! one may soon see that
you're a soldier. There's the article of
remunerations and indemnifications to be
discussed and set to rights."

"Chancellor," said the queen, turning to
Seguier, our old acquaintance, "you will
open the conferences. They can take
place at Rueil. The cardinal has said
several things which have agitated me,
therefore I will not speak more fully
now. As to his going or staying, I feel
too much gratitude to the cardinal not
to leave him free in all his actions; he
shall do what he wishes to do."

A transient pallor overspread the
speaking countenance of the prime
minister; he looked at the queen with
anxiety. Her face was so passionless,
that he, as every one else present, was
incapable of reading her thoughts.

"But," added the queen, "in awaiting the
cardinal's decision let there be, if you
please, a reference to the king only."

The deputies bowed and left the room.

"What!" exclaimed the queen, when the
last of them had quitted the apartment,
"you would yield to these limbs of the
law -- these advocates?"

"To promote your majesty's welfare,
madame," replied Mazarin, fixing his
penetrating eyes on the queen, "there is
no sacrifice that I would not make."

Anne dropped her head and fell into one
of those reveries so habitual with her.
A recollection of Athos came into her
mind. His fearless deportment, his
words, so firm, yet dignified, the
shades which by one word he had evoked,
recalled to her the past in all its
intoxication of poetry and romance,
youth, beauty, the eclat of love at
twenty years of age, the bloody death of
Buckingham, the only man whom she had
ever really loved, and the heroism of
those obscure champions who had saved
her from the double hatred of Richelieu
and the king.

Mazarin looked at her, and whilst she
deemed herself alone and freed from the
world of enemies who sought to spy into
her secret thoughts, he read her
thoughts in her countenance, as one sees
in a transparent lake clouds pass --
reflections, like thoughts, of the
heavens.

"Must we, then," asked Anne of Austria,
"yield to the storm, buy peace, and
patiently and piously await better
times?"

Mazarin smiled sarcastically at this
speech, which showed that she had taken
the minister's proposal seriously.

Anne's head was bent down -- she had not
seen the Italian's smile; but finding
that her question elicited no reply she
looked up.

"Well, you do not answer, cardinal, what
do you think about it?"

"I am thinking, madame, of the allusion
made by that insolent gentleman, whom
you have caused to be arrested, to the
Duke of Buckingham -- to him whom you
allowed to be assassinated -- to the
Duchess de Chevreuse, whom you suffered
to be exiled -- to the Duc de Beaufort,
whom you imprisoned; but if he made
allusion to me it was because he is
ignorant of the relation in which I
stand to you."

Anne drew up, as she always did, when
anything touched her pride. She blushed,
and that she might not answer, clasped
her beautiful hands till her sharp nails
almost pierced them.

"That man has sagacity, honor and wit,
not to mention likewise that he is a man
of undoubted resolution. You know
something about him, do you not, madame?
I shall tell him, therefore, and in
doing so I shall confer a personal favor
on him, how he is mistaken in regard to
me. What is proposed to me would be, in
fact, almost an abdication, and an
abdication requires reflection."

"An abdication?" repeated Anne; "I
thought, sir, that it was kings alone
who abdicated!"

"Well," replied Mazarin, "and am I not
almost a king -- king, indeed, of
France? Thrown over the foot of the
royal bed, my simar, madame, looks not
unlike the mantle worn by kings."

This was one of the humiliations which
Mazarin made Anne undergo more
frequently than any other, and one that
bowed her head with shame. Queen
Elizabeth and Catherine II. of Russia
are the only two monarchs of their set
on record who were at once sovereigns
and lovers. Anne of Austria looked with
a sort of terror at the threatening
aspect of the cardinal -- his
physiognomy in such moments was not
destitute of a certain grandeur.

"Sir," she replied, "did I not say, and
did you not hear me say to those people,
that you should do as you pleased?"

"In that case," said Mazarin, "I think
it must please me best to remain; not
only on account of my own interest, but
for your safety."

"Remain, then, sir; nothing can be more
agreeable to me; only do not allow me to
be insulted."

"You are referring to the demands of the
rebels and to the tone in which they
stated them? Patience! They have
selected a field of battle on which I am
an abler general than they -- that of a
conference. No, we shall beat them by
merely temporizing. They want food
already. They will be ten times worse
off in a week."

"Ah, yes! Good heavens! I know it will
end in that way; but it is not they who
taunt me with the most wounding
reproaches, but ---- "

"I understand; you mean to allude to the
recollections perpetually revived by
these three gentlemen. However, we have
them safe in prison, and they are just
sufficiently culpable for us to keep
them in prison as long as we find it
convenient. One only is still not in our
power and braves us. But, devil take
him! we shall soon succeed in sending
him to join his boon companions. We have
accomplished more difficult things than
that. In the first place I have as a
precaution shut up at Rueil, near me,
under my own eyes, within reach of my
hand, the two most intractable ones.
To-day the third will be there also."

"As long as they are in prison all will
be well," said Anne, "but one of these
days they will get out."

"Yes, if your majesty releases them."

"Ah!" exclaimed Anne, following the
train of her own thoughts on such
occasions, "one regrets Paris!"

"Why so?"

"On account of the Bastile, sir, which
is so strong and so secure."

"Madame, these conferences will bring us
peace; when we have peace we shall
regain Paris; with Paris, the Bastile,
and our four bullies shall rot therein."

Anne frowned slightly when Mazarin, in
taking leave, kissed her hand.

Mazarin, after this half humble, half
gallant attention, went away. Anne
followed him with her eyes, and as he
withdrew, at every step he took, a
disdainful smile was seen playing, then
gradually burst upon her lips.

"I once," she said, "despised the love
of a cardinal who never said `I shall
do,' but, `I have done so and so.' That
man knew of retreats more secure than
Rueil, darker and more silent even than
the Bastile. Degenerate world!"



82

Precaution's.



After quitting Anne, Mazarin took the
road to Rueil, where he usually resided;
in those times of disturbance he went
about with numerous followers and often
disguised himself. In military dress he
was, indeed, as we have stated, a very
handsome man.

In the court of the old Chateau of Saint
Germain he entered his coach, and
reached the Seine at Chatou. The prince
had supplied him with fifty light horse,
not so much by way of guard as to show
the deputies how readily the queen's
generals dispersed their troops and to
prove that they might be safely
scattered at pleasure. Athos, on
horseback, without his sword and kept in
sight by Comminges, followed the
cardinal in silence. Grimaud, finding
that his master had been arrested, fell
back into the ranks near Aramis, without
saying a word and as if nothing had
happened.

Grimaud had, indeed, during twenty-two
years of service, seen his master
extricate himself from so many
difficulties that nothing less than
Athos's imminent death was likely to
make him uneasy.

At the branching off of the road toward
Paris, Aramis, who had followed in the
cardinal's suite, turned back. Mazarin
went to the right hand and Aramis could
see the prisoner disappear at the
turning of the avenue. Athos, at the
same moment, moved by a similar impulse,
looked back also. The two friends
exchanged a simple inclination of the
head and Aramis put his finger to his
hat, as if to bow, Athos alone
comprehending by that signal that he had
some project in his head.

Ten minutes afterward Mazarin entered
the court of that chateau which his
predecessor had built for him at Rueil;
as he alighted, Comminges approached
him.

"My lord," he asked, "where does your
eminence wish Monsieur Comte de la Fere
to be lodged?"

"In the pavilion of the orangery, of
course, in front of the pavilion where
the guard is. I wish every respect to be
shown the count, although he is the
prisoner of her majesty the queen."

"My lord," answered Comminges, "he begs
to be taken to the place where Monsieur
d'Artagnan is confined -- that is, in
the hunting lodge, opposite the
orangery.

Mazarin thought for an instant.

Comminges saw that he was undecided.

"'Tis a very strong post," he resumed,
"and we have forty good men, tried
soldiers, having no connection with
Frondeurs nor any interest in the
Fronde."

"If we put these three men together,
Monsieur Comminges," said Mazarin, "we
must double the guard, and we are not
rich enough in fighting men to commit
such acts of prodigality."

Comminges smiled; Mazarin read and
construed that smile.

"You do not know these men, Monsieur
Comminges, but I know them, first
personally, also by hearsay. I sent them
to carry aid to King Charles and they
performed prodigies to save him; had it
not been for an adverse destiny, that
beloved monarch would this day have been
among us."

"But since they served your eminence so
well, why are they, my lord cardinal, in
prison?"

"In prison?" said Mazarin, "and when has
Rueil been a prison?"

"Ever since there were prisoners in it,"
answered Comminges.

"These gentlemen, Comminges, are not
prisoners," returned Mazarin, with his
ironical smile, "only guests; but guests
so precious that I have put a grating
before each of their windows and bolts
to their doors, that they may not refuse
to continue my visitors. So much do I
esteem them that I am going to make the
Comte de la Fere a visit, that I may
converse with him tete-a-tete, and that
we may not be disturbed at our interview
you must conduct him, as I said before,
to the pavilion of the orangery; that,
you know, is my daily promenade. Well,
while taking my walk I will call on him
and we will talk. Although he professes
to be my enemy I have sympathy for him,
and if he is reasonable perhaps we shall
arrange matters."

Comminges bowed, and returned to Athos,
who was awaiting with apparent calmness,
but with real anxiety, the result of the
interview.

"Well?" he said to the lieutenant.

"Sir," replied Comminges, "it seems that
it is impossible."

"Monsieur de Comminges," said Athos, "I
have been a soldier all my life and I
know the force of orders; but outside
your orders there is a service you can
render me."

"I will do it with all my heart," said
Comminges; "for I know who you are and
what service you once performed for her
majesty; I know, too, how dear to you is
the young man who came so valiantly to
my aid when that old rogue of a Broussel
was arrested. I am entirely at your
service, except only for my orders."

"Thank you, sir; what I am about to ask
will not compromise you in any degree."

"If it should even compromise me a
little," said Monsieur de Comminges,
with a smile, "still make your demand. I
don't like Mazarin any better than you
do. I serve the queen and that draws me
naturally into the service of the
cardinal; but I serve the one with joy
and the other against my will. Speak,
then, I beg of you; I wait and listen."

"Since there is no harm," said Athos,
"in my knowing that D'Artagnan is here,
I presume there will be none in his
knowing that I am here."

"I have received no orders on that
point."

"Well, then, do me the kindness to give
him my regards and tell him that I am
his neighbor. Tell him also what you
have just told me -- that Mazarin has
placed me in the pavilion of the
orangery in order to make me a visit,
and assure him that I shall take
advantage of this honor he proposes to
accord to me to obtain from him some
amelioration of our captivity."

"Which cannot last," interrupted
Comminges; "the cardinal said so; there
is no prison here."

"But there are oubliettes!" replied
Athos, smiling.

"Oh! that's a different thing; yes, I
know there are traditions of that sort,"
said Comminges. "It was in the time of
the other cardinal, who was a great
nobleman; but our Mazarin -- impossible!
an Italian adventurer would not dare to
go such lengths with such men as
ourselves. Oubliettes are employed as a
means of kingly vengeance, and a
low-born fellow such as he is would not
have recourse to them. Your arrest is
known, that of your friends will soon be
known; and all the nobility of France
would demand an explanation of your
disappearance. No, no, be easy on that
score. I will, however, inform Monsieur
d'Artagnan of your arrival here."

Comminges then led the count to a room
on the ground floor of a pavilion, at
the end of the orangery. They passed
through a courtyard as they went, full
of soldiers and courtiers. In the centre
of this court, in the form of a
horseshoe, were the buildings occupied
by Mazarin, and at each wing the
pavilion (or smaller building), where
D'Artagnan was confined, and that, level
with the orangery, where Athos was to
be. From the ends of these two wings
extended the park.

Athos, when he reached his appointed
room, observed through the gratings of
his window, walls and roofs; and was
told, on inquiry, by Comminges, that he
was looking on the back of the pavilion
where D'Artagnan was confined.

"Yes, 'tis too true," said Comminges,
"'tis almost a prison; but what a
singular fancy this is of yours,
count -- you, who are the very flower of
our nobility -- to squander your valor
and loyalty amongst these upstarts, the
Frondists! Really, count, if ever I
thought that I had a friend in the ranks
of the royal army, it was you. A
Frondeur! you, the Comte de la Fere, on
the side of Broussel, Blancmesnil and
Viole! For shame! you, a Frondeur!"

"On my word of honor," said Athos, "one
must be either a Mazarinist or a
Frondeur. For a long time I had these
words whispered in my ears, and I chose
the latter; at any rate, it is a French
word. And now, I am a Frondeur -- not of
Broussel's party, nor of Blancmesnil's,
nor am I with Viole; but with the Duc de
Beaufort, the Ducs de Bouillon and
d'Elbeuf; with princes, not with
presidents, councillors and low-born
lawyers. Besides, what a charming
outlook it would have been to serve the
cardinal! Look at that wall -- without a
single window -- which tells you fine
things about Mazarin's gratitude!"

"Yes," replied De Comminges, "more
especially if it could reveal how
Monsieur d'Artagnan for this last week
has been anathematizing him."

"Poor D'Artagnan'" said Athos, with the
charming melancholy that was one of the
traits of his character, "so brave, so
good, so terrible to the enemies of
those he loves. You have two unruly
prisoners there, sir."

"Unruly," Comminges smiled; "you wish to
terrify me, I suppose. When he came
here, Monsieur D'Artagnan provoked and
braved the soldiers and inferior
officers, in order, I suppose, to have
his sword back. That mood lasted some
time; but now he's as gentle as a lamb
and sings Gascon songs, which make one
die of laughing."

"And Du Vallon?" asked Athos.

"Ah, he's quite another sort of
person -- a formidable gentleman,
indeed. The first day he broke all the
doors in with a single push of his
shoulder; and I expected to see him
leave Rueil in the same way as Samson
left Gaza. But his temper cooled down,
like his friend's; he not only gets used
to his captivity, but jokes about it."

"So much the better," said Athos.

"Do you think anything else was to be
expected of them?" asked Comminges, who,
putting together what Mazarin had said
of his prisoners and what the Comte de
la Fere had said, began to feel a degree
of uneasiness.

Athos, on the other hand, reflected that
this recent gentleness of his friends
most certainly arose from some plan
formed by D'Artagnan. Unwilling to
injure them by praising them too highly,
he replied: "They? They are two
hotheads -- the one a Gascon, the other
from Picardy; both are easily excited,
but they quiet down immediately. You
have had a proof of that in what you
have just related to me."

This, too, was the opinion of Comminges,
who withdrew somewhat reassured. Athos
remained alone in the vast chamber,
where, according to the cardinal's
directions, he was treated with all the
courtesy due to a nobleman. He awaited
Mazarin's promised visit to get some
light on his present situation.



83

Strength and Sagacity.



Now let us pass the orangery to the
hunting lodge. At the extremity of the
courtyard, where, close to a portico
formed of Ionic columns, were the dog
kennels, rose an oblong building, the
pavilion of the orangery, a half circle,
inclosing the court of honor. It was in
this pavilion, on the ground floor, that
D'Artagnan and Porthos were confined,
suffering interminable hours of
imprisonment in a manner suitable to
each different temperament.

D'Artagnan was pacing to and fro like a
caged tiger; with dilated eyes, growling
as he paced along by the bars of a
window looking upon the yard of
servant's offices.

Porthos was ruminating over an excellent
dinner he had just demolished.

The one seemed to be deprived of reason,
yet he was meditating. The other seemed
to meditate, yet he was more than half
asleep. But his sleep was a nightmare,
which might be guessed by the incoherent
manner in which he sometimes snored and
sometimes snorted.

"Look," said D'Artagnan, "day is
declining. It must be nearly four
o'clock. We have been in this place
nearly eighty-three hours."

"Hem!" muttered Porthos, with a kind of
pretense of answering.

"Did you hear, eternal sleeper?" cried
D'Artagnan, irritated that any one could
doze during the day, when he had the
greatest difficulty in sleeping during
the night.

"What?" said Porthos.

"I say we have been here eighty-three
hours."

"'Tis your fault," answered Porthos.

"How, my fault?"

"Yes, I offered you escape."

"By pulling out a bar and pushing down a
door?"

"Certainly."

"Porthos, men like us can't go out from
here purely and simply."

"Faith!" said Porthos, "as for me, I
could go out with that purity and that
simplicity which it seems to me you
despise too much."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.

"And besides," he said, "going out of
this chamber isn't all."

"Dear friend," said Porthos, "you appear
to be in a somewhat better humor to-day
than you were yesterday. Explain to me
why going out of this chamber isn't
everything."

"Because, having neither arms nor
password, we shouldn't take fifty steps
in the court without knocking against a
sentinel."

Very well," said Porthos, "we will kill
the sentinel and we shall have his
arms."

"Yes, but before we can kill him -- and
he will be hard to kill, that Swiss --
he will shriek out and the whole picket
will come, and we shall be taken like
foxes, we, who are lions, and thrown
into some dungeon, where we shall not
even have the consolation of seeing this
frightful gray sky of Rueil, which no
more resembles the sky of Tarbes than
the moon is like the sun. Lack-a-day! if
we only had some one to instruct us
about the physical and moral topography
of this castle. Ah! when one thinks that
for twenty years, during which time I
did not know what to do with myself, it
never occurred to me to come to study
Rueil."

"What difference does that make?" said
Porthos. "We shall go out all the same."

"Do you know, my dear fellow, why master
pastrycooks never work with their
hands?"

"No," said Porthos, "but I should be
glad to be informed."

"It is because in the presence of their
pupils they fear that some of their
tarts or creams may turn out badly
cooked."

"What then?"

"Why, then they would be laughed at, and
a master pastrycook must never be
laughed at."

"And what have master pastrycooks to do
with us?"

"We ought, in our adventures, never to
be defeated or give any one a chance to
laugh at us. In England, lately, we
failed, we were beaten, and that is a
blemish on our reputation."

"By whom, then, were we beaten?" asked
Porthos.

"By Mordaunt."

"Yes, but we have drowned Monsieur
Mordaunt."

"That is true, and that will redeem us a
little in the eyes of posterity, if
posterity ever looks at us. But listen,
Porthos: though Monsieur Mordaunt was a
man not to be despised, Mazarin is not
less strong than he, and we shall not
easily succeed in drowning him. We must,
therefore, watch and play a close game;
for," he added with a sigh, "we two are
equal, perhaps, to eight others; but we
are not equal to the four that you know
of."

"That is true," said Porthos, echoing
D'Artagnan's sigh.

"Well, Porthos, follow my examples; walk
back and forth till some news of our
friends reaches us or till we are
visited by a good idea. But don't sleep
as you do all the time; nothing dulls
the intellect like sleep. As to what may
lie before us, it is perhaps less
serious than we at first thought. I
don't believe that Monsieur de Mazarin
thinks of cutting off our heads, for
heads are not taken off without previous
trial; a trial would make a noise, and a
noise would get the attention of our
friends, who would check the operations
of Monsieur de Mazarin."

"How well you reason!" said Porthos,
admiringly.

"Well, yes, pretty well," replied
D'Artagnan; "and besides, you see, if
they put us on trial, if they cut off
our heads, they must meanwhile either
keep us here or transfer us elsewhere."

"Yes, that is inevitable," said Porthos.

"Well, it is impossible but that Master
Aramis, that keen-scented bloodhound,
and Athos, that wise and prudent
nobleman, will discover our retreat.
Then, believe me, it will be time to
act."

"Yes, we will wait. We can wait the more
contentedly, that it is not absolutely
bad here, but for one thing, at least."

"What is that?"

"Did you observe, D'Artagnan, that three
days running they have brought us
braised mutton?"

"No; but if it occurs a fourth time I
shall complain of it, so never mind."

"And then I feel the loss of my house,
'tis a long time since I visited my
castles."

"Forget them for a time; we shall return
to them, unless Mazarin razes them to
the ground."

"Do you think that likely?"

"No, the other cardinal would have done
so, but this one is too mean a fellow to
risk it."

"You reconcile me, D'Artagnan."

"Well, then, assume a cheerful manner,
as I do; we must joke with the guards,
we must gain the good-will of the
soldiers, since we can't corrupt them.
Try, Porthos, to please them more than
you are wont to do when they are under
our windows. Thus far you have done
nothing but show them your fist; and the
more respectable your fist is, Porthos,
the less attractive it is. Ah, I would
give much to have five hundred louis,
only."

"So would I," said Porthos, unwilling to
be behind D'Artagnan in generosity; "I
would give as much as a hundred
pistoles."

The two prisoners were at this point of
their conversation when Comminges
entered, preceded by a sergeant and two
men, who brought supper in a basket with
two handles, filled with basins and
plates.

"What!" exclaimed Porthos, "mutton
again?"

"My dear Monsieur de Comminges," said
D'Artagnan, "you will find that my
friend, Monsieur du Vallon, will go to
the most fatal lengths if Cardinal
Mazarin continues to provide us with
this sort of meat; mutton every day."

"I declare," said Porthos, "I shall eat
nothing if they do not take it away."

"Remove the mutton," cried Comminges; "I
wish Monsieur du Vallon to sup well,
more especially as I have news to give
him that will improve his appetite."

"Is Mazarin dead?" asked Porthos.

"No; I am sorry to tell you he is
perfectly well."

"So much the worse," said Porthos.

"What is that news?" asked D'Artagnan.
"News in prison is a fruit so rare that
I trust, Monsieur de Comminges, you will
excuse my impatience -- the more eager
since you have given us to understand
that the news is good."

"Should you be glad to hear that the
Comte de la Fere is well?" asked De
Comminges.

D'Artagnan's penetrating gray eyes were
opened to the utmost.

"Glad!" he cried; "I should be more than
glad! Happy -- beyond measure!"

"Well, I am desired by him to give you
his compliments and to say that he is in
good health."

D'Artagnan almost leaped with joy. A
quick glance conveyed his thought to
Porthos: "If Athos knows where we are,
if he opens communication with us,
before long Athos will act."

Porthos was not very quick to understand
the language of glances, but now since
the name of Athos had suggested to him
the same idea, he understood.

"Do you say," asked the Gascon, timidly,
"that the Comte de la Fere has
commissioned you to give his compliments
to Monsieur du Vallon and myself?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you have seen him?"

"Certainly I have."

"Where? if I may ask without
indiscretion."

"Near here," replied De Comminges,
smiling; "so near that if the windows
which look on the orangery were not
stopped up you could see him from where
you are."

"He is wandering about the environs of
the castle," thought D'Artagnan. Then he
said aloud:

"You met him, I dare say, in the park --
hunting, perhaps?"

"No; nearer, nearer still. Look, behind
this wall," said De Comminges, knocking
against the wall.

"Behind this wall? What is there, then,
behind this wall? I was brought here by
night, so devil take me if I know where
I am."

"Well," said Comminges, "suppose one
thing."

"I will suppose anything you please."

"Suppose there were a window in this
wall."

"Well?"

"From that window you would see Monsieur
de la Fere at his."

"The count, then, is in the chateau?"

"Yes."

"For what reason?"

"The same as yourself."

"Athos -- a prisoner?"

"You know well," replied De Comminges,
"that there are no prisoners at Rueil,
because there is no prison."

"Don't let us play upon words, sir.
Athos has been arrested."

"Yesterday, at Saint Germain, as he came
out from the presence of the queen."

The arms of D'Artagnan fell powerless by
his side. One might have supposed him
thunderstruck; a paleness ran like a
cloud over his dark skin, but
disappeared immediately.

"A prisoner?" he reiterated.

"A prisoner," repeated Porthos, quite
dejected.

Suddenly D'Artagnan looked up and in his
eyes there was a gleam which scarcely
even Porthos observed; but it died away
and he appeared more sorrowful than
before.

"Come, come," said Comminges, who, since
D'Artagnan, on the day of Broussel's
arrest, had saved him from the hands of
the Parisians, had entertained a real
affection for him, "don't be unhappy; I
never thought of bringing you bad news.
Laugh at the chance which has brought
your friend near to you and Monsieur du
Vallon, instead of being in the depths
of despair about it."

But D'Artagnan was still in a desponding
mood.

"And how did he look?" asked Porthos,
who, perceiving that D'Artagnan had
allowed the conversation to drop,
profited by it to put in a word or two.

"Very well, indeed, sir," replied
Comminges; "at first, like you, he
seemed distressed; but when he heard
that the cardinal was going to pay him a
visit this very evening ---- "

"Ah!" cried D'Artagnan, "the cardinal is
about to visit the Comte de la Fere?"

"Yes; and the count desired me to tell
you that he should take advantage of
this visit to plead for you and for
himself."

"Ah! our dear count!" said D'Artagnan.

"A fine thing, indeed!" grunted Porthos.
"A great favor! Zounds! Monsieur the
Comte de la Fere, whose family is allied
to the Montmorency and the Rohan, is
easily the equal of Monsieur de
Mazarin."

"No matter," said D'Artagnan, in his
most wheedling tone. "On reflection, my
dear Du Vallon, it is a great honor for
the Comte de la Fere, and gives good
reason to hope. In fact, it seems to me
so great an honor for a prisoner that I
think Monsieur de Comminges must be
mistaken."

"What? I am mistaken?"

"Monsieur de Mazarin will not come to
visit the Comte de la Fere, but the
Comte de la Fere will be sent for to
visit him."

"No, no, no," said Comminges, who made a
point of having the facts appear exactly
as they were, "I clearly understood what
the cardinal said to me. He will come
and visit the Comte de la Fere."

D'Artagnan tried to gather from the
expression of his eyes whether Porthos
understood the importance of that visit,
but Porthos did not even look toward
him.

"It is, then, the cardinal's custom to
walk in his orangery?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Every evening he shuts himself in
there. That, it seems, is where he
meditates on state affairs."

"In that case," said D'Artagnan, "I
begin to believe that Monsieur de la
Fere will receive the visit of his
eminence; he will, of course, have an
escort."

"Yes -- two soldiers."

"And will he talk thus of affairs in
presence of two strangers?"

"The soldiers are Swiss, who understand
only German. Besides, according to all
probability they will wait at the door."

D'Artagnan made a violent effort over
himself to keep his face from being too
expressive.

"Let the cardinal take care of going
alone to visit the Comte de la Fere,"
said D'Artagnan; "for the count must be
furious."

Comminges began to laugh. "Oh, oh! why,
really, one would say that you four were
anthropaphagi! The count is an affable
man; besides, be is unarmed; at the
first word from his eminence the two
soldiers about him would run to his
assistance."

"Two soldiers," said D'Artagnan, seeming
to remember something, "two soldiers,
yes; that, then, is why I hear two men
called every evening and see them
walking sometimes for half an hour,
under my window."

"That is it; they are waiting for the
cardinal, or rather for Bernouin, who
comes to call them when the cardinal
goes out."

"Fine-looking men, upon my word!" said
D'Artagnan.

"They belong to the regiment that was at
Lens, which the prince assigned to the
cardinal."

"Ah, monsieur," said D'Artagnan, as if
to sum up in a word all that
conversation, "if only his eminence
would relent and grant to Monsieur de la
Fere our liberty."

"I wish it with all my heart," said
Comminges.

"Then, if he should forget that visit,
you would find no inconvenience in
reminding him of it?"

"Not at all."

"Ah, that gives me more confidence."

This skillful turn of the conversation
would have seemed a sublime manoeuvre to
any one who could have read the Gascon's
soul.

"Now," said D'Artagnan, "I've one last
favor to ask of you, Monsieur de
Comminges."

"At your service, sir."

"You will see the count again?"

"To-morrow morning."

"Will you remember us to him and ask him
to solicit for me the same favor that he
will have obtained?"

"You want the cardinal to come here?"

"No; I know my place and am not so
presumptuous. Let his eminence do me the
honor to give me a hearing; that is all
I want."

"Oh!" muttered Porthos, shaking his
head, "never should I have thought this
of him! How misfortune humbles a man!"

"I promise you it shall be done,"
answered De Comminges.

"Tell the count that I am well; that you
found me sad, but resigned."

"I am pleased, sir, to hear that."

"And the same, also, for Monsieur du
Vallon ---- "

"Not for me ," cried Porthos; "I am not
by any means resigned."

"But you will be resigned, my friend."

"Never!"

"He will become so, monsieur; I know him
better than he knows himself. Be silent,
dear Du Vallon, and resign yourself."

"Adieu, gentlemen," said De Comminges;
"sleep well!"

"We will try."

De Comminges went away, D'Artagnan
remaining apparently in the same
attitude of humble resignation; but
scarcely had he departed when he turned
and clasped Porthos in his arms with an
expression not to be doubted.

"Oh!" cried Porthos; "what's the matter
now? Have you gone mad, my dear friend?"

"What is the matter?" returned
D'Artagnan; "we are saved!"

"I don't see that at all," answered
Porthos. "I think we are all taken
prisoners, except Aramis, and that our
chances of getting out are lessened
since one more of us is caught in
Mazarin's mousetrap."

"Which is far too strong for two of us,
but not strong enough for three of us,"
returned D'Artagnan.

"I don't understand," said Porthos.

"Never mind; let's sit down to table and
take something to strengthen us for the
night."

"What are we to do, then, to-night?"

"To travel -- perhaps."

"But ---- "

"Sit down, dear friend, to table. When
one is eating, ideas flow easily. After
supper, when they are perfected, I will
communicate my plans to you."

So Porthos sat down to table without
another word and ate with an appetite
that did honor to the confidence that
was ever inspired in him by D'Artagnan's
inventive imagination.



84

Strength and Sagacity -- Continued.



Supper was eaten in silence, but not in
sadness; for from time to time one of
those sweet smiles which were habitual
to him in moments of good-humor
illumined the face of D'Artagnan. Not a
scintilla of these was lost on Porthos;
and at every one he uttered an
exclamation which betrayed to his friend
that he had not lost sight of the idea
which possessed his brain.

At dessert D'Artagnan reposed in his
chair, crossed one leg over the other
and lounged about like a man perfectly
at his ease.

Porthos rested his chin on his hands,
placed his elbows on the table and
looked at D'Artagnan with an expression
of confidence which imparted to that
colossus an admirable appearance of
good-fellowship.

"Well?" said D'Artagnan, at last.

"Well!" repeated Porthos.

"You were saying, my dear friend ---- "

"No; I said nothing."

"Yes; you were saying you wished to
leave this place."

"Ah, indeed! the will was never
wanting."

"To get away you would not mind, you
added, knocking down a door or a wall."

"'Tis true -- I said so, and I say it
again."

"And I answered you, Porthos, that it
was not a good plan; that we couldn't go
a hundred steps without being
recaptured, because we were without
clothes to disguise ourselves and arms
to defend ourselves."

"That is true; we should need clothes
and arms."

"Well," said D'Artagnan, rising, "we
have them, friend Porthos, and even
something better."

"Bah!" said Porthos, looking around.

"Useless to look; everything will come
to us when wanted. At about what time
did we see the two Swiss guards walking
yesterday?"

"An hour after sunset."

"If they go out to-day as they did
yesterday we shall have the honor, then,
of seeing them in half an hour?"

"In a quarter of an hour at most."

"Your arm is still strong enough, is it
not, Porthos?"

Porthos unbuttoned his sleeve, raised
his shirt and looked complacently on his
strong arm, as large as the leg of any
ordinary man.

"Yes, indeed," said he, "I believe so."

"So that you could without trouble
convert these tongs into a hoop and
yonder shovel into a corkscrew?"

"Certainly." And the giant took up these
two articles, and without any apparent
effort produced in them the
metamorphoses suggested by his
companion.

"There!" he cried.

"Capital!" exclaimed the Gascon.
"Really, Porthos, you are a gifted
individual!"

"I have heard speak," said Porthos, "of
a certain Milo of Crotona, who performed
wonderful feats, such as binding his
forehead with a cord and bursting it --
of killing an ox with a blow of his fist
and carrying it home on his shoulders,
et cetera. I used to learn all these
feat by heart yonder, down at
Pierrefonds, and I have done all that he
did except breaking a cord by the
corrugation of my temples."

"Because your strength is not in your
head, Porthos," said his friend.

"No; it is in my arms and shoulders,"
answered Porthos with gratified naivete.

"Well, my dear friend, let us approach
the window and there you can match your
strength against that of an iron bar."

Porthos went to the window, took a bar
in his hands, clung to it and bent it
like a bow; so that the two ends came
out of the sockets of stone in which for
thirty years they had been fixed.

"Well! friend, the cardinal, although
such a genius, could never have done
that."

"Shall I take out any more of them?"
asked Porthos.

"No; that is sufficient; a man can pass
through that."

Porthos tried, and passed the upper
portion of his body through.

"Yes," he said.

"Now pass your arm through this
opening."

"Why?"

"You will know presently -- pass it."

Porthos obeyed with military promptness
and passed his arm through the opening.

"Admirable!" said D'Artagnan.

"The scheme goes forward, it seems."

"On wheels, dear friend."

"Good! What shall I do now?"

"Nothing."

"It is finished, then?"

"No, not yet."

"I should like to understand," said
Porthos.

"Listen, my dear friend; in two words
you will know all. The door of the
guardhouse opens, as you see."

"Yes, I see."

"They are about to send into our court,
which Monsieur de Mazarin crosses on his
way to the orangery, the two guards who
attend him."

"There they are, coming out."

"If only they close the guardhouse door!
Good! They close it."

"What, then?"

"Silence! They may hear us."

"I don't understand it at all."

"As you execute you will understand."

"And yet I should have preferred ---- "

"You will have the pleasure of the
surprise."

"Ah, that is true."

"Hush!"

Porthos remained silent and motionless.

In fact, the two soldiers advanced on
the side where the window was, rubbing
their hands, for it was cold, it being
the month of February.

At this moment the door of the
guardhouse was opened and one of the
soldiers was summoned away.

"Now," said D'Artagnan, "I am going to
call this soldier and talk to him. Don't
lose a word of what I'm going to say to
you, Porthos. Everything lies in the
execution."

"Good, the execution of plots is my
forte."

"I know it well. I depend on you. Look,
I shall turn to the left, so that the
soldier will be at your right, as soon
as he mounts on the bench to talk to
us."

"But supposing he doesn't mount?"

"He will; rely upon it. As soon as you
see him get up, stretch out your arm and
seize him by the neck. Then, raising him
up as Tobit raised the fish by the
gills, you must pull him into the room,
taking care to squeeze him so tight that
he can't cry out."

"Oh!" said Porthos. "Suppose I happen to
strangle him?"

"To be sure there would only be a Swiss
the less in the world; but you will not
do so, I hope. Lay him down here; we'll
gag him and tie him -- no matter
where -- somewhere. So we shall get from
him one uniform and a sword."

"Marvelous!" exclaimed Porthos, looking
at the Gascon with the most profound
admiration.

"Pooh!" replied D'Artagnan.

"Yes," said Porthos, recollecting
himself, "but one uniform and one sword
will not suffice for two."

"Well; but there's his comrade."

"True," said Porthos.

"Therefore, when I cough, stretch out
your arm."

"Good!"

The two friends then placed themselves
as they had agreed, Porthos being
completely hidden in an angle of the
window.

"Good-evening, comrade," said D'Artagnan
in his most fascinating voice and
manner.

"Good-evening, sir," answered the
soldier, in a strong provincial accent.

"'Tis not too warm to walk," resumed
D'Artagnan.

"No, sir."

"And I think a glass of wine will not be
disagreeable to you?"

"A glass of wine will be extremely
welcome."

"The fish bites -- the fish bites!"
whispered the Gascon to Porthos.

"I understand," said Porthos.

"A bottle, perhaps?"

"A whole bottle? Yes, sir."

"A whole bottle, if you will drink my
health."

"Willingly," answered the soldier.

"Come, then, and take it, friend," said
the Gascon.

"With all my heart. How convenient that
there's a bench here. Egad! one would
think it had been placed here on
purpose."

"Get on it; that's it, friend."

And D'Artagnan coughed.

That instant the arm of Porthos fell.
His hand of iron grasped, quick as
lightning, firm as a pair of
blacksmith's pincers, the soldier's
throat. He raised him, almost stifling
him as he drew him through the aperture,
at the risk of flaying him in the
passage. He then laid him down on the
floor, where D'Artagnan, after giving
him just time enough to draw his breath,
gagged him with his long scarf; and the
moment he had done so began to undress
him with the promptitude and dexterity
of a man who had learned his business on
the field of battle. Then the soldier,
gagged and bound, was placed upon the
hearth, the fire of which had been
previously extinguished by the two
friends.

"Here's a sword and a dress," said
Porthos.

"I take them," said D'Artagnan, "for
myself. If you want another uniform and
sword you must play the same trick over
again. Stop! I see the other soldier
issue from the guardroom and come toward
us."

"I think," replied Porthos, "it would be
imprudent to attempt the same manoeuvre
again; it is said that no man can
succeed twice in the same way, and a
failure would be ruinous. No; I will go
down, seize the man unawares and bring
him to you ready gagged."

"That is better," said the Gascon.

"Be ready," said Porthos, as he slipped
through the opening.

He did as he said. Porthos seized his
opportunity, caught the next soldier by
his neck, gagged him and pushed him like
a mummy through the bars into the room,
and entered after him. Then they
undressed him as they had done the
first, laid him on their bed and bound
him with the straps which composed the
bed -- the bedstead being of oak. This
operation proved as great a success as
the first.

"There," said D'Artagnan, "this is
capital! Now let me try on the dress of
yonder chap. Porthos, I doubt if you can
wear it; but should it be too tight,
never mind, you can wear the breastplate
and the hat with the red feathers."

It happened, however, that the second
soldier was a Swiss of gigantic
proportions, so, save that some few of
the seams split, his uniform fitted
Porthos perfectly.

They then dressed themselves.

"'Tis done!" they both exclaimed at
once. "As to you, comrades," they said
to the men, "nothing will happen to you
if you are discreet; but if you stir you
are dead men."

The soldiers were complaisant; they had
found the grasp of Porthos pretty
powerful and that it was no joke to
fight against it.

"Now," said D'Artagnan, "you wouldn't be
sorry to understand the plot, would you,
Porthos?"

"Well, no, not very."

"Well, then, we shall go down into the
court."

"Yes."

"We shall take the place of those two
fellows."

"Well?"

"We will walk back and forth."

"That's a good idea, for it isn't warm."

"In a moment the valet-de-chambre will
call the guard, as he did yesterday and
the day before."

"And we shall answer?"

"No, on the contrary, we shall not
answer."

"As you please; I don't insist on
answering."

"We will not answer, then; we will
simply settle our hats on our heads and
we will escort his eminence."

"Where shall we escort him?"

"Where he is going -- to visit Athos. Do
you think Athos will be sorry to see
us?"

"Oh!" cried Porthos, "oh! I understand."

"Wait a little, Porthos, before crying
out; for, on my word, you haven't
reached the end," said the Gascon, in a
jesting tone.

"What is to happen?" said Porthos.

"Follow me," replied D'Artagnan. "The
man who lives to see shall see."

And slipping through the aperture, he
alighted in the court. Porthos followed
him by the same road, but with more
difficulty and less diligence. They
could hear the two soldiers shivering
with fear, as they lay bound in the
chamber.

Scarcely had the two Frenchmen touched
the ground when a door opened and the
voice of the valet-de-chambre called
out:

"Make ready!"

At the same moment the guardhouse was
opened and a voice called out:

"La Bruyere and Du Barthois! March!"

It seems that I am named La Bruyere,"
remarked D'Artagnan.

"And I, Du Barthois," added Porthos.

"Where are you?" asked the
valet-de-chambre, whose eyes, dazzled by
the light, could not clearly distinguish
our heroes in the gloom.

"Here we are," said the Gascon.

"What say you to that, Monsieur du
Vallon?" he added in a low tone to
Porthos.

"If it but lasts, most capital,"
responded Porthos.

These two newly enlisted soldiers
marched gravely after the
valet-de-chambre, who opened the door of
the vestibule, then another which seemed
to be that of a waiting-room, and
showing them two stools:

"Your orders are very simple," he said;
"don't allow anybody, except one person,
to enter here. Do you hear -- not a
single creature! Obey that person
implicitly. On your return you cannot
make a mistake. You have only to wait
here till I release you."

D'Artagnan was known to this
valet-de-chambre, who was no other than
Bernouin, and he had during the last six
or eight months introduced the Gascon a
dozen times to the cardinal. The Gascon,
therefore, instead of answering, growled
out "Ja! Ja!" in the most German and the
least Gascon accent possible.

As for Porthos, on whom D'Artagnan had
impressed the necessity of absolute
silence and who did not even now begin
to comprehend the scheme of his friend,
which was to follow Mazarin in his visit
to Athos, he was simply mute. All that
he was allowed to say, in case of
emergencies, was the proverbial Der
Teufel!

Bernouin shut the door and went away.
When Porthos heard the key turn in the
lock he began to be alarmed, lest they
should only have exchanged one prison
for another.

"Porthos, my friend," said D'Artagnan,
"don't distrust Providence! Let me
meditate and consider."

"Meditate and consider as much as you
like," replied Porthos, who was now
quite out of humor at seeing things take
this turn.

"We have walked eight paces," whispered
D'Artagnan, "and gone up six steps, so
hereabouts is the pavilion called the
pavilion of the orangery. The Comte de
la Fere cannot be far off, only the
doors are locked."

"That is a slight difficulty," said
Porthos, "and a good push with the
shoulders ---- "

"For God's sake, Porthos my friend,
reserve your feats of strength, or they
will not have, when needed, the honor
they deserve. Have you not heard that
some one is coming here?"

"Yes."

"Well, that some one will open the
doors."

"But, my dear fellow, if that some one
recognizes us, if that some one cries
out, we are lost; for you don't propose,
I imagine, that I shall kill that man of
the church. That might do if we were
dealing with Englishmen or Germans."

"Oh, may God keep me from it, and you,
too!" said D'Artagnan. "The young king
would, perhaps, show us some gratitude;
but the queen would never forgive us,
and it is she whom we have to consider.
And then, besides, the useless blood!
never! no, never! I have my plan; let me
carry it out and we shall laugh."

"So much the better," said Porthos; "I
feel some need of it."

"Hush!" said D'Artagnan; "the some one
is coming."

The sound of a light step was heard in
the vestibule. The hinges of the door
creaked and a man appeared in the dress
of a cavalier, wrapped in a brown cloak,
with a lantern in one hand and a large
beaver hat pulled down over his eyes.

Porthos effaced himself against the
wall, but he could not render himself
invisible; and the man in the cloak said
to him, giving him his lantern:

"Light the lamp which hangs from the
ceiling."

Then addressing D'Artagnan:

"You know the watchword?" he said.

"Ja!" replied the Gascon, determined to
confine himself to this specimen of the
German tongue.

"Tedesco!" answered the cavalier; "va
bene."

And advancing toward the door opposite
to that by which he came in, he opened
it and disappeared behind it, shutting
it as he went.

"Now," asked Porthos, "what are we to
do?"

"Now we shall make use of your shoulder,
friend Porthos, if this door proves to
be locked. Everything in its proper
time, and all comes right to those who
know how to wait patiently. But first
barricade the first door well; then we
will follow yonder cavalier."

The two friends set to work and crowded
the space before the door with all the
furniture in the room, as not only to
make the passage impassable, but so to
block the door that by no means could it
open inward.

"There!" said D'Artagnan, "we can't be
overtaken. Come! forward!"



85

The Oubliettes of Cardinal Mazarin.



At first, on arriving at the door
through which Mazarin had passed,
D'Artagnan tried in vain to open it, but
on the powerful shoulder of Porthos
being applied to one of the panels,
which gave way, D'Artagnan introduced
the point of his sword between the bolt
and the staple of the lock. The bolt
gave way and the door opened.

"As I told you, everything can be
attained, Porthos, women and doors, by
proceeding with gentleness."

"You're a great moralist, and that's the
fact," said Porthos.

They entered; behind a glass window, by
the light of the cardinal's lantern,
which had been placed on the floor in
the midst of the gallery, they saw the
orange and pomegranate trees of the
Castle of Rueil, in long lines, forming
one great alley and two smaller side
alleys.

"No cardinal!" said D'Artagnan, "but
only his lantern; where the devil, then,
is he?"

Exploring, however, one of the side
wings of the gallery, after making a
sign to Porthos to explore the other, he
saw, all at once, at his left, a tub
containing an orange tree, which had
been pushed out of its place and in its
place an open aperture.

Ten men would have found difficulty in
moving that tub, but by some mechanical
contrivance it had turned with the
flagstone on which it rested.

D'Artagnan, as we have said, perceived a
hole in that place and in this hole the
steps of a winding staircase.

He called Porthos to look at it.

"Were our object money only," he said,
"we should be rich directly."

"How's that?"

"Don't you understand, Porthos? At the
bottom of that staircase lies, probably,
the cardinal's treasury of which folk
tell such wonders, and we should only
have to descend, empty a chest, shut the
cardinal up in it, double lock it, go
away, carrying off as much gold as we
could, put back this orange-tree over
the place, and no one in the world would
ever ask us where our fortune came
from -- not even the cardinal."

"It would be a happy hit for clowns to
make, but as it seems to be unworthy of
two gentlemen ---- " said Porthos.

"So I think; and therefore I said, `Were
our object money only;' but we want
something else," replied the Gascon.

At the same moment, whilst D'Artagnan
was leaning over the aperture to listen,
a metallic sound, as if some one was
moving a bag of gold, struck on his ear;
he started; instantly afterward a door
opened and a light played upon the
staircase.

Mazarin had left his lamp in the gallery
to make people believe that he was
walking about, but he had with him a
waxlight, to help him to explore his
mysterious strong box.

"Faith," he said, in Italian, as he was
reascending the steps and looking at a
bag of reals, "faith, there's enough to
pay five councillors of parliament, and
two generals in Paris. I am a great
captain -- that I am! but I make war in
my own way."

The two friends were crouching down,
meantime, behind a tub in the side
alley.

Mazarin came within three steps of
D'Artagnan and pushed a spring in the
wall; the slab turned and the orange
tree resumed its place.

Then the cardinal put out the waxlight,
slipped it into his pocket, and taking
up the lantern: "Now," he said, "for
Monsieur de la Fere."

"Very good," thought D'Artagnan, "'tis
our road likewise; we will go together."

All three set off on their walk, Mazarin
taking the middle alley and the friends
the side ones.

The cardinal reached a second door
without perceiving he was being
followed; the sand with which the alleys
were covered deadened the sound of
footsteps.

He then turned to the left, down a
corridor which had escaped the attention
of the two friends, but as he opened the
door he paused, as if in thought.

"Ah! Diavolo!" he exclaimed, "I forgot
the recommendation of De Comminges, who
advised me to take a guard and place it
at this door, in order not to put myself
at the mercy of that four-headed
combination of devils." And with a
movement of impatience he turned to
retrace his steps.

"Do not give yourself the trouble, my
lord," said D'Artagnan, with his right
foot forward, his beaver in his hand, a
smile on his face, "we have followed
your eminence step by step and here we
are."

"Yes -- here we are," said Porthos.

And he made the same friendly salute as
D'Artagnan.

Mazarin gazed at each of them with an
affrighted stare, recognized them, and
let drop his lantern, uttering a cry of
terror.

D'Artagnan picked it up; by good luck it
had not been extinguished.

"Oh, what imprudence, my lord," said
D'Artagnan; "'tis not good to be about
just here without a light. Your eminence
might knock against something, or fall
into a hole."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" muttered Mazarin,
unable to recover from his astonishment.

"Yes, my lord, it is I. I have the honor
to present to you Monsieur du Vallon,
that excellent friend of mine, in whom
your eminence had the kindness to
interest yourself formerly."

And D'Artagnan held the lamp before the
merry face of Porthos, who now began to
comprehend the affair and be very proud
of the whole undertaking.

"You were going to visit Monsieur de la
Fere?" said D'Artagnan. "Don't let us
disarrange your eminence. Be so good as
to show us the way and we will follow
you.

Mazarin was by degrees recovering his
senses.

"Have you been long in the orangery?" he
asked in a trembling voice, remembering
the visits he had been paying to his
treasury.

Porthos opened his mouth to reply;
D'Artagnan made him a sign, and his
mouth, remaining silent, gradually
closed.

"This moment come, my lord," said
D'Artagnan.

Mazarin breathed again. His fears were
now no longer for his hoard, but for
himself. A sort of smile played on his
lips.

"Come," he said, "you have me in a
snare, gentlemen. I confess myself
conquered. You wish to ask for liberty,
and -- I give it you."

"Oh, my lord!" answered D'Artagnan, "you
are too good; as to our liberty, we have
that; we want to ask something else of
you."

"You have your liberty?" repeated
Mazarin, in terror.

"Certainly; and on the other hand, my
lord, you have lost it, and now, in
accordance with the law of war, sir, you
must buy it back again."

Mazarin felt a shiver run through him --
a chill even to his heart's core. His
piercing look was fixed in vain on the
satirical face of the Gascon and the
unchanging countenance of Porthos. Both
were in shadow and the Sybil of Cuma
herself could not have read them.

"To purchase back my liberty?" said the
cardinal.

"Yes, my lord."

"And how much will that cost me,
Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Zounds, my lord, I don't know yet. We
must ask the Comte de la Fere the
question. Will your eminence deign to
open the door which leads to the count's
room, and in ten minutes all will be
settled."

Mazarin started.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "your
eminence sees that we wish to act with
all formality and due respect; but I
must warn you that we have no time to
lose; open the door then, my lord, and
be so good as to remember, once for all,
that on the slightest attempt to escape
or the faintest cry for help, our
position being very critical indeed, you
must not be angry with us if we go to
extremities."

"Be assured," answered Mazarin, "that I
shall attempt nothing; I give you my
word of honor."

D'Artagnan made a sign to Porthos to
redouble his watchfulness; then turning
to Mazarin:

"Now, my lord, let us enter, if you
please."



86

Conferences.



Mazarin turned the lock of a double
door, on the threshold of which they
found Athos ready to receive his
illustrious guests according to the
notice Comminges had given him.

On perceiving Mazarin he bowed.

"Your eminence," he said, "might have
dispensed with your attendants; the
honor bestowed on me is too great for me
to be unmindful of it."

"And so, my dear count," said
D'Artagnan, "his eminence didn't
actually insist on our attending him; it
is Du Vallon and I who have insisted,
and even in a manner somewhat impolite,
perhaps, so great was our longing to see
you."

At that voice, that mocking tone, and
that familiar gesture, accenting voice
and tone, Athos made a bound of
surprise.

"D'Artagnan! Porthos!" he exclaimed.

"My very self, dear friend."

"Me, also!" repeated Porthos.

"What means this?" asked the count.

"It means," replied Mazarin, trying to
smile and biting his lips in the
attempt, "that our parts are changed,
and that instead of these gentlemen
being my prisoners I am theirs; but,
gentlemen, I warn you, unless you kill
me, your victory will be of very short
duration; people will come to the
rescue."

"Ah! my lord!" cried the Gascon, "don't
threaten! 'tis a bad example. We are so
good and gentle to your eminence. Come,
let us put aside all rancor and talk
pleasantly."

"There's nothing I wish more," replied
Mazarin. "But don't think yourselves in
a better position than you are. In
ensnaring me you have fallen into the
trap yourselves. How are you to get away
from here? remember the soldiers and
sentinels who guard these doors. Now, I
am going to show you how sincere I am."

"Good," thought D'Artagnan; "we must
look about us; he's going to play us a
trick."

"I offered you your liberty," continued
the minister; "will you take it? Before
an hour has passed you will be
discovered, arrested, obliged to kill
me, which would be a crime unworthy of
loyal gentlemen like you."

"He is right," thought Athos.

And, like every other reflection passing
in a mind that entertained none but
noble thoughts, this feeling was
expressed in his eyes.

"And therefore," said D'Artagnan, to
clip the hope which Athos's tacit
adhesion had imparted to Mazarin, "we
shall not proceed to that violence save
in the last extremity."

"If on the contrary," resumed Mazarin,
"you accept your liberty ---- "

"Why you, my lord, might take it away
from us in less than five minutes
afterward; and from my knowledge of you
I believe you will so take it away from
us."

"No -- on the faith of a cardinal. You
do not believe me?"

"My lord, I never believe cardinals who
are not priests."

"Well, on the faith of a minister."

"You are no longer a minister, my lord;
you are a prisoner."

"Then, on the honor of a Mazarin, as I
am and ever shall be, I hope," said the
cardinal.

"Hem," replied D'Artagnan. "I have heard
speak of a Mazarin who had not much
religion when his oaths were in
question. I fear he may have been an
ancestor of your eminence."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan, you are a great
wit and I am really sorry to be on bad
terms with you."

"My lord, let us come to terms; I ask
nothing better."

"Very well," said Mazarin, "if I place
you in security, in a manner evident,
palpable ---- "

"Ah! that is another thing," said
Porthos.

"Let us see," said Athos.

"Let us see," said D'Artagnan.

"In the first place, do you accept?"
asked the cardinal.

"Unfold your plan, my lord, and we will
see."

"Take notice that you are shut up --
captured."

"You well know, my lord, that there
always remains to us a last resource."

"What?"

"That of dying together."

Mazarin shuddered.

"Listen," he said; "at the end of yonder
corridor is a door, of which I have the
key, it leads into the park. Go, and
take this key with you; you are active,
vigorous, and you have arms. At a
hundred steps, on turning to the left,
you will find the wall of the park; get
over it, and in three leaps you will be
on the road and free."

"Ah! by Jove, my lord," said D'Artagnan,
"you have well said, but these are only
words. Where is the key you speak of?"

"Here it is."

"Ah, my lord! You will conduct us
yourself, then, to that door?"

"Very willingly, if it be necessary to
reassure you," answered the minister,
and Mazarin, who was delighted to get
off so cheaply, led the way, in high
spirits, to the corridor and opened the
door.

It led into the park, as the three
fugitives perceived by the night breeze
which rushed into the corridor and blew
the wind into their faces.

"The devil!" exclaimed the Gascon, "'tis
a dreadful night, my lord. We don't know
the locality, and shall never find the
wall. Since your eminence has come so
far, come a few steps further; conduct
us, my lord, to the wall."

"Be it so," replied the cardinal; and
walking in a straight line he went to
the wall, at the foot of which they all
four arrived at the same instant.

"Are you satisfied, gentlemen?" asked
Mazarin.

"I think so, indeed; we should be hard
to please if we were not. Deuce take it!
three poor gentlemen escorted by a
prince of the church! Ah! apropos, my
lord! you remarked that we were all
active, vigorous and armed."

"Yes."

"You are mistaken. Monsieur du Vallon
and I are the only two who are armed.
The count is not; and should we meet
with one of your patrol we must defend
ourselves."

"'Tis true."

"Where can we find another sword?" asked
Porthos.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, "will lend
his, which is of no use to him, to the
Comte de la Fere."

"Willingly," said the cardinal; "I will
even ask the count to keep it for my
sake."

"I promise you, my lord, never to part
with it," replied Athos.

"Well, well," cried D'Artagnan, "this
reconciliation is truly touching; have
you not tears in your eyes, Porthos?"

"Yes," said Porthos; "but I do not know
if it is feeling or the wind that makes
me weep; I think it is the wind."

"Now climb up, Athos, quickly," said
D'Artagnan. Athos, assisted by Porthos,
who lifted him up like a feather,
arrived at the top.

"Now, jump down, Athos."

Athos jumped and disappeared on the
other side of the wall.

"Are you on the ground?" asked
D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"Without accident?"

"Perfectly safe and sound."

"Porthos, whilst I get up, watch the
cardinal. No, I don't want your help,
watch the cardinal."

"I am watching," said Porthos. "Well?"

"You are right; it is more difficult
than I thought. Lend me your back -- but
don't let the cardinal go."

Porthos lent him his back and D'Artagnan
was soon on the summit of the wall,
where he seated himself.

Mazarin pretended to laugh.

"Are you there?" asked Porthos.

"Yes, my friend; and now ---- "

"Now, what?" asked Porthos.

"Now give me the cardinal up here; if he
makes any noise stifle him."

Mazarin wished to call out, but Porthos
held him tight and passed him to
D'Artagnan, who seized him by the neck
and made him sit down by him; then in a
menacing tone, he said:

"Sir! jump directly down, close to
Monsieur de la Fere, or, on the honor of
a gentleman, I'll kill you!"

"Monsieur, monsieur," cried Mazarin,
"you are breaking your word to me!"

"I -- did I promise you anything, my
lord?"

Mazarin groaned.

"You are free," he said, "through me;
your liberty was my ransom."

"Agreed; but the ransom of that immense
treasure buried under the gallery, to
which one descends on pushing a spring
hidden in the wall, which causes a tub
to turn, revealing a staircase -- must
not one speak of that a little, my
lord?"

"Diavolo!" cried Mazarin, almost choked,
and clasping his hands; "I am a lost and
ruined man!"

But without listening to his
protestations of alarm, D'Artagnan
slipped him gently down into the arms of
Athos, who stood immovable at the bottom
of the wall.

Porthos next made an effort which shook
the solid wall, and by the aid of his
friend's hand gained the summit.

"I didn't understand it all," he said,
"but I understand now; how droll it is!"

"You think so? so much the better; but
that it may prove laughter-worthy even
to the end, let us not lose time." And
he jumped off the wall.

Porthos did the same.

"Attend to monsieur le cardinal,
gentlemen," said D'Artagnan; "for
myself, I will reconnoitre."

The Gascon then drew his sword and
marched as avant guard.

"My lord," he said, "which way do we go?
Think well of your reply, for should
your eminence be mistaken, there might
ensue most grave results for all of us."

"Along the wall, sir," said Mazarin,
"there will be no danger of losing
yourselves."

The three friends hastened on, but in a
short time were obliged to slacken the
pace. The cardinal could not keep up
with them, though with every wish to do
so.

Suddenly D'Artagnan touched something
warm, which moved.

"Stop! a horse!" he cried; "I have found
a horse!"

"And I, likewise," said Athos.

"I, too," said Porthos, who, faithful to
the instructions, still held the
cardinal's arm.

"There's luck, my lord! just as you were
complaining of being tired and obliged
to walk."

But as he spoke the barrel of a pistol
was presented at his breast and these
words were pronounced:

"Touch it not!"

"Grimaud!" he cried; "Grimaud! what art
thou about? Why, thou art posted here by
Heaven!"

"No, sir," said the honest servant, "it
was Monsieur Aramis who posted me here
to take care of the horses."

"Is Aramis here?"

"Yes, sir; he has been here since
yesterday."

"What are you doing?"

"On the watch ---- "

"What! Aramis here?" cried Athos.

"At the lesser gate of the castle; he's
posted there."

"Are you a large party?"

"Sixty."

"Let him know."

"This moment, sir."

And believing that no one could execute
the commission better than himself,
Grimaud set off at full speed; whilst,
enchanted at being all together again,
the friends awaited his return.

There was no one in the whole group in a
bad humor except Cardinal Mazarin.



87

In which we begin to think that Porthos
will be at last a Baron, and D'Artagnan
a Captain.



At the expiration of ten minutes Aramis
arrived, accompanied by Grimaud and
eight or ten followers. He was
excessively delighted and threw himself
into his friends' arms.

"You are free, my brothers! free without
my aid! and I shall have succeeded in
doing nothing for you in spite of all my
efforts."

"Do not be unhappy, dear friend, on that
account; if you have done nothing as
yet, you will do something soon,"
replied Athos.

"I had well concerted my plans," pursued
Aramis; "the coadjutor gave me sixty
men; twenty guard the walls of the park,
twenty the road from Rueil to Saint
Germain, twenty are dispersed in the
woods. Thus I was able, thanks to the
strategic disposition of my forces, to
intercept two couriers from Mazarin to
the queen."

Mazarin listened intently.

"But," said D'Artagnan, "I trust that
you honorably sent them back to monsieur
le cardinal!"

"Ah, yes!" said Aramis, "toward him I
should be very likely to practice such
delicacy of sentiment! In one of the
despatches the cardinal declares to the
queen that the treasury is empty and
that her majesty has no more money. In
the other he announces that he is about
to transport his prisoners to Melun,
since Rueil seemed to him not
sufficiently secure. You can understand,
dear friend, with what hope I was
inspired by that last letter. I placed
myself in ambuscade with my sixty men; I
encircled the castle; the riding horses
I entrusted to Grimaud and I awaited
your coming out, which I did not expect
till to-morrow, and I didn't hope to
free you without a skirmish. You are
free to-night, without fighting; so much
the better! How did you manage to escape
that scoundrel Mazarin? You must have
much reason to complain of him."

"Not very much," said D'Artagnan.

"Really!"

"I might even say that we have some
reason to praise him."

"Impossible!"

"Yes, really; it is owing to him that we
are free."

"Owing to him?"

"Yes, he had us conducted into the
orangery by Monsieur Bernouin, his
valet-de-chambre, and from there we
followed him to visit the Comte de la
Fere. Then he offered us our liberty and
we accepted it. He even went so far as
to show us the way out; he led us to the
park wall, which we climbed over without
accident, and then we fell in with
Grimaud."

"Well!" exclaimed Aramis, "this will
reconcile me to him; but I wish he were
here that I might tell him that I did
not believe him capable of so noble an
act."

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, no longer
able to contain himself, "allow me to
introduce to you the Chevalier
d'Herblay, who wishes -- as you may have
heard -- to offer his congratulations to
your eminence."

And he retired, discovering Mazarin, who
was in great confusion, to the
astonished gaze of Aramis.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed the latter, "the
cardinal! a glorious prize! Halloo!
halloo! friends! to horse! to horse!"

Several horsemen ran quickly to him.

"Zounds!" cried Aramis, "I may have done
some good; so, my lord, deign to receive
my most respectful homage! I will lay a
wager that 'twas that Saint Christopher,
Porthos, who performed this feat!
Apropos! I forgot ---- " and he gave
some orders in a low voice to one of the
horsemen.

"I think it will be wise to set off,"
said D'Artagnan.

"Yes; but I am expecting some one, a
friend of Athos."

"A friend!" exclaimed the count.

"And here he comes, by Jupiter!
galloping through the bushes."

"The count! the count!" cried a young
voice that made Athos start.

"Raoul! Raoul!" he ejaculated.

For one moment the young man forgot his
habitual respect -- he threw himself on
his father's neck.

"Look, my lord cardinal," said Aramis,
"would it not have been a pity to have
separated men who love each other as we
love? Gentlemen," he continued,
addressing the cavaliers, who became
more and more numerous every instant;
"gentlemen, encircle his eminence, that
you may show him the greater honor. He
will, indeed give us the favor of his
company; you will, I hope, be grateful
for it; Porthos, do not lose sight of
his eminence."

Aramis then joined Athos and D'Artagnan,
who were consulting together.

"Come," said D'Artagnan, after a
conference of five minutes' duration,
"let us begin our journey."

"Where are we to go?" asked Porthos.

"To your house, dear Porthos, at
Pierrefonds; your fine chateau is worthy
of affording its princely hospitality to
his eminence; it is, likewise, well
situated -- neither too near Paris, nor
too far from it; we can establish a
communication between it and the capital
with great facility. Come, my lord, you
shall be treated like a prince, as you
are."

"A fallen prince!" exclaimed Mazarin,
piteously.

"The chances of war," said Athos, "are
many, but be assured we shall take no
improper advantage of them."

"No, but we shall make use of them,"
said D'Artagnan.

The rest of the night was employed by
these cavaliers in traveling with the
wonderful rapidity of former days.
Mazarin, still sombre and pensive,
permitted himself to be dragged along in
this way; it looked a race of phantoms.
At dawn twelve leagues had been passed
without drawing rein; half the escort
were exhausted and several horses fell
down.

"Horses, nowadays, are not what they
were formerly," observed Porthos;
"everything degenerates."

"I have sent Grimaud to Dammartin," said
Aramis. "He is to bring us five fresh
horses -- one for his eminence, four for
us. We, at least, must keep close to
monseigneur; the rest of the start will
rejoin us later. Once beyond Saint Denis
we shall have nothing to fear."

Grimaud, in fact, brought back five
horses. The nobleman to whom he applied,
being a friend of Porthos, was very
ready, not to sell them, as was
proposed, but to lend them. Ten minutes
later the escort stopped at
Ermenonville, but the four friends went
on with well sustained ardor, guarding
Mazarin carefully. At noon they rode
into the avenue of Pierrefonds.

"Ah!" said Mousqueton, who had ridden by
the side of D'Artagnan without speaking
a word on the journey, "you may think
what you will, sir, but I can breathe
now for the first time since my
departure from Pierrefonds;" and he put
his horse to a gallop to announce to the
other servants the arrival of Monsieur
du Vallon and his friends.

"We are four of us," said D'Artagnan;
"we must relieve each other in mounting
guard over my lord and each of us must
watch three hours at a time. Athos is
going to examine the castle, which it
will be necessary to render impregnable
in case of siege; Porthos will see to
the provisions and Aramis to the troops
of the garrison. That is to say, Athos
will be chief engineer, Porthos
purveyor-in-general, and Aramis governor
of the fortress."

Meanwhile, they gave up to Mazarin the
handsomest room in the chateau.

"Gentlemen," he said, when he was in his
room, "you do not expect, I presume, to
keep me here a long time incognito?"

"No, my lord," replied the Gascon; "on
the contrary, we think of announcing
very soon that we have you here."

"Then you will be besieged."

"We expect it."

"And what shall you do?"

"Defend ourselves. Were the late
Cardinal Richelieu alive he would tell
you a certain story of the Bastion Saint
Gervais, which we four, with our four
lackeys and twelve dead men, held out
against a whole army."

"Such feats, sir, are done once -- and
never repeated."

"However, nowadays there's no need of so
much heroism. To-morrow the army of
Paris will be summoned, the day after it
will be here! The field of battle,
instead, therefore, of being at Saint
Denis or at Charenton, will be near
Compiegne or Villars-Cotterets."

"The prince will vanquish you, as he has
always done."

"'Tis possible; my lord; but before an
engagement ensues we shall move your
eminence to another castle belonging to
our friend Du Vallon, who has three. We
will not expose your eminence to the
chances of war."

"Come," answered Mazarin, "I see it will
be necessary for me to capitulate."

"Before a siege?"

"Yes; the conditions will be better than
afterward."

"Ah, my lord! as to conditions, you
would soon see how moderate and
reasonable we are!"

"Come, now, what are your conditions?"

"Rest yourself first, my lord, and we --
we will reflect."

"I do not need rest, gentlemen; I need
to know whether I am among enemies or
friends."

"Friends, my lord! friends!"

"Well, then, tell me at once what you
want, that I may see if any arrangement
be possible. Speak, Comte de la Fere!"

"My lord," replied Athos, "for myself I
have nothing to demand. For France, were
I to specify my wishes, I should have
too much. I beg you to excuse me and
propose to the chevalier."

And Athos, bowing, retired and remained
leaning against the mantelpiece, a
spectator of the scene.

"Speak, then, chevalier!" said the
cardinal. "What do you want? Nothing
ambiguous, if you please. Be clear,
short and precise."

"As for me," replied Aramis, "I have in
my pocket the very programme of the
conditions which the deputation -- of
which I formed one -- went yesterday to
Saint Germain to impose on you. Let us
consider first the ancient rights. The
demands in that programme must be
granted."

"We were almost agreed on those,"
replied Mazarin; "let us pass on to
private and personal stipulations."

"You suppose, then, that there are
some?" said Aramis, smiling.

"I do not suppose that you will all be
quite so disinterested as Monsieur de la
Fere," replied the cardinal, bowing to
Athos.

"My lord, you are right, and I am glad
to see that you do justice to the count
at last. The count has a mind above
vulgar desires and earthly passions. He
is a proud soul -- he is a man by
himself! You are right -- he is worth us
all, and we avow it to you!"

"Aramis," said Athos, "are you jesting?"

"No, no, dear friend; I state only what
we all know. You are right; it is not
you alone this matter concerns, but my
lord and his unworthy servant, myself."

"Well, then, what do you require besides
the general conditions before recited?"

"I require, my lord, that Normandy
should be given to Madame de
Longueville, with five hundred thousand
francs and full absolution. I require
that his majesty should deign to be
godfather to the child she has just
borne; and that my lord, after having
been present at the christening, should
go to proffer his homage to our Holy
Father the Pope."

"That is, you wish me to lay aside my
ministerial functions, to quit France
and be an exile."

"I wish his eminence to become pope on
the first opportunity, allowing me then
the right of demanding full indulgences
for myself and my friends."

Mazarin made a grimace which was quite
indescribable, and then turned to
D'Artagnan.

"And you, sir?" he said.

"I, my lord," answered the Gascon, "I
differ from Monsieur d'Herblay entirely
as to the last point, though I agree
with him on the first. Far from wishing
my lord to quit Paris, I hope he will
stay there and continue to be prime
minister, as he is a great statesman. I
shall try also to help him to down the
Fronde, but on one condition -- that he
sometimes remembers the king's faithful
servants and gives the first vacant
company of musketeers to a man that I
could name. And you, Monsieur du
Vallon ---- "

"Yes, you, sir! Speak, if you please,"
said Mazarin.

"As for me," answered Porthos, "I wish
my lord cardinal, in order to do honor
to my house, which gives him an asylum,
would in remembrance of this adventure
erect my estate into a barony, with a
promise to confer that order on one of
my particular friends, whenever his
majesty next creates peers."

"You know, sir, that before receiving
the order one must submit proofs."

"My friends will submit them. Besides,
should it be necessary, monseigneur will
show him how that formality may be
avoided."

Mazarin bit his lips; the blow was
direct and he replied rather dryly:

"All this appears to me to be ill
conceived, disjointed, gentlemen; for if
I satisfy some I shall displease others.
If I stay in Paris I cannot go to Rome;
if I became pope I could not continue to
be prime minister; and it is only by
continuing prime minister that I can
make Monsieur d'Artagnan a captain and
Monsieur du Vallon a baron."

"True"" said Aramis, "so, as I am in a
minority, I withdraw my proposition, so
far as it relates to the voyage to Rome
and monseigneur's resignation."

"I am to remain minister, then?" said
Mazarin.

"You remain minister; that is
understood," said D'Artagnan; "France
needs you."

"And I desist from my pretensions," said
Aramis. "His eminence will continue to
be prime minister and her majesty's
favorite, if he will grant to me and my
friends what we demand for France and
for ourselves."

"Occupy yourselves with your own
affairs, gentlemen, and let France
settle matters as she will with me,"
resumed Mazarin.

"Ho! ho!" replied Aramis. "The Frondeurs
will have a treaty and your eminence
must sign it before us, promising at the
same time to obtain the queen's consent
to it."

"I can answer only for myself," said
Mazarin. "I cannot answer for the queen.
Suppose her majesty refuses?"

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "monseigneur
knows very well that her majesty refuses
him nothing."

"Here, monseigneur," said Aramis, "is
the treaty proposed by the deputation of
Frondeurs. Will your eminence please
read and examine?"

"I am acquainted with it."

"Sign it, then."

"Reflect, gentlemen, that a signature
given under circumstances like the
present might be regarded as extorted by
violence."

"Monseigneur will be at hand to testify
that it was freely given."

"Suppose I refuse?"

"Then," said D'Artagnan, "your eminence
must expect the consequences of a
refusal."

"Would you dare to touch a cardinal?"

"You have dared, my lord, to imprison
her majesty's musketeers."

"The queen will revenge me, gentlemen."

"I do not think so, although inclination
might lead her to do so, but we shall
take your eminence to Paris, and the
Parisians will defend us."

"How uneasy they must be at this moment
at Rueil and Saint Germain," said
Aramis. "How they must be asking, `Where
is the cardinal?' `What has become of
the minister?' `Where has the favorite
gone?' How they must be looking for
monseigneur in all corners! What
comments must be made; and if the Fronde
knows that monseigneur has disappeared,
how the Fronde must triumph!"

"It is frightful," murmured Mazarin.

"Sign the treaty, then, monseigneur,"
said Aramis.

"Suppose the queen should refuse to
ratify it?"

"Ah! nonsense!" cried D'Artagnan, "I can
manage so that her majesty will receive
me well; I know an excellent method."

"What?"

"I shall take her majesty the letter in
which you tell her that the finances are
exhausted."

"And then?" asked Mazarin, turning pale.

"When I see her majesty embarrassed, I
shall conduct her to Rueil, make her
enter the orangery and show her a
certain spring which turns a box."

"Enough, sir," muttered the cardinal,
"you have said enough; where is the
treaty?"

"Here it is," replied Aramis. "Sign, my
lord," and he gave him a pen.

Mazarin arose, walked some moments,
thoughtful, but not dejected.

"And when I have signed," he said, "what
is to be my guarantee?"

"My word of honor, sir," said Athos.

Mazarin started, turned toward the Comte
de la Fere, and looking for an instant
at that grand and honest countenance,
took the pen.

"It is sufficient, count," he said, and
signed the treaty.

"And now, Monsieur d'Artagnan," he said,
"prepare to set off for Saint Germain
and take a letter from me to the queen."



88

Shows how with Threat and Pen more is
effected than by the Sword.



D'Artagnan knew his part well; he was
aware that opportunity has a forelock
only for him who will take it and he was
not a man to let it go by him without
seizing it. He soon arranged a prompt
and certain manner of traveling, by
sending relays of horses to Chantilly,
so that he might be in Paris in five or
six hours. But before setting out he
reflected that for a lad of intelligence
and experience he was in a singular
predicament, since he was proceeding
toward uncertainty and leaving certainty
behind him.

"In fact," he said, as he was about to
mount and start on his dangerous
mission, "Athos, for generosity, is a
hero of romance; Porthos has an
excellent disposition, but is easily
influenced; Aramis has a hieroglyphic
countenance, always illegible. What will
come out of those three elements when I
am no longer present to combine them?
The deliverance of the cardinal,
perhaps. Now, the deliverance of the
cardinal would be the ruin of our hopes;
and our hopes are thus far the only
recompense we have for labors in
comparison with which those of Hercules
were pygmean."

He went to find Aramis.

"You, my dear Chevalier d'Herblay," he
said, "are the Fronde incarnate.
Mistrust Athos, therefore, who will not
prosecute the affairs of any one, even
his own. Mistrust Porthos, especially,
who, to please the count whom he regards
as God on earth, will assist him in
contriving Mazarin's escape, if Mazarin
has the wit to weep or play the
chivalric."

Aramis smiled; his smile was at once
cunning and resolute.

"Fear nothing," he said; "I have my
conditions to impose. My private
ambition tends only to the profit of him
who has justice on his side."

"Good!" thought D'Artagnan: "in this
direction I am satisfied." He pressed
Aramis's hand and went in search of
Porthos.

"Friend," he said, "you have worked so
hard with me toward building up our
fortune, that, at the moment when we are
about to reap the fruits of our labours,
it would be a ridiculous piece of
silliness in you to allow yourself to be
controlled by Aramis, whose cunning you
know -- a cunning which, we may say
between ourselves, is not always without
egotism; or by Athos, a noble and
disinterested man, but blase, who,
desiring nothing further for himself,
doesn't sympathize with the desires of
others. What should you say if either of
these two friends proposed to you to let
Mazarin go?"

"Why, I should say that we had too much
trouble in taking him to let him off so
easily."

"Bravo, Porthos! and you would be right,
my friend; for in losing him you would
lose your barony, which you have in your
grasp, to say nothing of the fact that,
were he once out of this, Mazarin would
have you hanged."

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Then I would kill him rather than let
him go."

"And you would act rightly. There is no
question, you understand, provided we
secure our own interests, of securing
those of the Frondeurs; who, besides,
don't understand political matters as we
old soldiers do."

"Never fear, dear friend," said Porthos.
"I shall see you through the window as
you mount your horse; I shall follow you
with my eyes as long as you are in
sight; then I shall place myself at the
cardinal's door -- a door with glass
windows. I shall see everything, and at
the least suspicious sign I shall begin
to exterminate."

"Bravo!" thought D'Artagnan; "on this
side I think the cardinal will be well
guarded." He pressed the hand of the
lord of Pierrefonds and went in search
of Athos.

"My dear Athos," he said, "I am going
away. I have only one thing to say to
you. You know Anne of Austria; the
captivity of Mazarin alone guarantees my
life; if you let him go I am a dead
man."

"I needed nothing less than that
consideration, my dear D'Artagnan, to
persuade myself to adopt the role of
jailer. I give you my word that you will
find the cardinal where you leave him."

"This reassures me more than all the
royal signatures," thought D'Artagnan.
"Now that I have the word of Athos I can
set out."

D'Artagnan started alone on his journey,
without other escort than his sword, and
with a simple passport from Mazarin to
secure his admission to the queen's
presence. Six hours after he left
Pierrefonds he was at Saint Germain.

The disappearance of Mazarin was not as
yet generally known. Anne of Austria was
informed of it and concealed her
uneasiness from every one. In the
chamber of D'Artagnan and Porthos the
two soldiers had been found bound and
gagged. On recovering the use of their
limbs and tongues they could, of course,
tell nothing but what they knew -- that
they had been seized, stripped and
bound. But as to what had been done by
Porthos and D'Artagnan afterward they
were as ignorant as all the inhabitants
of the chateau.

Bernouin alone knew a little more than
the others. Bernouin, seeing that his
master did not return and hearing the
stroke of midnight, had made an
examination of the orangery. The first
door, barricaded with furniture, had
aroused in him certain suspicions, but
without communicating his suspicions to
any one he had patiently worked his way
into the midst of all that confusion.
Then he came to the corridor, all the
doors of which he found open; so, too,
was the door of Athos's chamber and that
of the park. From the latter point it
was easy to follow tracks on the snow.
He saw that these tracks tended toward
the wall; on the other side he found
similar tracks, then footprints of
horses and then signs of a troop of
cavalry which had moved away in the
direction of Enghien. He could no longer
cherish any doubt that the cardinal had
been carried off by the three prisoners,
since the prisoners had disappeared at
the same time; and he had hastened to
Saint Germain to warn the queen of that
disappearance.

Anne had enforced the utmost secrecy and
had disclosed the event to no one except
the Prince de Conde, who had sent five
or six hundred horsemen into the
environs of Saint Germain with orders to
bring in any suspicious person who was
going away from Rueil, in whatsoever
direction it might be.

Now, since D'Artagnan did not constitute
a body of horsemen, since he was alone,
since he was not going away from Rueil
and was going to Saint Germain, no one
paid any attention to him and his
journey was not obstructed in any way.

On entering the courtyard of the old
chateau the first person seen by our
ambassador was Maitre Bernouin in
person, who, standing on the threshold,
awaited news of his vanished master.

At the sight of D'Artagnan, who entered
the courtyard on horseback, Bernouin
rubbed his eyes and thought he must be
mistaken. But D'Artagnan made a friendly
sign to him with his head, dismounted,
and throwing his bridle to a lackey who
was passing, he approached the
valet-de-chambre with a smile on his
lips.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the latter,
like a man who has the nightmare and
talks in his sleep, "Monsieur
d'Artagnan!"

"Himself, Monsieur Bernouin."

"And why have you come here?"

"To bring news of Monsieur de Mazarin --
the freshest news there is."

"What has become of him, then?"

"He is as well as you and I."

"Nothing bad has happened to him, then?"

"Absolutely nothing. He felt the need of
making a trip in the Ile de France, and
begged us -- the Comte de la Fere and
Monsieur du Vallon -- to accompany him.
We were too devoted servants to refuse
him a request of that sort. We set out
last evening and here we are."

"Here you are."

"His eminence had something to
communicate to her majesty, something
secret and private -- a mission that
could be confided only to a sure man --
and so has sent me to Saint Germain. And
therefore, my dear Monsieur Bernouin, if
you wish to do what will be pleasing to
your master, announce to her majesty
that I have come, and tell her with what
purpose."

Whether he spoke seriously or in jest,
since it was evident that under existing
circumstances D'Artagnan was the only
man who could relieve the queen's
uneasiness, Bernouin went without
hesitation to announce to her this
strange embassy; and as he had foreseen,
the queen gave orders to introduce
Monsieur d'Artagnan at once.

D'Artagnan approached the sovereign with
every mark of profound respect, and
having fallen on his knees presented to
her the cardinal's letter

It was, however, merely a letter of
introduction. The queen read it,
recognized the writing, and, since there
were no details in it of what had
occurred, asked for particulars.
D'Artagnan related everything with that
simple and ingenuous air which he knew
how to assume on occasions. The queen,
as he went on, looked at him with
increasing astonishment. She could not
comprehend how a man could conceive such
an enterprise and still less how he
could have the audacity to disclose it
to her whose interest and almost duty it
was to punish him.

"How, sir!" she cried, as D'Artagnan
finished, "you dare to tell me the
details of your crime -- to give me an
account of your treason!"

"Pardon, madame, but I think that either
I have expressed myself badly or your
majesty has imperfectly understood me.
There is here no question of crime or
treason. Monsieur de Mazarin held us in
prison, Monsieur du Vallon and myself,
because we could not believe that he had
sent us to England to quietly look on
while they cut off the head of Charles
I., brother-in-law of the late king,
your husband, the consort of Madame
Henrietta, your sister and your guest,
and because we did all that we could do
to save the life of the royal martyr. We
were then convinced, my friend and I,
that there was some error of which we
were the victims, and that an
explanation was called for between his
eminence and ourselves. Now, that an
explanation may bear fruit, it is
necessary that it should be quietly
conducted, far from noise and
interruption. We have therefore taken
away monsieur le cardinal to my friend's
chateau and there we have come to an
understanding. Well, madame, it proved
to be as we had supposed; there was a
mistake. Monsieur de Mazarin had thought
that we had rendered service to General
Cromwell, instead of King Charles, which
would have been a disgrace, rebounding
from us to him, and from him to your
majesty -- a dishonor which would have
tainted the royalty of your illustrious
son. We were able to prove the contrary,
and that proof we are ready to give to
your majesty, calling in support of it
the august widow weeping in the Louvre,
where your royal munificence has
provided for her a home. That proof
satisfied him so completely that, as a
sign of satisfaction, he has sent me, as
your majesty may see, to consider with
you what reparation should be made to
gentlemen unjustly treated and
wrongfully persecuted."

"I listen to you, and I wonder at you,
sir," said the queen. "In fact, I have
rarely seen such excess of impudence."

"Your majesty, on your side," said
D'Artagnan, "is as much mistaken as to
our intentions as the Cardinal Mazarin
has always been."

"You are in error, sir," answered the
queen. "I am so little mistaken that in
ten minutes you shall be arrested, and
in an hour I shall set off at the head
of my army to release my minister."

"I am sure your majesty will not commit
such an act of imprudence, first,
because it would be useless and would
produce the most disastrous results.
Before he could be possibly set free the
cardinal would be dead; and indeed, so
convinced is he of this, that he
entreated me, should I find your majesty
disposed to act in this way, to do all I
could to induce you to change your
resolution."

"Well, then, I will content myself with
arresting you!"

"Madame, the possibility of my arrest
has been foreseen, and should I not have
returned by to-morrow, at a certain hour
the next day the cardinal will be
brought to Paris and delivered to the
parliament."

"It is evident, sir, that your position
has kept you out of relation to men and
affairs; otherwise you would know that
since we left Paris monsieur le cardinal
has returned thither five or six times;
that he has there met De Beaufort, De
Bouillon, the coadjutor and D'Elbeuf and
that not one of them had any desire to
arrest him."

"Your pardon, madame, I know all that.
And therefore my friends will conduct
monsieur le cardinal neither to De
Beaufort, nor to De Bouillon, nor to the
coadjutor, nor to D'Elbeuf. These
gentlemen wage war on private account,
and in buying them up, by granting them
what they wished, monsieur le cardinal
has made a good bargain. He will be
delivered to the parliament, members of
which can, of course, be bought, but
even Monsieur de Mazarin is not rich
enough to buy the whole body."

"I think," returned Anne of Austria,
fixing upon him a glance, which in any
woman's face would have expressed
disdain, but in a queen's, spread terror
to those she looked upon, "nay, I
perceive you dare to threaten the mother
of your sovereign."

"Madame," replied D'Artagnan, "I
threaten simply and solely because I am
obliged to do so. Believe me, madame, as
true a thing as it is that a heart beats
in this bosom -- a heart devoted to
you -- believe that you have been the
idol of our lives; that we have, as you
well know -- good Heaven! -- risked our
lives twenty times for your majesty.
Have you, then, madame, no compassion
for your servants who for twenty years
have vegetated in obscurity, without
betraying in a single sigh the solemn
and sacred secrets they have had the
honor to share with you? Look at me,
madame -- at me, whom you accuse of
speaking loud and threateningly. What am
I? A poor officer, without fortune,
without protection, without a future,
unless the eye of my queen, which I have
sought so long, rests on me for a
moment. Look at the Comte de la Fere, a
type of nobility, a flower of chivalry.
He has taken part against his queen, or
rather, against her minister. He has not
been unreasonably exacting, it seems to
me. Look at Monsieur du Vallon, that
faithful soul, that arm of steel, who
for twenty years has awaited the word
from your lips which will make him in
rank what he is in sentiment and in
courage. Consider, in short, your people
who love you and who yet are famished,
who have no other wish than to bless
you, and who, nevertheless -- no, I am
wrong, your subjects, madame, will never
curse you; say one word to them and all
will be ended -- peace succeed war, joy
tears, and happiness to misfortune!"

Anne of Austria looked with wonderment
on the warlike countenance of
D'Artagnan, which betrayed a singular
expression of deep feeling.

"Why did you not say all this before you
took action, sir?" she said.

"Because, madame, it was necessary to
prove to your majesty one thing of which
you doubted ---that is, that we still
possess amongst us some valor and are
worthy of some consideration at your
hands."

"And that valor would shrink from no
undertaking, according to what I see."

"It has hesitated at nothing in the
past; why, then, should it be less
daring in the future?"

"Then, in case of my refusal, this
valor, should a struggle occur, will
even go the length of carrying me off in
the midst of my court, to deliver me
into the hands of the Fronde, as you
propose to deliver my minister?"

"We have not thought about it yet,
madame," answered D'Artagnan, with that
Gascon effrontery which had in him the
appearance of naivete; but if we four
had resolved upon it we should do it
most certainly."

"I ought," muttered Anne to herself, "by
this time to remember that these men are
giants."

"Alas, madame!" exclaimed D'Artagnan,
"this proves to me that not till to-day
has your majesty had a just idea of us."

"Perhaps," said Anne; "but that idea, if
at last I have it ---- "

"Your majesty will do us justice. In
doing us justice you will no longer
treat us as men of vulgar stamp. You
will see in me an ambassador worthy of
the high interests he is authorized to
discuss with his sovereign."

"Where is the treaty?"

"Here it is."

Anne of Austria cast her eyes upon the
treaty that D'Artagnan presented to her.

"I do not see here," she said, "anything
but general conditions; the interests of
the Prince de Conti or of the Ducs de
Beaufort, de Bouillon and d'Elbeuf and
of the coadjutor, are herein consulted;
but with regard to yours?"

"We do ourselves justice, madame, even
in assuming the high position that we
have. We do not think ourselves worthy
to stand near such great names."

"But you, I presume, have decided to
assert your pretensions viva voce?"

"I believe you, madame, to be a great
and powerful queen, and that it will be
unworthy of your power and greatness if
you do not recompense the arms which
will bring back his eminence to Saint
Germain."

"It is my intention so to do; come, let
us hear you. Speak."

"He who has negotiated these matters
(forgive me if I begin by speaking of
myself, but I must claim that importance
which has been given to me, not assumed
by me) he who has arranged matters for
the return of the cardinal, ought, it
appears to me, in order that his reward
may not be unworthy of your majesty, to
be made commandant of the guards -- an
appointment something like that of
captain of the musketeers."

"'Tis the appointment Monsieur de
Treville held, you ask of me."

"The place, madame, is vacant, and
although 'tis a year since Monsieur de
Treville has left it, it has not been
filled."

"But it is one of the principal military
appointments in the king's household."

"Monsieur de Treville was but a younger
son of a simple Gascon family, like me,
madame; he occupied that post for twenty
years."

"You have an answer ready for
everything," replied the queen, and she
took from her bureau a document, which
she filled up and signed.

"Undoubtedly, madame," said D'Artagnan,
taking the document and bowing, "this is
a noble reward; but everything in the
world is unstable, and the man who
happened to fall into disgrace with your
majesty might lose this office
to-morrow."

"What more do you want?" asked the
queen, coloring, as she found that she
had to deal with a mind as subtle as her
own.

"A hundred thousand francs for this poor
captain of musketeers, to be paid
whenever his services shall no longer be
acceptable to your majesty."

Anne hesitated.

"To think of the Parisians,"
soliloquized D'Artagnan, "offering only
the other day, by an edict of the
parliament, six hundred thousand francs
to any man soever who would deliver up
the cardinal to them, dead or alive --
if alive, in order to hang him; if dead,
to deny him the rites of Christian
burial!"

"Come," said Anne, "'tis reasonable,
since you only ask from a queen the
sixth of what the parliament has
proposed;" and she signed an order for a
hundred thousand francs.

"Now, then," she said, "what next?"

"Madame, my friend Du Vallon is rich and
has therefore nothing in the way of
fortune to desire; but I think I
remember that there was a question
between him and Monsieur Mazarin as to
making his estate a barony. Nay, it must
have been a promise."

"A country clown," said Anne of Austria,
"people will laugh."

"Let them," answered D'Artagnan. "But I
am sure of one thing -- that those who
laugh at him in his presence will never
laugh a second time."

"Here goes the barony." said the queen;
she signed a patent.

"Now there remains the chevalier, or the
Abbe d'Herblay, as your majesty
pleases."

"Does he wish to be a bishop?"

"No, madame, something easier to grant."

"What?"

"It is that the king should deign to
stand godfather to the son of Madame de
Longueville."

The queen smiled.

"Monsieur de Longueville is of royal
blood, madame," said D'Artagnan.

"Yes," said the queen; "but his son?"

"His son, madame, must be, since the
husband of the son's mother is."

"And your friend has nothing more to ask
for Madame de Longueville?"

"No, madame, for I presume that the
king, standing godfather to him, could
do no less than present him with five
hundred thousand francs, giving his
father, also, the government of
Normandy."

"As to the government of Normandy,"
replied the queen, "I think I can
promise; but with regard to the present,
the cardinal is always telling me there
is no more money in the royal coffers."

"We shall search for some, madame, and I
think we can find a little, and if your
majesty approves, we will seek for some
together."

"What next?"

"What next, madame?"

"Yes."

"That is all."

"Haven't you, then, a fourth companion?"

"Yes, madame, the Comte de la Fere."

"What does he ask?"

"Nothing."

"There is in the world, then, one man
who, having the power to ask, asks --
nothing!"

"There is the Comte de la Fere, madame.
The Comte de la Fere is not a man."

"What is he, then?"

"The Comte de la Fere is a demi-god."

"Has he not a son, a young man, a
relative, a nephew, of whom Comminges
spoke to me as being a brave boy, and
who, with Monsieur de Chatillon, brought
the standards from Lens?"

"He has, as your majesty has said, a
ward, who is called the Vicomte de
Bragelonne."

"If that young man should be appointed
to a regiment what would his guardian
say?"

"Perhaps he would accept."

"Perhaps?"

"Yes, if your majesty herself should beg
him to accept."

"He must be indeed a strange man. Well,
we will reflect and perhaps we will beg
him. Are you satisfied, sir?"

"There is one thing the queen has not
signed -- her assent to the treaty."

"Of what use to-day? I will sign it
to-morrow."

"I can assure her majesty that if she
does not sign to-day she will not have
time to sign to-morrow. Consent, then, I
beg you, madame, to write at the bottom
of this schedule, which has been drawn
up by Mazarin, as you see:

"`I consent to ratify the treaty
proposed by the Parisians.'"

Anne was caught, she could not draw
back -- she signed; but scarcely had she
done so when pride burst forth and she
began to weep.

D'Artagnan started on seeing these
tears. Since that period of history
queens have shed tears, like other
women.

The Gascon shook his head, these tears
from royalty melted his heart.

"Madame," he said, kneeling, "look upon
the unhappy man at your feet. He begs
you to believe that at a gesture of your
majesty everything will be possible to
him. He has faith in himself; he has
faith in his friends; he wishes also to
have faith in his queen. And in proof
that he fears nothing, that he counts on
nothing, he will restore Monsieur de
Mazarin to your majesty without
conditions. Behold, madame! here are the
august signatures of your majesty's
hand; if you think you are right in
giving them to me, you shall do so, but
from this very moment you are free from
any obligation to keep them."

And D'Artagnan, full of splendid pride
and manly intrepidity, placed in Anne's
hands, in a bundle, the papers that he
had one by one won from her with so much
difficulty.

There are moments -- for if everything
is not good, everything in this world is
not bad -- in which the most rigid and
the coldest soul is softened by the
tears of strong emotion,
heart-arraigning sentiment: one of these
momentary impulses actuated Anne.
D'Artagnan, when he gave way to his own
feelings -- which were in accordance
with those of the queen -- had
accomplished more than the most astute
diplomacy could have attempted. He was
therefore instantly recompensed, either
for his address or for his sensibility,
whichever it might be termed.

"You were right, sir," said Anne. "I
misunderstood you. There are the acts
signed; I deliver them to you without
compulsion. Go and bring me back the
cardinal as soon as possible."

"Madame," faltered D'Artagnan, "'tis
twenty years ago -- I have a good
memory -- since I had the honor behind a
piece of tapestry in the Hotel de Ville,
of kissing one of those lovely hands."

"There is the other," replied the queen;
"and that the left hand should not be
less liberal than the right," she drew
from her finger a diamond similar to the
one formerly given to him, "take and
keep this ring in remembrance of me.

"Madame," said D'Artagnan, rising, "I
have only one thing more to wish, which
is, that the next thing you ask from me,
shall be -- my life."

And with this conclusion -- a way
peculiar to himself -- he rose and left
the room.

"I never rightly understood those men,"
said the queen, as she watched him
retiring from her presence; "and it is
now too late, for in a year the king
will be of age."

In twenty-four hours D'Artagnan and
Porthos conducted Mazarin to the queen;
and the one received his commission, the
other his patent of nobility.

On the same day the Treaty of Paris was
signed, and it was everywhere announced
that the cardinal had shut himself up
for three days in order to draw it up
with the greatest care.

Here is what each of the parties
concerned gained by that treaty:

Monsieur de Conti received Damvilliers,
and having made his proofs as general,
he succeeded in remaining a soldier,
instead of being made cardinal.
Moreover, something had been said of a
marriage with Mazarin's niece. The idea
was welcomed by the prince, to whom it
was of little importance whom he
married, so long as he married some one.

The Duc de Beaufort made his entrance at
court, receiving ample reparation for
the wrongs he had suffered, and all the
honor due to his rank. Full pardon was
accorded to those who had aided in his
escape. He received also the office of
admiral, which had been held by his
father, the Duc de Vendome and an
indemnity for his houses and castles,
demolished by the Parliament of
Bretagne.

The Duc de Bouillon received domains of
a value equal to that of his
principality of Sedan, and the title of
prince, granted to him and to those
belonging to his house.

The Duc de Longueville gained the
government of Pont-de-l'Arche, five
hundred thousand francs for his wife and
the honor of seeing her son held at the
baptismal font by the young king and
Henrietta of England.

Aramis stipulated that Bazin should
officiate at that ceremony and that
Planchet should furnish the christening
sugar plums.

The Duc d'Elbeuf obtained payment of
certain sums due to his wife, one
hundred thousand francs for his eldest
son and twenty-five thousand for each of
the three others.

The coadjutor alone obtained nothing.
They promised, indeed, to negotiate with
the pope for a cardinal's hat for him;
but he knew how little reliance should
be placed on such promises, made by the
queen and Mazarin. Quite contrary to the
lot of Monsieur de Conti, unable to be
cardinal, he was obliged to remain a
soldier.

And therefore, when all Paris was
rejoicing in the expected return of the
king, appointed for the next day, Gondy
alone, in the midst of the general
happiness, was dissatisfied; he sent for
the two men whom he was wont to summon
when in especially bad humor. Those two
men were the Count de Rochefort and the
mendicant of Saint Eustache. They came
with their usual promptness, and the
coadjutor spent with them a part of the
night.



89

In which it is shown that it is
sometimes more difficult for Kings to
return to the Capitals of their
Kingdoms, than to make an Exit.



Whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos were
engaged in conducting the cardinal to
Saint Germain, Athos and Aramis returned
to Paris.

Each had his own particular visit to
make.

Aramis rushed to the Hotel de Ville,
where Madame de Longueville was
sojourning. The duchess loudly lamented
the announcement of peace. War had made
her a queen; peace brought her
abdication. She declared that she would
never assent to the treaty and that she
wished eternal war.

But when Aramis had presented that peace
to her in a true light -- that is to
say, with all its advantages; when he
had pointed out to her, in exchange for
the precarious and contested royalty of
Paris, the viceroyalty of
Font-de-l'Arche, in other words, of all
Normandy; when he had rung in her ears
the five hundred thousand francs
promised by the cardinal; when he had
dazzled her eyes with the honor bestowed
on her by the king in holding her child
at the baptismal font, Madame de
Longueville contended no longer, except
as is the custom with pretty women to
contend, and defended herself only to
surrender at last.

Aramis made a presence of believing in
the reality of her opposition and was
unwilling to deprive himself in his own
view of the credit of her conversion.

"Madame," he said, "you have wished to
conquer the prince your brother -- that
is to say, the greatest captain of the
age; and when women of genius wish
anything they always succeed in
attaining it. You have succeeded; the
prince is beaten, since he can no longer
fight. Now attach him to our party.
Withdraw him gently from the queen, whom
he does not like, from Mazarin, whom he
despises. The Fronde is a comedy, of
which the first act only is played. Let
us wait for a denouement -- for the day
when the prince, thanks to you, shall
have turned against the court."

Madame de Longueville was persuaded.
This Frondist duchess trusted so
confidently to the power of her fine
eyes, that she could not doubt their
influence even over Monsieur de Conde;
and the chronicles of the time aver that
her confidence was justified.

Athos, on quitting Aramis, went to
Madame de Chevreuse. Here was another
frondeuse to persuade, and she was even
less open to conviction than her younger
rival. There had been no stipulation in
her favor. Monsieur de Chevreuse had not
been appointed governor of a province,
and if the queen should consent to be
godmother it could be only of her
grandson or granddaughter. At the first
announcement of peace Madame de
Chevreuse frowned, and in spite of all
the logic of Athos to show her that a
prolonged war would have been
impracticable, contended in favor of
hostilities.

"My fair friend," said Athos, "allow me
to tell you that everybody is tired of
war. You will get yourself exiled, as
you did in the time of Louis XIII.
Believe me, we have passed the time of
success in intrigue, and your fine eyes
are not destined to be eclipsed by
regretting Paris, where there will
always be two queens as long as you are
there."

"Oh," cried the duchess, "I cannot make
war alone, but I can avenge myself on
that ungrateful queen and most ambitious
favorite-on the honor of a duchess, I
will avenge myself."

"Madame," replied Athos, "do not injure
the Vicomte de Bragelonne -- do not ruin
his prospects. Alas! excuse my weakness!
There are moments when a man grows young
again in his children."

The duchess smiled, half tenderly, half
ironically.

"Count," she said, "you are, I fear,
gained over to the court. I suppose you
have a blue ribbon in your pocket?"

"Yes, madame; I have that of the Garter,
which King Charles I. gave me some days
before he died."

"Come, I am growing an old woman!" said
the duchess, pensively.

Athos took her hand and kissed it. She
sighed, as she looked at him.

"Count," she said, "Bragelonne must be a
charming place. You are a man of taste.
You have water -- woods -- flowers
there?"

She sighed again and leaned her charming
head, gracefully reclined, on her hand,
still beautiful in form and color.

"Madame!" exclaimed Athos, "what were
you saying just now about growing old?
Never have I seen you look so young, so
beautiful!"

The duchess shook her head.

"Does Monsieur de Bragelonne remain in
Paris?" she inquired.

"What think you of it?" inquired Athos.

"Leave him with me," replied the
duchess.

"No, madame; if you have forgotten the
history of Oedipus, I, at least,
remember it."

"Really, sir, you are delightful, and I
should like to spend a month at
Bragelonne."

"Are you not afraid of making people
envious of me, duchess?" replied Athos.

"No, I shall go incognito, count, under
the name of Marie Michon."

"You are adorable, madame."

"But do not keep Raoul with you."

"Why not?"

"Because he is in love."

"He! he is quite a child!"

"And 'tis a child he loves."

Athos became thoughtful.

"You are right, duchess. This singular
passion for a child of seven may some
day make him very unhappy. There is to
be war in Flanders. He shall go
thither."

"And at his return you will send him to
me. I will arm him against love."

"Alas, madame!" exclaimed Athos, "to-day
love is like war -- the breastplate is
becoming useless."

Raoul entered at this moment; he came to
announce that the solemn entrance of the
king, queen, and her ministers was to
take place on the ensuing day.

The next day, in fact, at daybreak, the
court made preparations to quit Saint
Germain.

Meanwhile, the queen every hour had been
sending for D'Artagnan.

"I hear," she said, "that Paris is not
quiet. I am afraid for the king's
safety; place yourself close to the
coach door on the right."

"Reassure yourself, madame, I will
answer for the king's safety."

As he left the queen's presence Bernouin
summoned him to the cardinal.

"Sir," said Mazarin to him "an emeute is
spoken of in Paris. I shall be on the
king's left and as I am the chief person
threatened, remain at the coach door to
the left."

"Your eminence may be perfectly easy,"
replied D'Artagnan; "they will not touch
a hair of your head."

"Deuce take it!" he thought to himself,
"how can I take care of both? Ah! plague
on't, I will guard the king and Porthos
shall guard the cardinal."

This arrangement pleased every one. The
queen had confidence in the courage of
D'Artagnan, which she knew, and the
cardinal in the strength of Porthos,
which he had experienced.

The royal procession set out for Paris.
Guitant and Comminges, at the head of
the guards, marched first; then came the
royal carriage, with D'Artagnan on one
side, Porthos on the other; then the
musketeers, for two and twenty years
staunch friends of D'Artagnan. During
twenty he had been lieutenant, their
captain since the night before.

The cortege proceeded to Notre Dame,
where a Te Deum was chanted. All Paris
were in the streets. The Swiss were
drawn up along the road, but as the road
was long, they were placed at six or
eight feet distant from each other and
one deep only. This force was therefore
wholly insufficient, and from time to
time the line was broken through by the
people and was formed again with
difficulty. Whenever this occurred,
although it proceeded only from goodwill
and a desire to see the king and queen,
Anne looked at D'Artagnan anxiously.

Mazarin, who had dispensed a thousand
louis to make the people cry "Long live
Mazarin," and who had accordingly no
confidence in acclamations bought at
twenty pistoles each, kept one eye on
Porthos; but that gigantic body-guard
replied to the look with his great bass
voice, "Be tranquil, my lord," and
Mazarin became more and more composed.

At the Palais Royal, the crowd, which
had flowed in from the adjacent street
was still greater; like an impetuous
mob, a wave of human beings came to meet
the carriage and rolled tumultuously
into the Rue Saint Honore.

When the procession reached the palace,
loud cries of "Long live their
majesties!" resounded. Mazarin leaned
out of the window. One or two shouts of
"Long live the cardinal" saluted his
shadow; but instantly hisses and yells
stifled them remorselessly. Mazarin
turned pale and shrank back in the
coach.

"Low-born fellows!" ejaculated Porthos.

D'Artagnan said nothing, but twirled his
mustache with a peculiar gesture which
showed that his fine Gascon humor was
awake.

Anne of Austria bent down and whispered
in the young king's ear:

"Say something gracious to Monsieur
d'Artagnan, my son."

The young king leaned toward the door.

"I have not said good-morning to you,
Monsieur d'Artagnan," he said;
"nevertheless, I have remarked you. It
was you who were behind my bed-curtains
that night the Parisians wished to see
me asleep."

"And if the king permits me," returned
the Gascon, "I shall be near him always
when there is danger to be encountered."

"Sir," said Mazarin to Porthos, "what
would you do if the crowd fell upon us?"

"Kill as many as I could, my lord."

"Hem! brave as you are and strong as you
are, you could not kill them all."

"'Tis true," answered Porthos, rising on
his saddle, in order that he might
appraise the immense crowd, "there are a
lot of them."

"I think I should like the other fellow
better than this one," said Mazarin to
himself, and he threw himself back in
his carriage.

The queen and her minister, more
especially the latter, had reason to
feel anxious. The crowd, whilst
preserving an appearance of respect and
even of affection for the king and queen
regent, began to be tumultuous. Reports
were whispered about, like certain
sounds which announce, as they whistle
from wave to wave, the coming storm --
and when they pass athwart a multitude,
presage an emeute.

D'Artagnan turned toward the musketeers
and made a sign imperceptible to the
crowd, but very easily understood by
that chosen regiment, the flower of the
army.

The ranks closed firmly in and a kind of
majestic tremor ran from man to man.

At the Barriere des Sergents the
procession was obliged to stop.
Comminges left the head of the escort
and went to the queen's carriage. Anne
questioned D'Artagnan by a look. He
answered in the same language.

"Proceed," she said.

Comminges returned to his post. An
effort was made and the living barrier
was violently broken through.

Some complaints arose from the crowd and
were addressed this time to the king as
well as the minister.

"Onward!" cried D'Artagnan, in a loud
voice.

"Onward!" cried Porthos.

But as if the multitude had waited only
for this demonstration to burst out, all
the sentiments of hostility that
possessed it exploded simultaneously.
Cries of "Down with Mazarin!" "Death to
the cardinal!" resounded on all sides.

At the same time through the streets of
Grenelle, Saint Honore, and Du Coq, a
double stream of people broke the feeble
hedge of Swiss guards and came like a
whirlwind even to the very legs of
Porthos's horse and that of D'Artagnan.

This new eruption was more dangerous
than the others, being composed of armed
men. It was plain that it was not the
chance combination of those who had
collected a number of the malcontents at
the same spot, but a concerted organized
attack.

Each of these mobs was led by a chief,
one of whom appeared to belong, not to
the people, but to the honorable
corporation of mendicants, and the
other, notwithstanding his affected
imitation of the people, might easily be
discerned to be a gentleman. Both were
evidently stimulated by the same
impulse.

There was a shock which was perceived
even in the royal carriage. Myriads of
hoarse cries, forming one vast uproar,
were heard, mingled with guns firing.

"Ho! Musketeers!" cried D'Artagnan.

The escort divided into two files. One
of them passed around to the right of
the carriage, the other to the left. One
went to support D'Artagnan, the other
Porthos. Then came a skirmish, the more
terrible because it had no definite
object; the more melancholy, because
those engaged in it knew not for whom
they were fighting. Like all popular
movements, the shock given by the rush
of this mob was formidable. The
musketeers, few in number, not being
able, in the midst of this crowd, to
make their horses wheel around, began to
give way. D'Artagnan offered to lower
the blinds of the royal carriage, but
the young king stretched out his arm,
saying:

"No, sir! I wish to see everything."

"If your majesty wishes to look out --
well, then, look!" replied D'Artagnan.
And turning with that fury which made
him so formidable, he rushed toward the
chief of the insurgents, a man who, with
a huge sword in his hand, was trying to
hew a passage to the coach door through
the musketeers.

"Make room!" cried D'Artagnan. "Zounds!
give way!"

At these words the man with a pistol and
sword raised his head, but it was too
late. The blow was sped by D'Artagnan;
the rapier had pierced his bosom.

"Ah! confound it!" cried the Gascon,
trying in vain, too late, to retract the
thrust. "What the devil are you doing
here, count?"

"Accomplishing my destiny," replied
Rochefort, falling on one knee. "I have
already got up again after three stabs
from you, I shall never rise after this
fourth."

"Count!" said D'Artagnan, with some
degree of emotion, "I struck without
knowing that it was you. I am sorry, if
you die, that you should die with
sentiments of hatred toward me."

Rochefort extended his hand to
D'Artagnan, who took it. The count
wished to speak, but a gush of blood
stifled him. He stiffened in the last
convulsions of death and expired.

"Back, people!" cried D'Artagnan, "your
leader is dead; you have no longer any
business here."

Indeed, as if De Rochefort had been the
very soul of the attack, the crowd who
had followed and obeyed him took to
flight on seeing him fall. D'Artagnan
charged, with a party of musketeers, up
the Rue du Coq, and the portion of the
mob he assailed disappeared like smoke,
dispersing near the Place Saint
Germain-l'Auxerrois and taking the
direction of the quays.

D'Artagnan returned to help Porthos, if
Porthos needed help; but Porthos, for
his part, had done his work as
conscientiously as D'Artagnan. The left
of the carriage was as well cleared as
the right, and they drew up the blind of
the window which Mazarin, less heroic
than the king, had taken the precaution
to lower.

Porthos looked very melancholy.

"What a devil of a face you have,
Porthos! and what a strange air for a
victor!"

"But you," answered Porthos, "seem to me
agitated."

"There's a reason! Zounds! I have just
killed an old friend."

"Indeed!" replied Porthos, "who?"

"That poor Count de Rochefort."

"Well! exactly like me! I have just
killed a man whose face is not unknown
to me. Unluckily, I hit him on the head
and immediately his face was covered
with blood."

"And he said nothing as he died?"

"Yes; he exclaimed, `Oh!'"

"I suppose," answered D'Artagnan,
laughing, "if he only said that, it did
not enlighten you much."

"Well, sir!" cried the queen.

"Madame, the passage is quite clear and
your majesty can continue your road."

In fact, the procession arrived, in
safety at Notre Dame, at the front gate
of which all the clergy, with the
coadjutor at their head, awaited the
king, the queen and the minister, for
whose happy return they chanted a Te
Deum.

As the service was drawing to a close a
boy entered the church in great
excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed
himself quickly in the choir robes, and
cleaving, thanks to that uniform, the
crowd that filled the temple, approached
Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was
standing gravely in his place at the
entrance to the choir.

Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve.
He lowered to earth his eyes,
beatifically raised to Heaven, and
recognized Friquet.

"Well, you rascal, what is it? How do
you dare to disturb me in the exercise
of my functions?" asked the beadle.

"Monsieur Bazin," said Friquet,
"Monsieur Maillard -- you know who he
is, he gives holy water at Saint
Eustache ---- "

"Well, go on."

"Well, he received in the scrimmage a
sword stroke on the head. That great
giant who was there gave it to him."

"In that case," said Bazin, "he must be
pretty sick."

"So sick that he is dying, and he wants
to confess to the coadjutor, who, they
say, has power to remit great sins."

"And does he imagine that the coadjutor
will put himself out for him?"

"To be sure; the coadjutor has
promised."

"Who told you that?"

"Monsieur Maillard himself."

"You have seen him, then?"

"Certainly; I was there when he fell."

"What were you doing there?"

"I was shouting, `Down with Mazarin!'
`Death to the cardinal!' `The Italian to
the gallows!' Isn't that what you would
have me shout?"

"Be quiet, you rascal!" said Bazin,
looking uneasily around.

"So that he told me, that poor Monsieur
Maillard, `Go find the coadjutor,
Friquet, and if you bring him to me you
shall be my heir.' Say, then, Father
Bazin -- the heir of Monsieur Maillard,
the giver of holy water at Saint
Eustache! Hey! I shall have nothing to
do but to fold my arms! All the same, I
should like to do him that service --
what do you say to it?"

"I will tell the coadjutor," said Bazin.

In fact, he slowly and respectfully
approached the prelate and spoke to him
privately a few words, to which the
latter responded by an affirmative sign.
He then returned with the same slow step
and said:

"Go and tell the dying man that he must
be patient. Monseigneur will be with him
in an hour."

"Good!" said Friquet, "my fortune is
made."

"By the way," said Bazin, "where was he
carried?"

"To the tower Saint Jacques la
Boucherie;" and delighted with the
success of his embassy, Friquet started
off at the top of his speed.

When the Te Deum was over, the
coadjutor, without stopping to change
his priestly dress, took his way toward
that old tower which he knew so well. He
arrived in time. Though sinking from
moment to moment, the wounded man was
not yet dead. The door was opened to the
coadjutor of the room in which the
mendicant was suffering.

A moment later Friquet went out,
carrying in his hand a large leather
bag; he opened it as soon as he was
outside the chamber and to his great
astonishment found it full of gold. The
mendicant had kept his word and made
Friquet his heir.

"Ah! Mother Nanette!" cried Friquet,
suffocating; "ah! Mother Nanette!"

He could say no more; but though he
hadn't strength to speak he had enough
for action. He rushed headlong to the
street, and like the Greek from Marathon
who fell in the square at Athens, with
his laurel in his hand, Friquet reached
Councillor Broussel's threshold, and
then fell exhausted, scattering on the
floor the louis disgorged by his leather
bag.

Mother Nanette began by picking up the
louis; then she picked up Friquet.

In the meantime the cortege returned to
the Palais Royal.

"That Monsieur d'Artagnan is a very
brave man, mother," said the young king.

"Yes, my son; and he rendered very
important services to your father. Treat
him kindly, therefore, in the future."

"Captain," said the young king to
D'Artagnan, on descending from the
carriage, "the queen has charged me to
invite you to dinner to-day -- you and
your friend the Baron du Vallon."

That was a great honor for D'Artagnan
and for Porthos. Porthos was delighted;
and yet during the entire repast he
seemed to be preoccupied.

"What was the matter with you, baron?"
D'Artagnan said to him as they descended
the staircase of the Palais Royal. "You
seemed at dinner to be anxious about
something."

"I was trying," said Porthos, "to recall
where I had seen that mendicant whom I
must have killed."

"And you couldn't remember?"

"No."

"Well, search, my friend, search; and
when you have found, you will tell me,
will you not?"

"Pardieu!" said Porthos.



90

Conclusion.



On going home, the two friends found a
letter from Athos, who desired them to
meet him at the Grand Charlemagne on the
following day.

The friends went to bed early, but
neither of them slept. When we arrive at
the summit of our wishes, success has
usually the power to drive away sleep on
the first night after the fulfilment of
long cherished hopes.

The next day at the appointed hour they
went to see Athos and found him and
Aramis in traveling costume.

"What!" cried Porthos, "are we all going
away, then? I, so, have made my
preparations this morning."

"Oh, heavens! yes," said Aramis.
"There's nothing to do in Paris now
there's no Fronde. The Duchess de
Longueville has invited me to pass a few
days in Normandy, and has deputed me,
while her son is being baptized, to go
and prepare her residence at Rouen;
after which, if nothing new occurs, I
shall go and bury myself in my convent
at Noisy-le-Sec."

"And I," said Athos, "am returning to
Bragelonne. You know, dear D'Artagnan, I
am nothing more than a good honest
country gentleman. Raoul has no fortune
other than I possess, poor child! and I
must take care of it for him, since I
only lend him my name."

"And Raoul -- what shall you do with
him?"

"I leave him with you, my friend. War
has broken out in Flanders. You shall
take him with you there. I am afraid
that remaining at Blois would be
dangerous to his youthful mind. Take him
and teach him to be as brave and loyal
as you are yourself."

"Then," replied D'Artagnan, "though I
shall not have you, Athos, at all events
I shall have that dear fair-haired head
by me; and though he's but a boy, yet,
since your soul lives again in him, dear
Athos, I shall always fancy that you are
near me, sustaining and encouraging me."

The four friends embraced with tears in
their eyes.

Then they departed, without knowing
whether they would ever see each other
again.

D'Artagnan returned to the Rue
Tiquetonne with Porthos, still possessed
by the wish to find out who the man was
that he had killed. On arriving at the
Hotel de la Chevrette they found the
baron's equipage all really and
Mousqueton on his saddle.

"Come, D'Artagnan," said Porthos, "bid
adieu to your sword and go with me to
Pierrefonds, to Bracieux, or to Du
Vallon. We will grow old together and
talk of our companions."

"No!" replied D'Artagnan, "deuce take
it, the campaign is going to begin; I
wish to be there, I expect to get
something by it."

"What do you expect to get?"

"Why, I expect to be made Marechal of
France!"

"Ha! ha!" cried Porthos, who was not
completely taken in by D'Artagnan's
Gasconades.

"Come my brother, go with me," added
D'Artagnan, "and I will see that you are
made a duke!"

"No," answered Porthos, "Mouston has no
desire to fight; besides, they have
erected a triumphal arch for me to enter
my barony, which will kill my neighbors
with envy."

"To that I can say nothing," returned
D'Artagnan, who knew the vanity of the
new baron. "Then, here's to our next
merry meeting!"

"Adieu, dear captain," said Porthos, "I
shall always be happy to welcome you to
my barony."

"Yes, yes, when the campaign is over,"
replied the Gascon.

"His honor's equipage is waiting," said
Mousqueton.

The two friends, after a cordial
pressure of the hands, separated.
D'Artagnan was standing at the door
looking after Porthos with a mournful
gaze, when the baron, after walking
scarcely more than twenty paces,
returned -- stood still -- struck his
forehead with his finger and exclaimed:

"I recollect!"

"What?" inquired D'Artagnan.

"Who the beggar was that I killed."

"Ah! indeed! and who was he?"

"'Twas that low fellow, Bonacieux."

And Porthos, enchanted at having
relieved his mind, rejoined Mousqueton
and they disappeared around an angle of
the street. D'Artagnan stood for an
instant, mute, pensive and motionless;
then, as he went in, he saw the fair
Madeleine, his hostess, standing on the
threshold.

"Madeleine," said the Gascon, "give me
your apartment on the first floor; now
that I am a captain in the royal
musketeers I must make an appearance;
nevertheless, reserve my old room on the
fifth story for me; one never knows what
may happen."




