
Ten Years Later by Alexandre Dumas




The Vicomte de Bragelonne.

Volume I.




CHAPTER 1

The Letter.



Towards the middle of the month of May,
in the year 1660, at nine o'clock in the
morning, when the sun, already high in
the heavens, was fast absorbing the dew
from the ramparts of the castle of Blois
a little cavalcade, composed of three
men and two pages, re-entered the city
by the bridge, without producing any
other effect upon the passengers of the
quay beyond a first movement of the hand
to the head, as a salute, and a second
movement of the tongue to express, in
the purest French then spoken in France:
"There is Monsieur returning from
hunting." And that was all.

Whilst, however, the horses were
climbing the steep acclivity which leads
from the river to the castle, several
shop-boys approached the last horse,
from whose saddle-bow a number of birds
were suspended by the beak.

On seeing this, the inquisitive youths
manifested with rustic freedom their
contempt for such paltry sport, and,
after a dissertation among themselves
upon the disadvantages of hawking, they
returned to their occupations; one only
of the curious party, a stout, stubby,
cheerful lad, having demanded how it was
that Monsieur, who, from his great
revenues, had it in his power to amuse
himself so much better, could be
satisfied with such mean diversions.

"Do you not know," one of the
standers-by replied, "that Monsieur's
principal amusement is to weary
himself?"

The light-hearted boy shrugged his
shoulders with a gesture which said as
clear as day: "In that case I would
rather be plain Jack than a prince." And
all resumed their labors.

In the meanwhile, Monsieur continued his
route with an air at once so melancholy
and so majestic, that he certainly would
have attracted the attention of
spectators, if spectators there had
been; but the good citizens of Blois
could not pardon Monsieur for having
chosen their gay city for an abode in
which to indulge melancholy at his ease,
and as often as they caught a glimpse of
the illustrious ennuye, they stole away
gaping, or drew back their heads into
the interior of their dwellings, to
escape the soporific influence of that
long pale face, of those watery eyes,
and that languid address; so that the
worthy prince was almost certain to find
the streets deserted whenever he chanced
to pass through them.

Now, on the part of the citizens of
Blois this was a culpable piece of
disrespect, for Monsieur was, after the
king -- nay, even, perhaps before the
king -- the greatest noble of the
kingdom. In fact, God, who had granted
to Louis XIV., then reigning, the honor
of being son of Louis XIII., had granted
to Monsieur the honor of being son of
Henry IV. It was not then, or, at least
it ought not to have been, a trifling
source of pride for the city of Blois,
that Gaston of Orleans had chosen it as
his residence, and he his court in the
ancient castle of its states.

But it was the destiny of this great
prince to excite the attention and
admiration of the public in a very
modified degree wherever he might be.
Monsieur had fallen into this situation
by habit.

It was not, perhaps, this which gave him
that air of listlessness. Monsieur had
been tolerably busy in the course of his
life. A man cannot allow the heads of a
dozen of his best friends to be cut off
without feeling a little excitement, and
as, since the accession of Mazarin to
power, no heads had been cut off,
Monsieur's occupation was gone, and his
morale suffered from it.

The life of the poor prince was, then,
very dull. After his little morning
hawking-party on the banks of the
Beuvion, or in the woods of Chiverny,
Monsieur crossed the Loire, went to
breakfast at Chambord, with or without
an appetite and the city of Blois heard
no more of its sovereign lord and master
till the next hawking-day.

So much for the ennui extra muros; of
the ennui of the interior we will give
the reader an idea if he will with us
follow the cavalcade to the majestic
porch of the castle of the states.

Monsieur rode a little steady-paced
horse, equipped with a large saddle of
red Flemish velvet, with stirrups in the
shape of buskins; the horse was of a bay
color; Monsieur's pourpoint of crimson
velvet corresponded with the cloak of
the same shade and the horse's
equipment, and it was only by this red
appearance of the whole that the prince
could be known from his two companions,
the one dressed in violet, the other in
green. He on the left, in violet, was
his equerry; he on the right, in green,
was the grand veneur.

One of the pages carried two gerfalcons
upon a perch, the other a hunting-horn,
which he blew with a careless note at
twenty paces from the castle. Every one
about this listless prince did what he
had to do listlessly.

At this signal, eight guards, who were
lounging in the sun in the square court,
ran to their halberts, and Monsieur made
his solemn entry into the castle.

When he had disappeared under the shades
of the porch, three or four idlers, who
had followed the cavalcade to the
castle, after pointing out the suspended
birds to each other, dispersed with
comments upon what they saw: and, when
they were gone, the street, the place,
and the court all remained deserted
alike.

Monsieur dismounted without speaking a
word, went straight to his apartments,
where his valet changed his dress, and
as Madame had not yet sent orders
respecting breakfast, Monsieur stretched
himself upon a chaise longue, and was
soon as fast asleep as if it had been
eleven o'clock at night.

The eight guards, who concluded their
service for the day was over, laid
themselves down very comfortably in the
sun upon some stone benches; the grooms
disappeared with their horses into the
stables, and, with the exception of a
few joyous birds, startling each other
with their sharp chirping in the tufted
shrubberies, it might have been thought
that the whole castle was as soundly
asleep as Monsieur was.

All at once, in the midst of this
delicious silence, there resounded a
clear ringing laugh, which caused
several of the halberdiers in the
enjoyment of their siesta to open at
least one eye.

This burst of laughter proceeded from a
window of the castle, visited at this
moment by the sun, that embraced it in
one of those large angles which the
profiles of the chimneys mark out upon
the walls before mid-day.

The little balcony of wrought iron which
advanced in front of this window was
furnished with a pot of red
gilliflowers, another pot of primroses,
and an early rose-tree, the foliage of
which, beautifully green, was variegated
with numerous red specks announcing
future roses.

In the chamber lighted by this window
was a square table, covered with an old
large-flowered Haarlem tapestry; in the
center of this table was a long-necked
stone bottle, in which were irises and
lilies of the valley; at each end of
this table was a young girl.

The position of these two young people
was singular; they might have been taken
for two boarders escaped from a convent.
One of them, with both elbows on the
table, and a pen in her hand, was
tracing characters upon a sheet of fine
Dutch paper; the other, kneeling upon a
chair, which allowed her to advance her
head and bust over the back of it to the
middle of the table, was watching her
companion as she wrote, or rather
hesitated to write.

Thence the thousand cries, the thousand
railleries, the thousand laughs, one of
which, more brilliant than the rest, had
startled the birds in the gardens, and
disturbed the slumbers of Monsieur's
guards.

We are taking portraits now; we shall be
allowed, therefore, we hope, to sketch
the two last of this chapter.

The one who was leaning in the chair --
that is to say, the joyous, the laughing
one -- was a beautiful girl of from
eighteen to twenty, with brown
complexion and brown hair, splendid,
from eyes which sparkled beneath
strongly-marked brows, and particularly
from her teeth, which seemed to shine
like pearls between her red coral lips.
Her every movement seemed the accent of
a sunny nature, she did not walk -- she
bounded.

The other, she who was writing, looked
at her turbulent companion with an eye
as limpid, as pure, and as blue as the
azure of the day. Her hair, of a shaded
fairness, arranged with exquisite taste,
fell in silky curls over her lovely
mantling cheeks; she passed across the
paper a delicate hand, whose thinness
announced her extreme youth. At each
burst of laughter that proceeded from
her friend, she raised, as if annoyed,
her white shoulders in a poetical and
mild manner, but they were wanting in
that richfulness of mold which was
likewise to be wished in her arms and
hands.

"Montalais! Montalais!" said she at
length, in a voice soft and caressing as
a melody, "you laugh too loud -- you
laugh like a man! You will not only draw
the attention of messieurs the guards,
but you will not hear Madame's bell when
Madame rings."

This admonition neither made the young
girl called Montalais cease to laugh and
gesticulate. She only replied: "Louise,
you do not speak as you think, my dear;
you know that messieurs the guards, as
you call them, have only just commenced
their sleep, and that a cannon would not
waken them; you know that Madame's bell
can be heard at the bridge of Blois, and
that consequently I shall hear it when
my services are required by Madame. What
annoys you, my child, is that I laugh
while you are writing; and what you are
afraid of is that Madame de Saint-Remy,
your mother, should come up here, as she
does sometimes when we laugh too loud,
that she should surprise us, and that
she should see that enormous sheet of
paper upon which, in a quarter of an
hour, you have only traced the words
Monsieur Raoul. Now, you are right, my
dear Louise, because after these words,
`Monsieur Raoul,' others may be put so
significant and so incendiary as to
cause Madame de Saint-Remy to burst out
into fire and flames! Hein! is not that
true now? -- say."

And Montalais redoubled her laughter and
noisy provocations.

The fair girl at length became quite
angry; she tore the sheet of paper on
which, in fact, the words "Monsieur
Raoul" were written in good characters,
and crushing the paper in her trembling
hands, she threw it out of the window.

"There! there!" said Mademoiselle de
Montalais; "there is our little lamb,
our gentle dove, angry! Don't be afraid,
Louise -- Madame de Saint-Remy will not
come; and if she should, you know I have
a quick ear. Besides, what can be more
permissible than to write to an old
friend of twelve years' standing,
particularly when the letter begins with
the words `Monsieur Raoul'?"

"It is all very well -- I will not write
to him at all," said the young girl.

"Ah, ah! in good sooth, Montalais is
properly punished," cried the jeering
brunette, still laughing. "Come, come!
let us try another sheet of paper, and
finish our dispatch off-hand. Good!
there is the bell ringing now. By my
faith, so much the worse! Madame must
wait, or else do without her first maid
of honor this morning."

A bell, in fact, did ring; it announced
that Madame had finished her toilette,
and waited for Monsieur to give her his
hand, and conduct her from the salon to
the refectory.

This formality being accomplished with
great ceremony, the husband and wife
breakfasted, and then separated till the
hour of dinner, invariably fixed at two
o'clock.

The sound of this bell caused a door to
be opened in the offices on the left
hand of the court, from which filed two
maitres d'hotel followed by eight
scullions bearing a kind of hand-barrow
loaded with dishes under silver covers.

One of the maitres d'hotel, the first in
rank, touched one of the guards, who was
snoring on his bench, slightly with his
wand; he even carried his kindness so
far as to place the halbert which stood
against the wall in the hands of the man
stupid with sleep, after which the
soldier, without explanation, escorted
the viande of Monsieur to the refectory,
preceded by a page and the two maitres
d'hotel.

Wherever the viande passed, the soldiers
ported arms.

Mademoiselle de Montalais and her
companion had watched from their window
the details of this ceremony, to which,
by the bye, they must have been pretty
well accustomed. But they did not look
so much from curiosity as to be assured
they should not be disturbed. So guards,
scullions, maitres d'hotel, and pages
having passed, they resumed their places
at the table; and the sun, which,
through the window-frame, had for an
instant fallen upon those two charming
countenances, now only shed its light
upon the gilliflowers, primroses, and
rosetree.

"Bah!" said Mademoiselle de Montalais,
taking her place again; "Madame will
breakfast very well without me!"

"Oh! Montalais, you will be punished!"
replied the other girl, sitting down
quietly in hers.

"Punished, indeed! -- that is to say,
deprived of a ride! That is just the way
in which I wish to be punished. To go
out in the grand coach, perched upon a
doorstep; to turn to the left, twist
round to the right, over roads full of
ruts, where we cannot exceed a league in
two hours; and then to come back
straight towards the wing of the castle
in which is the window of Mary de
Medici, so that Madame never fails to
say: `Could one believe it possible that
Mary de Medici should have escaped from
that window -- forty-seven feet high?
The mother of two princes and three
princesses!' If you call that
relaxation, Louise, all I ask is to be
punished every day; particularly when my
punishment is to remain with you and
write such interesting letters as we
write!"

"Montalais! Montalais! there are duties
to be performed."

"You talk of them very much at your
ease, dear child! -- you, who are left
quite free amidst this tedious court.
You are the only person that reaps the
advantages of them without incurring the
trouble, -- you, who are really more one
of Madame's maids of honor than I am,
because Madame makes her affection for
your father-in-law glance off upon you;
so that you enter this dull house as the
birds fly into yonder court, inhaling
the air, pecking the flowers, picking up
the grain, without having the least
service to perform, or the least
annoyance to undergo. And you talk to me
of duties to be performed! In sooth, my
pretty idler, what are your own proper
duties, unless to write to the handsome
Raoul? And even that you don't do; so
that it looks to me as if you likewise
were rather negligent of your duties!"

Louise assumed a serious air, leant her
chin upon her hand, and, in a tone full
of candid remonstrance, "And do you
reproach me with my good fortune?" said
she. "Can you have the heart to do it?
You have a future; you belong to the
court; the king, if he should marry,
will require Monsieur to be near his
person; you will see splendid fetes; you
will see the king, who they say is so
handsome, so agreeable!"

"Ay, and still more, I shall see Raoul,
who attends upon M. le Prince," added
Montalais, maliciously.

"Poor Raoul!" sighed Louise.

"Now is the time to write to him, my
pretty dear! Come, begin again, with
that famous `Monsieur Raoul' which
figures at the top of the poor torn
sheet."

She then held the pen toward her, and
with a charming smile encouraged her
hand, which quickly traced the words she
named.

"What next?" asked the younger of the
two girls.

"Why, now write what you think, Louise,"
replied Montalais.

"Are you quite sure I think of
anything?"

"You think of somebody, and that amounts
to the same thing, or rather even more."

"Do you think so, Montalais?"

"Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as
deep as the sea I saw at Boulogne last
year! No, no, I mistake -- the sea is
perfidious: your eyes are as deep as the
azure yonder -- look! -- over our
heads!"

"Well, since you can read so well in my
eyes, tell me what I am thinking about,
Montalais."

"In the first place, you don't think
Monsieur Raoul; you think My dear
Raoul."

"Oh! ---- "

"Never blush for such a trifle as that!
`My dear Raoul,' we will say -- `You
implore me to write to you at Paris,
where you are detained by your
attendance on M. le Prince. As you must
be very dull there, to seek for
amusement in the remembrance of a
provinciale ---- '"

Louise rose up suddenly. "No,
Montalais," said she, with a smile; "I
don't think a word of that. Look, this
is what I think;" and she seized the pen
boldly and traced, with a firm hand, the
following words: --

"I should have been very unhappy if your
entreaties to obtain a remembrance of me
had been less warm. Everything here
reminds me of our early days, which so
quickly passed away, which so
delightfully flew by, that no others
will ever replace the charm of them in
my heart."

Montalais, who watched the flying pen,
and read, the wrong way upwards, as fast
as her friend wrote, here interrupted by
clapping her hands. "Capital!" cried
she; "there is frankness -- there is
heart -- there is style! Show these
Parisians, my dear, that Blois is the
city for fine language!"

"He knows very well that Blois was a
Paradise to me," replied the girl.

"That is exactly what you mean to say;
and you speak like an angel."

"I will finish, Montalais," and she
continued as follows: "You often think
of me, you say, Monsieur Raoul: I thank
you; but that does not surprise me, when
I recollect how often our hearts have
beaten close to each other."

"Oh! oh!" said Montalais. "Beware; my
lamb! You are scattering your wool, and
there are wolves about."

Louise was about to reply, when the
gallop of a horse resounded under the
porch of the castle.

"What is that?" said Montalais,
approaching the window. "A handsome
cavalier, by my faith!"

"Oh! -- Raoul!" exclaimed Louise, who
had made the same movement as her
friend, and, becoming pale as death,
sunk back beside her unfinished letter.

"Now, he is a clever lover, upon my
word!" cried Montalais; "he arrives just
at the proper moment."

"Come in, come in, I implore you!"
murmured Louise.

"Bah! he does not know me. Let me see
what he has come here for."




CHAPTER 2

The Messenger.



Mademoiselle de Montalais was right; the
young cavalier was goodly to look upon.

He was a young man of from twenty-four
to twenty-five years of age, tall and
slender, wearing gracefully the
picturesque military costume of the
period. His large boots contained a foot
which Mademoiselle de Montalais might
not have disowned if she had been
transformed into a man. With one of his
delicate but nervous hands he checked
his horse in the middle of the court,
and with the other raised his hat, whose
long plumes shaded his at once serious
and ingenuous countenance.

The guards, roused by the steps of the
horse, awoke and were on foot in a
minute. The young man waited till one of
them was close to his saddle-bow: then
stooping towards him, in a clear,
distinct voice, which was perfectly
audible at the window where the two
girls were concealed, "A message for his
royal highness," he said.

"Ah, ah!" cried the soldier. "Officer, a
messenger!"

But this brave guard knew very well that
no officer would appear, seeing that the
only one who could have appeared dwelt
at the other side of the castle, in an
apartment looking into the gardens. So
he hastened to add: "The officer,
monsieur, is on his rounds, but in his
absence, M. de Saint-Remy, the maitre
d'hotel shall be informed."

"M. de Saint-Remy?" repeated the
cavalier, slightly blushing.

"Do you know him?"

"Why, yes; but request him, if you
please, that my visit be announced to
his royal highness as soon as possible."

"It appears to be pressing," said the
guard, as if speaking to himself, but
really in the hope of obtaining an
answer.

The messenger made an affirmative sign
with his head.

"In that case," said the guard, "I will
go and seek the maitre d'hotel myself."

The young man, in the meantime,
dismounted; and whilst the others were
making their remarks upon the fine horse
the cavalier rode, the soldier returned.

"Your pardon, young gentleman; but your
name, if you please?"

"The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the part
of his highness M. le Prince de Conde."

The soldier made a profound bow, and, as
if the name of the conqueror of Rocroy
and Sens had given him wings, he stepped
lightly up the steps leading to the
ante-chamber.

M. de Bragelonne had not had time to
fasten his horse to the iron bars of the
perron, when M. de Saint-Remy came
running, out of breath, supporting his
capacious body with one hand, whilst
with the other he cut the air as a
fisherman cleaves the waves with his
oar.

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte! You at Blois!"
cried he. "Well, that is a wonder.
Good-day to you -- good-day, Monsieur
Raoul."

"I offer you a thousand respects, M. de
Saint-Remy."

"How Madame de la Vall -- I mean, how
delighted Madame de Saint-Remy will be
to see you! But come in. His royal
highness is at breakfast -- must he be
interrupted? Is the matter serious?"

"Yes, and no, Monsieur de Saint-Remy. A
moment's delay, however, would be
disagreeable to his royal highness."

"If that is the case, we will force the
consigne, Monsieur le Vicomte. Come in.
Besides, Monsieur is in an excellent
humor to-day. And then you bring news,
do you not?"

"Great news, Monsieur de Saint-Remy."

"And good, I presume?"

"Excellent."

"Come quickly, come quickly then!" cried
the worthy man, putting his dress to
rights as he went along.

Raoul followed him, hat in hand, and a
little disconcerted at the noise made by
his spurs in these immense salons.

As soon as he had disappeared in the
interior of the palace, the window of
the court was repeopled, and an animated
whispering betrayed the emotion of the
two girls. They soon appeared to have
formed a resolution, for one of the two
faces disappeared from the window. This
was the brunette; the other remained
behind the balcony, concealed by the
flowers, watching attentively through
the branches the perron by which M. de
Bragelonne had entered the castle.

In the meantime the object of so much
laudable curiosity continued his route,
following the steps of the maitre
d'hotel. The noise of quick steps, an
odor of wine and viands, a clinking of
crystal and plates, warned them that
they were coming to the end of their
course.

The pages, valets and officers,
assembled in the office which led up to
the refectory, welcomed the newcomer
with the proverbial politeness of the
country; some of them were acquainted
with Raoul, and all knew that he came
from Paris. It might be said that his
arrival for a moment suspended the
service. In fact, a page, who was
pouring out wine for his royal highness,
on hearing the jingling of spurs in the
next chamber, turned round like a child,
without perceiving that he was
continuing to pour out, not into the
glass, but upon the tablecloth.

Madame, who was not so preoccupied as
her glorious spouse was, remarked this
distraction of the page.

"Well?" exclaimed she.

"Well!" repeated Monsieur; "what is
going on then?"

M. de Saint-Remy, who had just
introduced his head through the doorway,
took advantage of the moment.

"Why am I to be disturbed?" said Gaston,
helping himself to a thick slice of one
of the largest salmon that had ever
ascended the Loire to be captured
between Painboeuf and Saint-Nazaire.

"There is a messenger from Paris. Oh!
but after monseigneur has breakfasted
will do; there is plenty of time."

"From Paris!" cried the prince, letting
his fork fall. "A messenger from Paris,
do you say? And on whose part does this
messenger come?"

"On the part of M. le Prince," said the
maitre d'hotel promptly.

Every one knows that the Prince de Conde
was so called.

"A messenger from M. le Prince!" said
Gaston, with an inquietude that escaped
none of the assistants, and consequently
redoubled the general curiosity.

Monsieur, perhaps, fancied himself
brought back again to the happy times
when the opening of a door gave him an
emotion, in which every letter might
contain a state secret, -- in which
every message was connected with a dark
and complicated intrigue. Perhaps,
likewise, that great name of M. le
Prince expanded itself, beneath the
roofs of Blois, to the proportions of a
phantom.

Monsieur pushed away his plate.

"Shall I tell the envoy to wait?" asked
M. de Saint-Remy.

A glance from Madame emboldened Gaston,
who replied: "No, no! let him come in at
once, on the contrary. A propos, who is
he?"

"A gentleman of this country, M. le
Vicomte de Bragelonne."

"Ah, very well! Introduce him,
Saint-Remy -- introduce him."

And when he had let fall these words,
with his accustomed gravity, Monsieur
turned his eyes, in a certain manner,
upon the people of his suite, so that
all, pages, officers, and equerries,
quitted the service, knives and goblets,
and made towards the second chamber a
retreat as rapid as it was disorderly.

This little army had dispersed in two
files when Raoul de Bragelonne, preceded
by M. de Saint-Remy, entered the
refectory.

The short interval of solitude which
this retreat had left him, permitted
Monsieur the time to assume a diplomatic
countenance. He did not turn round, but
waited till the maitre d'hotel should
bring the messenger face to face with
him.

Raoul stopped even with the lower end of
the table, so as to be exactly between
Monsieur and Madame. From this place he
made a profound bow to Monsieur and a
very humble one to Madame; then, drawing
himself up into military pose, he waited
for Monsieur to address him.

On his part the Prince waited till the
doors were hermetically closed; he would
not turn round to ascertain the fact, as
that would have been derogatory to his
dignity, but he listened with all his
ears for the noise of the lock, which
would promise him at least an appearance
of secrecy.

The doors being closed, Monsieur raised
his eyes towards the vicomte, and said,
"It appears that you come from Paris,
monsieur?"

"This minute, monseigneur."

"How is the king?"

"His majesty is in perfect health,
monseigneur."

"And my sister-in-law?"

"Her majesty the queen-mother still
suffers from the complaint in her chest,
but for the last month she has been
rather better."

"Somebody told me you came on the part
of M. le Prince. They must have been
mistaken, surely?"

"No, monseigneur; M. le Prince has
charged me to convey this letter to your
royal highness, and I am to wait for an
answer to it."

Raoul had been a little annoyed by this
cold and cautious reception, and his
voice insensibly sank to a low key.

The prince forgot that he was the cause
of this apparent mystery, and his fears
returned.

He received the letter from the Prince
de Conde with a haggard look, unsealed
it as he would have unsealed a
suspicious packet, and in order to read
it so that no one should remark the
effects of it upon his countenance, he
turned round.

Madame followed, with an anxiety almost
equal to that of the prince, every
maneuver of her august husband.

Raoul, impassible, and a little
disengaged by the attention of his
hosts, looked from his place through the
open window at the gardens and the
statues which peopled them.

"Well!" cried Monsieur, all at once,
with a cheerful smile; "here is an
agreeable surprise, and a charming
letter from M. le Prince. Look, Madame!"

The table was too large to allow the arm
of the prince to reach the hand of
Madame; Raoul sprang forward to be their
intermediary, and did it with so good a
grace as to procure a flattering
acknowledgment from the princess.

"You know the contents of this letter,
no doubt?" said Gaston to Raoul.

"Yes, monseigneur; M. le Prince at first
gave me the message verbally, but upon
reflection his highness took up his
pen."

"It is beautiful writing," said Madame,
"but I cannot read it."

"Will you read it to Madame, M. de
Bragelonne?" said the duke.

"Yes, read it, if you please, monsieur."

Raoul began to read, Monsieur giving
again all his attention. The letter was
conceived in these terms:



Monseigneur -- The king is about to set
out for the frontiers. You are aware
that the marriage of his majesty is
concluded upon. The king has done me the
honor to appoint me his
marechal-des-logis for this journey, and
as I knew with what joy his majesty
would pass a day at Blois, I venture to
ask your royal highness's permission to
mark the house you inhabit as our
quarters. If, however, the suddenness of
this request should create to your royal
highness any embarrassment, I entreat
you to say so by the messenger I send, a
gentleman of my suite, M. le Vicomte de
Bragelonne. My itinerary will depend
upon your royal highness's
determination, and instead of passing
through Blois, we shall come through
Vendome and Romorantin. I venture to
hope that your royal highness will be
pleased with my arrangement, it being
the expression of my boundless desire to
make myself agreeable to you."



"Nothing can be more gracious toward
us," said Madame, who had more than once
consulted the looks of her husband
during the reading of the letter. "The
king here!" exclaimed she, in a rather
louder tone than would have been
necessary to preserve secrecy.

"Monsieur," said his royal highness in
his turn, "you will offer my thanks to
M. de Conde, and express to him my
gratitude for the honor he has done me."

Raoul bowed.

"On what day will his majesty arrive?"
continued the prince.

"The king, monseigneur, will in all
probability arrive this evening."

"But how, then, could he have known my
reply if it had been in the negative?"

"I was desired, monseigneur, to return
in all haste to Beaugency, to give
counter-orders to the courier, who was
himself to go back immediately with
counter-orders to M. le Prince."

"His majesty is at Orleans, then?"

"Much nearer, monseigneur; his majesty
must by this time have arrived at
Meung."

"Does the court accompany him?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"A propos, I forgot to ask you after M.
le Cardinal."

"His eminence appears to enjoy good
health, monseigneur."

"His nieces accompany him, no doubt?"

"No, monseigneur, his eminence has
ordered the Mesdemoiselles de Mancini to
set out for Brouage. They will follow
the left bank of the Loire, while the
court will come by the right."

"What! Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini quit
the court in that manner?" asked
Monsieur, his reserve beginning to
diminish.

"Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini in
particular," replied Raoul discreetly.

A fugitive smile, an imperceptible
vestige of his ancient spirit of
intrigue, shot across the pale face of
the prince.

"Thanks, M. de Bragelonne," then said
Monsieur. "You would, perhaps, not be
willing to carry M. le Prince the
commission with which I would charge
you, and that is, that his messenger has
been very agreeable to me; but I will
tell him so myself."

Raoul bowed his thanks to Monsieur for
the honor he had done him.

Monsieur made a sign to Madame, who
struck a bell which was placed at her
right hand; M. de Saint-Remy entered,
and the room was soon filled with
people.

"Messieurs," said the prince, "his
majesty is about to pay me the honor of
passing a day at Blois; I depend upon
the king, my nephew, not having to
repent of the favor he does my house."

"Vive le Roi!" cried all the officers of
the household with frantic enthusiasm,
and M. de Saint-Remy louder than the
rest.

Gaston hung down his head with evident
chagrin. He had all his life been
obliged to hear, or rather to undergo
this cry of "Vive le Roi!" which passed
over him. For a long time, being
unaccustomed to hear it, his ear had had
rest, and now a younger, more vivacious,
and more brilliant royalty rose up
before him, like a new and more painful
provocation.

Madame perfectly understood the
sufferings of that timid, gloomy heart;
she rose from the table, Monsieur
imitated her mechanically, and all the
domestics, with a buzzing like that of
several bee-hives, surrounded Raoul for
the purpose of questioning him.

Madame saw this movement, and called M.
de Saint Remy. "This is not the time for
gossiping, but working," said she, with
the tone of an angry housekeeper.

M. de Saint-Remy hastened to break the
circle formed by the officers round
Raoul, so that the latter was able to
gain the ante-chamber.

"Care will be taken of that gentleman, I
hope," added Madame, addressing M. de
Saint-Remy.

The worthy man immediately hastened
after Raoul. "Madame desires
refreshments to be offered to you," said
he; "and there is, besides, a lodging
for you in the castle."

"Thanks, M. de Saint-Remy," replied
Raoul; "but you know how anxious I must
be to pay my duty to M. le Comte, my
father."

"That is true, that is true, Monsieur
Raoul; present him, at the same time, my
humble respects, if you please."

Raoul thus once more got rid of the old
gentleman, and pursued his way. As he
was passing under the porch, leading his
horse by the bridle, a soft voice called
him from the depths of an obscure path.

"Monsieur Raoul!" said the voice.

The young man turned round, surprised,
and saw a dark complexioned girl, who,
with a finger on her lip, held out her
other hand to him. This young lady was
an utter stranger.




CHAPTER 3

The Interview.



Raoul made one step towards the girl who
thus called him.

"But my horse, madame?" said he.

"Oh! you are terribly embarrassed! Go
yonder way -- there is a shed in the
outer court: fasten your horse, and
return quickly!"

"I obey, madame."

Raoul was not four minutes in performing
what he had been directed to do; he
returned to the little door, where, in
the gloom, he found his mysterious
conductress waiting for him, on the
first steps of a winding staircase.

"Are you brave enough to follow me,
monsieur knight errant?" asked the girl,
laughing at the momentary hesitation
Raoul had manifested.

The latter replied by springing up the
dark staircase after her. They thus
climbed up three stories, he behind her,
touching with his hands, when he felt
for the banister, a silk dress which
rubbed against each side of the
staircase. At every false step made by
Raoul, his conductress cried, "Hush!"
and held out to him a soft and perfumed
hand.

"One would mount thus to the belfry of
the castle without being conscious of
fatigue," said Raoul.

"All of which means, monsieur, that you
are very much perplexed, very tired, and
very uneasy. But be of good cheer,
monsieur; here we are, at our
destination."

The girl threw open a door, which
immediately, without any transition,
filled with a flood of light the landing
of the staircase, at the top of which
Raoul appeared, holding fast by the
balustrade.

The girl continued to walk on -- he
followed her; she entered a chamber --
he did the same.

As soon as he was fairly in the net he
heard a loud cry, and, turning round,
saw at two paces from him, with her
hands clasped and her eyes closed, that
beautiful fair girl with blue eyes and
white shoulders, who, recognizing him,
called him Raoul.

He saw her, and divined at once so much
love and so much joy in the expression
of her countenance, that he sank on his
knees in the middle of the chamber,
murmuring, on his part, the name of
Louise.

"Ah! Montalais -- Montalais!" she
sighed, "it is very wicked to deceive me
so."

"Who, I? I have deceived you?"

"Yes; you told me you would go down to
inquire the news, and you have brought
up monsieur!"

"Well, I was obliged to do so -- how
else could he have received the letter
you wrote him?" And she pointed with her
finger to the letter which was still
upon the table.

Raoul made a step to take it; Louise,
more rapid, although she had sprung
forward with a sufficiently remarkable
physical hesitation, reached out her
hand to stop him. Raoul came in contact
with that trembling hand, took it within
his own, and carried it so respectfully
to his lips, that he might be said to
have deposited a sigh upon it rather
than a kiss.

In the meantime Mademoiselle de
Montalais had taken the letter, folded
it carefully, as women do, in three
folds, and slipped it into her bosom.

"Don't be afraid, Louise," said she;
"monsieur will no more venture to take
it hence than the defunct king Louis
XIII. ventured to take billets from the
corsage of Mademoiselle de Hautefort."

Raoul blushed at seeing the smile of the
two girls; and he did not remark that
the hand of Louise remained in his.

"There " said Montalais, "you have
pardoned me, Louise, for having brought
monsieur to you; and you, monsieur, bear
me no malice for having followed me to
see mademoiselle. Now, then, peace being
made, let us chat like old friends.
Present me, Louise, to M. de
Bragelonne."

"Monsieur le Vicomte," said Louise, with
her quiet grace and ingenuous smile, "I
have the honour to present to you
Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, maid of
honor to her royal highness Madame, and
moreover my friend -- my excellent
friend."

Raoul bowed ceremoniously.

"And me, Louise," said he -- "will you
not present me also to mademoiselle?"

"Oh, she knows you -- she knows all!"

This unguarded expression made Montalais
laugh and Raoul sigh with happiness, for
he interpreted it thus: "She knows all
our love."

"The ceremonies being over, Monsieur le
Vicomte," said Montalais, "take a chair,
and tell us quickly the news you bring
flying thus."

"Mademoiselle, it is no longer a secret;
the king, on his way to Poitiers, will
stop at Blois, to visit his royal
highness."

"The king here!" exclaimed Montalais,
clapping her hands. "What! are we going
to see the court? Only think, Louise --
the real court from Paris! Oh, good
heavens! But when will this happen,
monsieur?"

"Perhaps this evening, mademoiselle; at
latest, tomorrow."

Montalais lifted her shoulders in sign
of vexation.

"No time to get ready! No time to
prepare a single dress! We are as far
behind the fashions as the Poles. We
shall look like portraits of the time of
Henry IV. Ah, monsieur! this is sad news
you bring us!"

"But, mesdemoiselles, you will be still
beautiful!"

"That's no news! Yes, we shall be always
beautiful because nature has made us
passable; but we shall be ridiculous,
because the fashion will have forgotten
us. Alas! ridiculous! I shall be thought
ridiculous -- I!

"And by whom?" said Louise, innocently.

"By whom? You are a strange girl, my
dear. Is that a question to put to me? I
mean everybody; I mean the courtiers,
the nobles; I mean the king."

"Pardon me, my good friend, but as here
every one is accustomed to see us as we
are ---- "

"Granted; but that is about to change,
and we shall be ridiculous, even for
Blois; for close to us will be seen the
fashions from Paris, and they will
perceive that we are in the fashion of
Blois! It is enough to make one
despair!"

"Console yourself, mademoiselle."

"Well, so let it be! After all, so much
the worse for those who do not find me
to their taste!" said Montalais
philosophically.

"They would be very difficult to
please," replied Raoul, faithful to his
regular system of gallantry.

"Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte. We were
saying, then, that the king is coming to
Blois?"

"With all the court."

"Mesdemoiselles de Mancini, will they be
with them?"

"No, certainly not."

"But as the king, it is said, cannot do
without Mademoiselle Mary?"

"Mademoiselle, the king must do without
her. M. le Cardinal will have it so. He
has exiled his nieces to Brouage."

"He! -- the hypocrite!"

"Hush!" said Louise, pressing a finger
on her friend's rosy lips.

"Bah! nobody can hear me. I say that old
Mazarino Mazarini is a hypocrite, who
burns impatiently to make his niece
Queen of France."

"That cannot be, mademoiselle, since M.
le Cardinal, on the contrary, has
brought about the marriage of his
majesty with the Infanta Maria Theresa."

Montalais looked Raoul full in the face,
and said, "And do you Parisians believe
in these tales? Well! we are a little
more knowing than you, at Blois."

"Mademoiselle, if the king goes beyond
Poitiers and sets out for Spain, if the
articles of the marriage contract are
agreed upon by Don Luis de Haro and his
eminence, you must plainly perceive that
it is not child's play."

"All very fine! but the king is king, I
suppose?"

"No doubt, mademoiselle; but the
cardinal is the cardinal."

"The king is not a man, then! And he
does not love Mary Mancini?"

"He adores her."

"Well, he will marry her then. We shall
have war with Spain. M. Mazarin will
spend a few of the millions he has put
away; our gentlemen will perform
prodigies of valor in their encounters
with the proud Castilians, and many of
them will return crowned with laurels,
to be recrowned by us with myrtles. Now,
that is my view of politics."

"Montalais, you are wild!" said Louise,
"and every exaggeration attracts you as
light does a moth."

"Louise, you are so extremely
reasonable, that you will never know how
to love."

"Oh!" said Louise, in a tone of tender
reproach, "don't you see, Montalais? The
queen-mother desires to marry her son to
the Infanta; would you wish him to
disobey his mother? Is it for a royal
heart like his to set such a bad
example? When parents forbid love, love
must be banished."

And Louise sighed: Raoul cast down his
eyes, with an expression of constraint.
Montalais, on her part, laughed aloud.

"Well, I have no parents!" said she.

"You are acquainted, without doubt, with
the state of health of M. le Comte de la
Fere?" said Louise, after breathing that
sigh which had revealed so many griefs
in its eloquent utterance.

"No, mademoiselle," replied Raoul, "I
have not yet paid my respects to my
father; I was going to his house when
Mademoiselle de Montalais so kindly
stopped me. I hope the comte is well.
You have heard nothing to the contrary,
have you?"

"No, M. Raoul -- nothing, thank God!"

Here, for several instants, ensued a
silence, during which two spirits, which
followed the same idea, communicated
perfectly, without even the assistance
of a single glance.

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Montalais in a
fright; "there is somebody coming up."

"Who can it be?" said Louise, rising in
great agitation.

"Mesdemoiselles, I inconvenience you
very much. I have, without doubt, been
very indiscreet," stammered Raoul, very
ill at ease.

"It is a heavy step," said Louise.

"Ah! if it is only M. Malicorne," added
Montalais, "do not disturb yourselves."

Louise and Raoul looked at each other to
inquire who M. Malicorne could be.

"There is no occasion to mind him,"
continued Montalais; "he is not
jealous."

"But, mademoiselle ---" said Raoul.

"Yes, I understand. Well, he is as
discreet as I am."

"Good heavens!" cried Louise, who had
applied her ear to the door, which had
been left ajar, "it is my mother's
step!"

"Madame de Saint-Remy! Where shall I
hide myself?" exclaimed Raoul, catching
at the dress of Montalais, who looked
quite bewildered.

"Yes," said she; "yes, I know the
clicking of those pattens! It is our
excellent mother. M. le Vicomte, what a
pity it is the window looks upon a stone
pavement, and that fifty paces below
it."

Raoul glanced at the balcony in despair.
Louise seized his arm and held it tight.

"Oh, how silly I am!" said Montalais,
"have I not the robe-of-ceremony closet?
It looks as if it were made on purpose."

It was quite time to act; Madame de
Saint-Remy was coming up at a quicker
pace than usual. She gained the landing
at the moment when Montalais, as in all
scenes of surprises, shut the closet by
leaning with her back against the door.

"Ah!" cried Madame de Saint-Remy, "you
are here, are you, Louise?"

"Yes, madame," replied she, more pale
than if she had committed a great crime.

"Well, well!"

"Pray be seated, madame," said
Montalais, offering her a chair, which
she placed so that the back was towards
the closet.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Aure -- thank
you. Come my child, be quick."

"Where do you wish me to go, madame?"

"Why, home, to be sure; have you not to
prepare your toilette?"

"What did you say?" cried Montalais,
hastening to affect surprise, so fearful
was she that Louise would in some way
commit herself.

"You don't know the news, then?" said
Madame de Saint-Remy.

"What news, madame, is it possible for
two girls to learn up in this
dove-cote?"

"What! have you seen nobody?"

"Madame, you talk in enigmas, and you
torment us at a slow fire!" cried
Montalais, who, terrified at seeing
Louise become paler and paler, did not
know to what saint to put up her vows.

At length she caught an eloquent look of
her companion's, one of those looks
which would convey intelligence to a
brick wall. Louise directed her
attention to a hat -- Raoul's unlucky
hat, which was set out in all its
feathery splendor upon the table.

Montalais sprang towards it, and,
seizing it with her left hand, passed it
behind her into the right, concealing it
as she was speaking.

"Well," said Madame de Saint-Remy, "a
courier has arrived, announcing the
approach of the king. There,
mesdemoiselles; there is something to
make you put on your best looks."

"Quick, quick!" cried Montalais. "Follow
Madame your mother, Louise; and leave me
to get ready my dress of ceremony."

Louise arose; her mother took her by the
hand, and led her out on to the landing.

"Come along," said she; then adding in a
low voice, "When I forbid you to come to
the apartment of Montalais, why do you
do so?"

"Madame, she is my friend. Besides, I
had but just come."

"Did you see nobody concealed while you
were there?"

"Madame!"

"I saw a man's hat, I tell you -- the
hat of that fellow, that
good-for-nothing!"

"Madame!" repeated Louise.

"Of that do-nothing De Malicorne! A maid
of honor to have such company -- fie!
fie!" and their voices were lost in the
depths of the narrow staircase.

Montalais had not missed a word of this
conversation, which echo conveyed to her
as if through a tunnel. She shrugged her
shoulders on seeing Raoul, who had
listened likewise, issue from the
closet.

"Poor Montalais!" said she, "the victim
of friendship! Poor Malicorne, the
victim of love!"

She stopped on viewing the tragic-comic
face of Raoul, who was vexed at having,
in one day, surprised so many secrets.

"Oh, mademoiselle!" said he; "how can we
repay your kindness?"

"Oh, we will balance accounts some day,"
said she. "For the present, begone, M.
de Bragelonne, for Madame de Saint-Remy
is not over indulgent; and any
indiscretion on her part might bring
hither a domiciliary visit, which would
be disagreeable to all parties."

"But Louise -- how shall I know ---- "

"Begone! begone! King Louis XI. knew
very well what he was about when he
invented the post."

"Alas!" sighed Raoul.

"And am I not here -- I, who am worth
all the posts in the kingdom? Quick, I
say, to horse! so that if Madame de
Saint-Remy should return for the purpose
of preaching me a lesson on morality,
she may not find you here."

"She would tell my father, would she
not?" murmured Raoul.

"And you would be scolded. Ah, vicomte,
it is very plain you come from court;
you are as timid as the king. Peste! at
Blois we contrive better than that to do
without papa's consent. Ask Malicorne
else!"

And at these words the girl pushed Raoul
out of the room by the shoulders. He
glided swiftly down to the porch,
regained his horse, mounted, and set off
as if he had had Monsieur's guards at
his heels.




CHAPTER 4

Father and Son.



Raoul followed the well-known road, so
dear to his memory, which led from Blois
to the residence of the Comte de la
Fere.

The reader will dispense with a second
description of that habitation: he,
perhaps, has been with us there before,
and knows it. Only, since our last
journey thither, the walls had taken a
grayer tint, and the brickwork assumed a
more harmonious copper tone; the trees
had grown, and many that then only
stretched their slender branches along
the tops of the hedges, now bushy,
strong, and luxuriant, cast around,
beneath boughs swollen with sap, great
shadows of blossoms of fruit for the
benefit of the traveler.

Raoul perceived, from a distance, the
two little turrets, the dove-cote in the
elms, and the flights of pigeons, which
wheeled incessantly around that brick
cone, seemingly without power to quit
it, like the sweet memories which hover
round a spirit at peace.

As he approached, he heard the noise of
the pulleys which grated under the
weight of the massy pails; he also
fancied he heard the melancholy moaning
of the water which falls back again into
the wells -- a sad, funereal, solemn
sound, which strikes the ear of the
child and the poet -- both dreamers --
which the English call splash; Arabian
poets, gasgachau; and which we
Frenchmen, who would be poets, can only
translate by a paraphrase -- the noise
of water falling into water.

It was more than a year since Raoul had
been to visit his father. He had passed
the whole time in the household of M. le
Prince. In fact, after all the
commotions of the Fronde, of the early
period of which we formerly attempted to
give a sketch, Louis de Conde had made a
public, solemn, and frank reconciliation
with the court. During all the time that
the rupture between the king and the
prince had lasted, the prince, who had
long entertained a great regard for
Bragelonne, had in vain offered him
advantages of the most dazzling kind for
a young man. The Comte de la Fere, still
faithful to his principles of loyalty
and royalty, one day developed before
his son in the vaults of Saint Denis, --
the Comte de la Fere, in the name of his
son, had always declined them. Moreover,
instead of following M. de Conde in his
rebellion, the vicomte had followed M.
de Turenne, fighting for the king. Then
when M. de Turenne, in his turn, had
appeared to abandon the royal cause, he
had quitted M. de Turenne, as he had
quitted M. de Conde. It resulted from
this invariable line of conduct that, as
Conde and Turenne had never been
conquerors of each other but under the
standard of the king, Raoul, however
young, had ten victories inscribed on
his list of services, and not one defeat
from which his bravery or conscience had
to suffer.

Raoul, therefore, had, in compliance
with the wish of his father, served
obstinately and passively the fortunes
of Louis XIV., in spite of the
tergiversations which were endemic, and,
it might be said, inevitable, at that
period.

M. de Conde, on being restored to favor,
had at once availed himself of all the
privileges of the amnesty to ask for
many things back again which had been
granted him before, and among others,
Raoul. M. de la Fere, with his
invariable good sense, had immediately
sent him again to the prince.

A year, then, had passed away since the
separation of the father and son; a few
letters had softened, but not removed,
the pains of absence. We have seen that
Raoul had left at Blois another love in
addition to filial love. But let us do
him this justice -- if it had not been
for chance and Mademoiselle de
Montalais, two great temptations, Raoul,
after delivering his message, would have
galloped off towards his father's house,
turning his head round, perhaps, but
without stopping for a single instant,
even if Louise had held out her arms to
him.

So the first part of the journey was
given by Raoul to regretting the past
which he had been forced to quit so
quickly, that is to say, his lady-love;
and the other part to the friend he was
about to join, so much too slowly for
his wishes.

Raoul found the garden-gate open, and
rode straight in, without regarding the
long arms, raised in anger, of an old
man dressed in a jacket of
violet-colored wool, and a large cap of
faded velvet.

The old man, who was weeding with his
hands a bed of dwarf roses and
marguerites, was indignant at seeing a
horse thus traversing his sanded and
nicely-raked walks. He even ventured a
vigorous "Humph!" which made the
cavalier turn round. Then there was a
change of scene; for no sooner had he
caught sight of Raoul's face, than the
old man sprang up and set off in the
direction of the house, amidst
interrupted growlings, which appeared to
be paroxysms of wild delight.

When arrived at the stables, Raoul gave
his horse to a little lackey, and sprang
up the perron with an ardor that would
have delighted the heart of his father.

He crossed the ante-chamber, the
dining-room, and the salon, without
meeting with any one; at length, on
reaching the door of M. de la Fere's
apartment, he rapped impatiently, and
entered almost without waiting for the
word "Enter!" which was vouchsafed him
by a voice at once sweet and serious.
The comte was seated at a table covered
with papers and books; he was still the
noble, handsome gentleman of former
days, but time had given to this
nobleness and beauty a more solemn and
distinct character. A brow white and
void of wrinkles, beneath his long hair,
now more white than black; an eye
piercing and mild, under the lids of a
young man; his mustache, fine but
slightly grizzled, waved over lips of a
pure and delicate model, as if they had
never been curled by mortal passions; a
form straight and supple; an
irreproachable but thin hand -- this was
what remained of the illustrious
gentleman whom so many illustrious
mouths had praised under the name of
Athos. He was engaged in correcting the
pages of a manuscript book, entirely
filled by his own hand.

Raoul seized his father by the
shoulders, by the neck, as he could, and
embraced him so tenderly and so rapidly,
that the comte had neither strength nor
time to disengage himself, or to
overcome his paternal emotions.

"What! you here, Raoul, -- you! Is it
possible?" said he.

"Oh, monsieur, monsieur, what joy to see
you once again!"

"But you don't answer me, vicomte. Have
you leave of absence, or has some
misfortune happened at Paris?"

"Thank God, monsieur," replied Raoul,
calming himself by degrees, "nothing has
happened but what is fortunate. The king
is going to be married, as I had the
honor of informing you in my last
letter, and, on his way to Spain, he
will pass through Blois."

"To pay a visit to Monsieur?"

"Yes, monsieur le comte. So, fearing to
find him unprepared, or wishing to be
particularly polite to him, monsieur le
prince sent me forward to have the
lodgings ready."

"You have seen Monsieur?" asked the
vicomte, eagerly.

"I have had that honor."

"At the castle?"

"Yes, monsieur," replied Raoul, casting
down his eyes, because, no doubt, he had
felt there was something more than
curiosity in the comte's inquiries.

"Ah, indeed, vicomte? Accept my
compliments thereupon."

Raoul bowed.

"But you have seen some one else at
Blois?"

"Monsieur, I saw her royal highness,
Madame."

"That's very well: but it is not Madame
that I mean.'

Raoul colored deeply, but made no reply.

"You do not appear to understand me,
monsieur le vicomte," persisted M. de la
Fere, without accenting his words more
strongly, but with a rather severer
look.

"I understand you quite plainly,
monsieur," replied Raoul, "and if I
hesitate a little in my reply, you are
well assured I am not seeking for a
falsehood."

"No, you cannot tell a lie, and that
makes me so astonished you should be so
long in saying yes or no."

"I cannot answer you without
understanding you very well, and if I
have understood you, you will take my
first words in ill part. You will be
displeased, no doubt, monsieur le comte,
because I have seen ---- "

"Mademoiselle de la Valliere -- have you
not?"

"It was of her you meant to speak, I
know very well, monsieur," said Raoul,
with inexpressible sweetness.

"And I asked you if you have seen her."

"Monsieur, I was ignorant, when I
entered the castle, that Mademoiselle de
la Valliere was there; it was only on my
return, after I had performed my
mission, that chance brought us
together. I have had the honor of paying
my respects to her."

"But what do you call the chance that
led you into the presence of
Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"

"Mademoiselle de Montalais, monsieur."

"And who is Mademoiselle de Montalais?"

"A young lady I did not know before,
whom I had never seen. She is maid of
honor to Madame."

"Monsieur le vicomte, I will push my
interrogatory no further, and reproach
myself with having carried it so far. I
had desired you to avoid Mademoiselle de
la Valliere, and not to see her without
my permission. Oh, I am quite sure you
have told me the truth, and that you
took no measures to approach her. Chance
has done me this injury; I do not accuse
you of it. I will be content then, with
what I formerly said to you concerning
this young lady. I do not reproach her
with anything -- God is my witness! only
it is not my intention or wish that you
should frequent her place of residence.
I beg you once more, my dear Raoul, to
understand that."

It was plain the limpid eyes of Raoul
were troubled at this speech.

"Now, my friend," said the comte, with
his soft smile, and in his customary
tone, "let us talk of other matters. You
are returning, perhaps, to your duty?"

"No, monsieur, I have no duty for
to-day, except the pleasure of remaining
with you. The prince kindly appointed me
no other: which was so much in accord
with my wish."

"Is the king well?"

"Perfectly."

"And monsieur le prince also?"

"As usual, monsieur."

The comte forgot to inquire after
Mazarin; that was an old habit.

"Well, Raoul, since you are entirely
mine, I will give up my whole day to
you. Embrace me -- again, again! You are
at home, vicomte! Ah, there is our old
Grimaud! Come in, Grimaud: monsieur le
vicomte is desirous of embracing you
likewise."

The good old man did not require to be
twice told; he rushed in with open arms,
Raoul meeting him halfway.

"Now, if you please, we will go into the
garden, Raoul. I will show you the new
lodging I have had prepared for you
during your leave of absence, and whilst
examining the last winter's plantations
and two saddle-horses I have just
acquired, you will give me all the news
of our friends in Paris."

The comte closed his manuscript, took
the young man's arm, and went out into
the garden with him.

Grimaud looked at Raoul with a
melancholy air as the young man passed
out; observing that his head nearly
touched the traverse of the doorway,
stroking his white royale, he slowly
murmured:

"How he has grown!"




CHAPTER 5

In which Something will be said of
Cropoli --of Cropoli and of a Great
Unknown Painter.



Whilst the Comte de la Fere with Raoul
visits the new buildings he has had
erected, and the new horses he has
bought, with the reader's permission we
will lead him back to the city of Blois,
and make him a witness of the
unaccustomed activity which pervades
that city.

It was in the hotels that the surprise
of the news brought by Raoul was most
sensibly felt.

In fact, the king and the court at
Blois, that is to say, a hundred
horsemen, ten carriages, two hundred
horses, as many lackeys as masters --
where was this crowd to be housed? Where
were to be lodged all the gentry of the
neighborhood, who would gather in two or
three hours after the news had enlarged
the circle of its report, like the
increasing circumference produced by a
stone thrown into a placid lake?

Blois, as peaceful in the morning, as we
have seen, as the calmest lake in the
world, at the announcement of the royal
arrival, was suddenly filled with the
tumult and buzzing of a swarm of bees.

All the servants of the castle, under
the inspection of the officers, were
sent into the city in quest of
provisions, and ten horsemen were
dispatched to the preserves of Chambord
to seek for game, to the fisheries of
Beuvion for fish, and to the gardens of
Chaverny for fruits and flowers.

Precious tapestries, and lusters with
great gilt chains, were drawn from the
cupboards; an army of the poor were
engaged in sweeping the courts and
washing the stone fronts, whilst their
wives went in droves to the meadows
beyond the Loire, to gather green boughs
and field-flowers. The whole city, not
to be behind in this luxury of
cleanliness, assumed its best toilette
with the help of brushes, brooms, and
water.

The kennels of the upper town, swollen
by these continued lotions, became
rivers at the bottom of the city, and
the pavement, generally very muddy, it
must be allowed, took a clean face, and
absolutely shone in the friendly rays of
the sun.

Next the music was to be provided;
drawers were emptied; the shop-keepers
did a glorious trade in wax, ribbons,
and sword-knots; housekeepers laid in
stores of bread, meat, and spices.
Already numbers of the citizens whose
houses were furnished as if for a siege,
having nothing more to do, donned their
festive clothes and directed their
course towards the city gate, in order
to be the first to signal or see the
cortege. They knew very well that the
king would not arrive before night,
perhaps not before the next morning. Yet
what is expectation but a kind of folly,
and what is that folly but an excess of
hope?

In the lower city, at scarcely a hundred
paces from the Castle of the States,
between the mall and the castle, in a
sufficiently handsome street, then
called Rue Vieille, and which must, in
fact, have been very old, stood a
venerable edifice, with pointed gables,
of squat but large dimensions,
ornamented with three windows looking
into the street on the first floor, with
two in the second and with a little oeil
de boeuf in the third.

On the sides of this triangle had
recently been constructed a
parallelogram of considerable size,
which encroached upon the street
remorselessly, according to the familiar
uses of the building of that period. The
street was narrowed by a quarter by it,
but then the house was enlarged by a
half; and was not that a sufficient
compensation?

Tradition said that this house with the
pointed gables was inhabited, in the
time of Henry III., by a councilor of
state whom Queen Catherine came, some
say to visit, and others to strangle.
However that may be, the good lady must
have stepped with a circumspect foot
over the threshold of this building.

After the councilor had died -- whether
by strangulation or naturally is of no
consequence -- the house had been sold,
then abandoned, and lastly isolated from
the other houses of the street. Towards
the middle of the reign of Louis XIII.
only, an Italian, named Cropoli, escaped
from the kitchens of the Marquis
d'Ancre, came and took possession of
this house. There he established a
little hostelry, in which was fabricated
a macaroni so delicious that people came
from miles round to fetch it or eat it.

So famous had the house become for it,
that when Mary de Medici was a prisoner,
as we know, in the castle of Blois, she
once sent for some.

It was precisely on the day she had
escaped by the famous window. The dish
of macaroni was left upon the table,
only just tasted by the royal mouth.

This double favor, of a strangulation
and a macaroni, conferred upon the
triangular house, gave poor Cropoli a
fancy to grace his hostelry with a
pompous title. But his quality of an
Italian was no recommendation in these
times, and his small, well-concealed
fortune forbade attracting too much
attention.

When he found himself about to die,
which happened in 1643, just after the
death of Louis XIII., he called to him
his son, a young cook of great promise,
and with tears in his eyes, he
recommended him to preserve carefully
the secret of the macaroni, to Frenchify
his name, and at length, when the
political horizon should be cleared from
the clouds which obscured it -- this was
practiced then as in our day, to order
of the nearest smith a handsome sign,
upon which a famous painter, whom he
named, should design two queens'
portraits, with these words as a legend:
"To The Medici."

The worthy Cropoli, after these
recommendations, had only sufficient
time to point out to his young successor
a chimney, under the slab of which he
had hidden a thousand ten-franc pieces,
and then expired.

Cropoli the younger, like a man of good
heart, supported the loss with
resignation, and the gain without
insolence. He began by accustoming the
public to sound the final i of his name
so little, that by the aid of general
complaisance, he was soon called nothing
but M. Cropole, which is quite a French
name. He then married, having had in his
eye a little French girl, from whose
parents he extorted a reasonable dowry
by showing them what there was beneath
the slab of the chimney.

These two points accomplished, he went
in search of the painter who was to
paint the sign; and he was soon found.
He was an old Italian, a rival of the
Raphaels and the Caracci, but an
unfortunate rival. He said he was of the
Venetian school, doubtless from his
fondness for color. His works, of which
he had never sold one, attracted the eye
at a distance of a hundred paces; but
they so formidably displeased the
citizens, that he had finished by
painting no more.

He boasted of having painted a bath-room
for Madame la Marechale d'Ancre, and
mourned over this chamber having been
burnt at the time of the marechal's
disaster.

Cropoli, in his character of a
compatriot, was indulgent towards
Pittrino, which was the name of the
artist. Perhaps he had seen the famous
pictures of the bath-room. Be this as it
may, he held in such esteem, we may say
in such friendship, the famous Pittrino,
that he took him in his own house.

Pittrino, grateful, and fed with
macaroni, set about propagating the
reputation of this national dish, and
from the time of its founder, he had
rendered, with his indefatigable tongue,
signal services to the house of Cropoli.

As he grew old he attached himself to
the son as he had done to the father,
and by degrees became a kind of
overlooker of a house in which his
remarkable integrity, his acknowledged
sobriety, and a thousand other virtues
useless to enumerate, gave him an
eternal place by the fireside, with a
right of inspection over the domestics.
Besides this, it was he who tasted the
macaroni, to maintain the pure flavor of
the ancient tradition; and it must be
allowed that he never permitted a grain
of pepper too much, or an atom of
parmesan too little. His joy was at its
height on that day when called upon to
share the secret of Cropoli the younger,
and to paint the famous sign.

He was seen at once rummaging with ardor
in an old box, in which he found some
brushes, a little gnawed by the rats,
but still passable; some colors in
bladders almost dried up; some
linseed-oil in a bottle, and a palette
which had formerly belonged to Bronzino,
that dieu de la pittoure, as the
ultramontane artist, in his ever young
enthusiasm, always called him.

Pittrino was puffed up with all the joy
of a rehabilitation.

He did as Raphael had done -- he changed
his style, and painted, in the fashion
of the Albanian, two goddesses rather
than two queens. These illustrious
ladies appeared so lovely on the
sign, -- they presented to the
astonished eyes such an assemblage of
lilies and roses, the enchanting result
of the change of style in Pittrino --
they assumed the poses of sirens so
Anacreontically -- that the principal
echevin, when admitted to view this
capital piece in the salle of Cropole,
at once declared that these ladies were
too handsome, of too animated a beauty,
to figure as a sign in the eyes of
passers-by.

To Pittrino he added, "His royal
highness, Monsieur, who often comes into
our city, will not be much pleased to
see his illustrious mother so slightly
clothed, and he will send you to the
oubliettes of the state; for, remember,
the heart of that glorious prince is not
always tender. You must efface either
the two sirens or the legend, without
which I forbid the exhibition of the
sign. I say this for your sake, Master
Cropole, as well as for yours, Signor
Pittrino."

What answer could be made to this? It
was necessary to thank the echevin for
his kindness, which Cropole did. But
Pittrino remained downcast and said he
felt assured of what was about to
happen.

The visitor was scarcely gone when
Cropole, crossing his arms, said: "Well,
master, what is to be done?"

"We must efface the legend," said
Pittrino, in a melancholy tone. "I have
some excellent ivory-black; it will be
done in a moment, and we will replace
the Medici by the nymphs or the sirens,
whichever you prefer."

"No," said Cropole, "the will of my
father must be carried out. My father
considered ---- "

"He considered the figures of the most
importance," said Pittrino.

"He thought most of the legend," said
Cropole.

"The proof of the importance in which he
held the figures," said Pittrino, "is
that he desired they should be
likenesses, and they are so."

"Yes; but if they had not been so, who
would have recognized them without the
legend? At the present day even, when
the memory of the Blaisois begins to be
faint with regard to these two
celebrated persons, who would recognize
Catherine and Mary without the words `To
the Medici'?"

"But the figures?" said Pittrino, in
despair; for he felt that young Cropole
was right. "I should not like to lose
the fruit of my labor."

"And I should not wish you to be thrown
into prison and myself into the
oubliettes."

"Let us efface `Medici,' " said
Pittrino, supplicatingly.

"No," replied Cropole, firmly. "I have
got an idea, a sublime idea -- your
picture shall appear, and my legend
likewise. Does not `Medici' mean doctor,
or physician, in Italian?"

"Yes, in the plural."

"Well, then, you shall order another
sign-frame of the smith; you shall paint
six physicians, and write underneath
`Aux Medici' which makes a very pretty
play upon words."

"Six physicians! impossible! And the
composition?" cried Pittrino.

"That is your business -- but so it
shall be -- I insist upon it -- it must
be so -- my macaroni is burning."

This reasoning was peremptory --
Pittrino obeyed. He composed the sign of
six physicians, with the legend; the
echevin applauded and authorized it.

The sign produced an extravagant success
in the city, which proves that poetry
has always been in the wrong, before
citizens, as Pittrino said.

Cropole, to make amends to his
painter-in-ordinary, hung up the nymphs
of the preceding sign in his bedroom,
which made Madame Cropole blush every
time she looked at it, when she was
undressing at night.

This is the way in which the
pointed-gable house got a sign; and this
is how the hostelry of the Medici,
making a fortune, was found to be
enlarged by a quarter, as we have
described. And this is how there was at
Blois a hostelry of that name, and had
for painter-in-ordinary Master Pittrino.




CHAPTER 6

The Unknown.



Thus founded and recommended by its
sign, the hostelry of Master Cropole
held its way steadily on towards a solid
prosperity.

It was not an immense fortune that
Cropole had in perspective; but he might
hope to double the thousand louis d'or
left by his father, to make another
thousand louis by the sale of his house
and stock, and at length to live happily
like a retired citizen.

Cropole was anxious for gain, and was
half-crazy with joy at the news of the
arrival of Louis XIV.

Himself, his wife, Pittrino, and two
cooks, immediately laid hands upon all
the inhabitants of the dove-cote, the
poultry-yard, and the rabbit-hutches; so
that as many lamentations and cries
resounded in the yards of the hostelry
of the Medici as were formerly heard in
Rama.

Cropole had, at the time, but one single
traveler in his house.

This was a man of scarcely thirty years
of age, handsome, tall, austere, or
rather melancholy, in all his gestures
and looks.

He was dressed in black velvet with jet
trimmings; a white collar, as plain as
that of the severest Puritan, set off
the whiteness of his youthful neck; a
small dark-colored mustache scarcely
covered his curled, disdainful lip.

He spoke to people looking them full in
the face without affectation, it is
true, but without scruple; so that the
brilliancy of his black eyes became so
insupportable, that more than one look
had sunk beneath his like the weaker
sword in a single combat.

At this time, in which men, all created
equal by God, were divided, thanks to
prejudices, into two distinct castes,
the gentleman and the commoner, as they
are really divided into two races, the
black and the white, -- at this time, we
say, he whose portrait we have just
sketched could not fail of being taken
for a gentleman, and of the best class.
To ascertain this, there was no
necessity to consult anything but his
hands, long, slender, and white, of
which every muscle, every vein, became
apparent through the skin at the least
movement, and eloquently spoke of good
descent.

This gentleman, then, had arrived alone
at Cropole's house. He had taken,
without hesitation, without reflection
even, the principal apartment which the
hotelier had pointed out to him with a
rapacious aim, very praiseworthy, some
will say, very reprehensible will say
others, if they admit that Cropole was a
physiognomist and judged people at first
sight.

This apartment was that which composed
the whole front of the ancient
triangular house, a large salon, lighted
by two windows on the first stage, a
small chamber by the side of it, and
another above it.

Now, from the time he had arrived, this
gentleman had scarcely touched any
repast that had been served up to him in
his chamber. He had spoken but two words
to the host, to warn him that a traveler
of the name of Parry would arrive, and
to desire that, when he did, he should
be shown up to him immediately.

He afterwards preserved so profound a
silence, that Cropole was almost
offended, so much did he prefer people
who were good company.

This gentleman had risen early the
morning of the day on which this history
begins, and had placed himself at the
window of his salon, seated upon the
ledge, and leaning upon the rail of the
balcony, gazing sadly but persistently
on both sides of the street, watching,
no doubt, for the arrival of the
traveler he had mentioned to the host.

In this way he had seen the little
cortege of Monsieur return from hunting,
then had again partaken of the profound
tranquillity of the street, absorbed in
his own expectations.

All at once the movement of the crowd
going to the meadows, couriers setting
out, washers of pavement, purveyors of
the royal household, gabbling,
scampering shopboys, chariots in motion,
hair-dressers on the run, and pages
toiling along, this tumult and bustle
had surprised him, but without losing
any of that impassible and supreme
majesty which gives to the eagle and the
lion that serene and contemptuous glance
amidst the hurrahs and shouts of hunters
or the curious.

Soon the cries of the victims
slaughtered in the poultry-yard, the
hasty steps of Madame Cropole up that
little wooden staircase, so narrow and
so echoing, the bounding pace of
Pittrino, who only that morning was
smoking at the door with all the phlegm
of a Dutchman; all this communicated
something like surprise and agitation to
the traveler.

As he was rising to make inquiries, the
door of his chamber opened. The unknown
concluded they were about to introduce
the impatiently expected traveler, and
made three precipitate steps to meet
him.

But, instead of the person he expected,
it was Master Cropole who appeared, and
behind him, in the half-dark staircase,
the pleasant face of Madame Cropole,
rendered trivial by curiosity. She only
gave one furtive glance at the handsome
gentleman, and disappeared.

Cropole advanced, cap in hand, rather
bent than bowing,

A gesture of the unknown interrogated
him, without a word being pronounced.

"Monsieur," said Cropole, "I come to ask
how -- what ought I to say: your
lordship, monsieur le comte, or monsieur
le marquis?"

"Say monsieur, and speak quickly,"
replied the unknown, with that haughty
accent which admits of neither
discussion nor reply.

"I came, then, to inquire how monsieur
had passed the night, and if monsieur
intended to keep this apartment?"

"Yes."

"Monsieur, something has happened upon
which we could not reckon."

"What?"

"His majesty Louis XIV. will enter our
city to-day and will remain here one
day, perhaps two."

Great astonishment was painted on the
countenance of the unknown.

"The King of France coming to Blois?"

"He is on the road, monsieur."

"Then there is the stronger reason for
my remaining," said the unknown.

"Very well; but will monsieur keep all
the apartments?"

"I do not understand you. Why should I
require less to-day than yesterday?"

"Because, monsieur, your lordship will
permit me to say, yesterday I did not
think proper, when you chose your
lodging, to fix any price that might
have made your lordship believe that I
prejudged your resources; whilst
to-day ---- "

The unknown colored; the idea at once
struck him that he was supposed to be
poor, and was being insulted.

"Whilst to-day," replied he, coldly,
"you do prejudge."

"Monsieur, I am a well-meaning man,
thank God! and simple hotelier as I am,
there is in me the blood of a gentleman.
My father was a servant and officer of
the late Marechal d'Ancre. God rest his
soul!"

"I do not contest that point with you; I
only wish to know, and that quickly, to
what your questions tend?"

"You are too reasonable, monsieur, not
to comprehend that our city is small,
that the court is about to invade it,
that the houses will be overflowing with
inhabitants, and that lodgings will
consequently obtain considerable
prices."

Again the unknown colored. "Name your
terms," said he.

"I name them with scruple, monsieur,
because I seek an honest gain, and that
I wish to carry on my business without
being uncivil or extravagant in my
demands. Now the room you occupy is
considerable, and you are alone."

"That is my business."

"Oh! certainly. I do not mean to turn
monsieur out."

The blood rushed to the temples of the
unknown; he darted at poor Cropole, the
descendant of one of the officers of the
Marechal d'Ancre, a glance that would
have crushed him down to beneath that
famous chimney-slab, if Cropole had not
been nailed to the spot by the question
of his own proper interests.

"Do you desire me to go?" said he.
"Explain yourself -- but quickly."

"Monsieur, monsieur, you do not
understand me. It is very critical -- I
know -- that which I am doing. I express
myself badly, or perhaps, as monsieur is
a foreigner, which I perceive by his
accent ---- "

In fact, the unknown spoke with that
impetuosity which is the principal
character of English accentuation, even
among men who speak the French language
with the neatest purity.

"As monsieur is a foreigner, I say, it
is perhaps he who does not catch my
exact meaning. I wish for monsieur to
give up one or two of the apartments he
occupies, which would diminish his
expenses and ease my conscience. Indeed,
it is hard to increase unreasonably the
price of the chambers, when one has had
the honor to let them at a reasonable
price."

"How much does the hire amount to since
yesterday?"

"Monsieur, to one louis, with
refreshments and the charge for the
horse."

"Very well, and that of to-day?"

"Ah! there is the difficulty. This is
the day of the king's arrival; if the
court comes to sleep here, the charge of
the day is reckoned. From that it
results that three chambers, at two
louis each, makes six louis. Two louis,
monsieur, are not much; but six louis
make a great deal."

The unknown, from red, as we have seen
him, became very pale.

He drew from his pocket, with heroic
bravery, a purse embroidered with a
coat-of-arms, which he carefully
concealed in the hollow of his hand.
This purse was of a thinness, a
flabbiness, a hollowness, which did not
escape the eye of Cropole.

The unknown emptied the purse into his
hand. It contained three double louis,
which amounted to the six louis demanded
by the host.

But it was seven that Cropole had
required.

He looked, therefore, at the unknown, as
much as to say, "And then?"

"There remains one louis, does there
not, master hotelier?"

"Yes, monsieur, but ---- "

The unknown plunged his hand into the
pocket of his haut-de-chausses, and
emptied it. It contained a small
pocket-book, a gold key, and some
silver. With this change he made up a
louis.

"Thank you, monsieur," said Cropole. "It
now only remains for me to ask whether
monsieur intends to occupy his
apartments to-morrow, in which case I
will reserve them for him; whereas, if
monsieur does not mean to do so, I will
promise them to some of the king's
people who are coming."

"That is but right," said the unknown,
after a long silence, "but as I have no
more money, as you have seen, and as I
yet must retain the apartments, you must
either sell this diamond in the city, or
hold it in pledge."

Cropole looked at the diamond so long,
that the unknown said, hastily:

"I prefer your selling it, monsieur; for
it is worth three hundred pistoles. A
Jew -- are there any Jews in Blois? --
would give you two hundred or a hundred
and fifty for it -- take whatever may be
offered for it, if it be no more than
the price of your lodging. Begone!"

"Oh! monsieur," replied Cropole, ashamed
of the sudden inferiority which the
unknown reflected upon him by this noble
and disinterested confidence, as well as
by the unalterable patience opposed to
so many suspicions and evasions. "Oh,
monsieur, I hope people are not so
dishonest at Blois as you seem to think,
and that the diamond, being worth what
you say ---- "

The unknown here again darted at Cropole
one of his withering glances.

"I really do not understand diamonds,
monsieur, I assure you," cried he.

"But the jewelers do: ask them," said
the unknown. "Now I believe our accounts
are settled, are they not, monsieur
l'hote?"

"Yes, monsieur, and to my profound
regret; for I fear I have offended
monsieur."

"Not at all!" replied the unknown, with
ineffable majesty.

"Or have appeared to be extortionate
with a noble traveler. Consider,
monsieur, the peculiarity of the case."

"Say no more about it, I desire; and
leave me to myself."

Cropole bowed profoundly, and left the
room with a stupefied air, which
announced that he had a good heart, and
felt genuine remorse.

The unknown himself shut the door after
him, and when left alone, looked
mournfully at the bottom of the purse,
from which he had taken a small silken
bag containing the diamond, his last
resource.

He dwelt likewise upon the emptiness of
his pockets, turned over the papers in
his pocket-book, and convinced himself
of the state of absolute destitution in
which he was about to be plunged.

He raised his eyes towards heaven, with
a sublime emotion of despairing
calmness, brushed off with his hand some
drops of sweat which trickled over his
noble brow, and then cast down upon the
earth a look which just before had been
impressed with almost divine majesty.

That the storm had passed far from him,
perhaps he had prayed in the bottom of
his soul.

He drew near to the window, resumed his
place in the balcony, and remained
there, motionless, annihilated, dead,
till the moment when, the heavens
beginning to darken, the first flambeaux
traversed the enlivened street, and gave
the signal for illumination to all the
windows of the city.




CHAPTER 7

Parry.



Whilst the unknown was viewing these
lights with interest, and lending an ear
to the various noises, Master Cropole
entered his apartment, followed by two
attendants, who laid the cloth for his
meal.

The stranger did not pay them the least
attention; but Cropole approaching him
respectfully, whispered " Monsieur, the
diamond has been valued."

"Ah!" said the traveler. "Well?"

"Well, monsieur, the jeweler of S. A. R.
gives two hundred and eighty pistoles
for it."

"Have you them?"

"I thought it best to take them,
monsieur; nevertheless, I made it a
condition of the bargain, that if
monsieur wished to keep his diamond, it
should be held till monsieur was again
in funds."

"Oh, no, not at all; I told you to sell
it."

"Then I have obeyed, or nearly so,
since, without having definitely sold
it, I have touched the money."

"Pay yourself," added the unknown.

"I will do so, monsieur, since you so
positively require it."

A sad smile passed over the lips of the
gentleman.

"Place the money on that trunk," said
he, turning round and pointing to the
piece of furniture.

Cropole deposited a tolerably large bag
as directed, after having taken from it
the amount of his reckoning.

"Now," said he, "I hope monsieur will
not give me the pain of not taking any
supper. Dinner has already been refused;
this is affronting to the house of les
Medici. Look, monsieur, the supper is on
the table, and I venture to say that it
is not a bad one."

The unknown asked for a glass of wine,
broke off a morsel of bread, and did not
stir from the window whilst he ate and
drank.

Shortly after was heard a loud flourish
of trumpets; cries arose in the
distance, a confused buzzing filled the
lower part of the city, and the first
distinct sound that struck the ears of
the stranger was the tramp of advancing
horses.

"The king! the king!" repeated a noisy
and eager crowd.

"The king!" cried Cropole, abandoning
his guest and his ideas of delicacy, to
satisfy his curiosity.

With Cropole were mingled, and jostled,
on the staircase, Madame Cropole,
Pittrino, and the waiters and scullions.

The cortege advanced slowly, lighted by
a thousand flambeaux, in the streets and
from the windows.

After a company of musketeers, a closely
ranked troop of gentlemen, came the
litter of monsieur le cardinal, drawn
like a carriage by four black horses.
The pages and people of the cardinal
marched behind.

Next came the carriage of the
queen-mother, with her maids of honor at
the doors, her gentlemen on horseback at
both sides.

The king then appeared, mounted upon a
splendid horse of Saxon breed, with a
flowing mane. The young prince
exhibited, when bowing to some windows
from which issued the most animated
acclamations, a noble and handsome
countenance, illumined by the flambeaux
of his pages.

By the side of the king, though a little
in the rear, the Prince de Conde, M.
Dangeau, and twenty other courtiers,
followed by their people and their
baggage, closed this veritably
triumphant march. The pomp was of a
military character.

Some of the courtiers -- the elder ones,
for instance -- wore traveling dresses;
but all the rest were clothed in warlike
panoply. Many wore the gorges and buff
coat of the times of Henry IV. and Louis
XIII.

When the king passed before him, the
unknown, who had leant forward over the
balcony to obtain a better view, and who
had concealed his face by leaning on his
arm, felt his heart swell and overflow
with a bitter jealousy.

The noise of the trumpets excited him --
the popular acclamations deafened him:
for a moment he allowed his reason to be
absorbed in this flood of lights, tumult
and brilliant images.

"He is a king!" murmured he, in an
accent of despair.

Then, before he had recovered from his
sombre reverie all the noise, all the
splendor, had passed away. At the angle
of the street there remained nothing
beneath the stranger but a few hoarse,
discordant voices, shouting at
intervals, "Vive le Roi!"

There remained likewise the six candles
held by the inhabitants of the hostelry
des Medici; that is to say, two for
Cropole, two for Pittrino, and one for
each scullion. Cropole never ceased
repeating, "How good-looking the king
is! How strongly he resembles his
illustrious father!"

"A handsome likeness!" said Pittrino.

"And what a lofty carriage he has!"
added Madame Cropole, already in
promiscuous commentary with her
neighbors of both sexes.

Cropole was feeding their gossip with
his own personal remarks, without
observing that an old man on foot, but
leading a small Irish horse by the
bridle, was endeavoring to penetrate the
crowd of men and women which blocked up
the entrance to the Medici. But at that
moment the voice of the stranger was
heard from the window.

"Make way, monsieur l'hotelier, to the
entrance of your house!"

Cropole turned around, and, on seeing
the old man, cleared a passage for him.

The window was instantly closed.

Pittrino pointed out the way to the
newly-arrived guest, who entered without
uttering a word.

The stranger waited for him on the
landing; he opened his arms to the old
man and led him to a seat.

"Oh, no, no, my lord!" said he. "Sit
down in your presence? -- never!"

"Parry," cried the gentleman, "I beg you
will; you come from England -- you come
so far. Ah! it is not for your age to
undergo the fatigues my service
requires. Rest yourself."

"I have my reply to give your lordship,
in the first place."

"Parry, I conjure you to tell me
nothing; for if your news had been good,
you would not have begun in such a
manner; you go about, which proves that
the news is bad."

"My lord," said the old man, "do not
hasten to alarm yourself, all is not
lost, I hope. You must employ energy,
but more particularly resignation."

"Parry," said the young man, "I have
reached this place through a thousand
snares and after a thousand
difficulties; can you doubt my energy? I
have meditated this journey ten years,
in spite of all counsels and all
obstacles -- have you faith in my
perseverance? I have this evening sold
the last of my father's diamonds; for I
had nothing wherewith to pay for my
lodging and my host was about to turn me
out."

Parry made a gesture of indignation, to
which the young man replied by a
pressure of the hand and a smile.

"I have still two hundred and
seventy-four pistoles left, and I feel
myself rich. I do not despair, Parry;
have you faith in my resignation?"

The old man raised his trembling hands
towards heaven.

"Let me know," said the stranger, --
"disguise nothing from me -- what has
happened?"

"My recital will be short, my lord, but
in the name of Heaven do not tremble
so."

"It is impatience, Parry. Come, what did
the general say to you?"

"At first the general would not receive
me."

"He took you for a spy?"

"Yes, my lord, but I wrote him a
letter."

"Well?"

"He read it, and received me, my lord."

"Did that letter thoroughly explain my
position and my views?"

"Oh, yes!" said Parry, with a sad smile;
"it painted your very thoughts
faithfully."

"Well -- then, Parry?"

"Then the general sent me back the
letter by an aide-de-camp, informing me
that if I were found the next day within
the circumscription of his command, he
would have me arrested."

"Arrested!" murmured the young man.
"What! arrest you, my most faithful
servant?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And notwithstanding you had signed the
name Parry?"

"To all my letters, my lord; and the
aide-de-camp had known me at St. James's
and at Whitehall, too," added the old
man with a sigh.

The young man leaned forward, thoughtful
and sad.

"Ay, that's what he did before his
people," said he, endeavoring to cheat
himself with hopes. "But, privately --
between you and him -- what did he do?
Answer!"

"Alas! my lord, he sent to me four
cavaliers, who gave me the horse with
which you just now saw me come back.
These cavaliers conducted me, in great
haste, to the little port of Tenby,
threw me, rather than embarked me, into
a fishing-boat, about to sail for
Brittany, and here I am."

"Oh!" sighed the young man, clasping his
neck convulsively with his hand, and
with a sob. "Parry, is that all? -- is
that all?"

"Yes, my lord; that is all."

After this brief reply ensued a long
interval of silence, broken only by the
convulsive beating of the heel of the
young man on the floor.

The old man endeavored to change the
conversation; it was leading to thoughts
much too sinister.

"My lord," said he, "what is the meaning
of all the noise which preceded me? What
are these people crying `Vive le Roi!'
for? What king do they mean? and what
are all these lights for?"

"Ah! Parry," replied the young man
ironically, "don't you know that this is
the King of France visiting his good
city of Blois? All those trumpets are
his, all those gilded housings are his,
all those gentlemen wear swords that are
his. His mother precedes him in a
carriage magnificently encrusted with
silver and gold. Happy mother! His
minister heaps up millions, and conducts
him to a rich bride. Then all these
people rejoice, they love their king,
they hail him with their acclamations,
and they cry, `Vive le Roi! Vive le
Roi!'"

"Well, well, my lord," said Parry, more
uneasy at the turn the conversation had
taken than at the other.

"You know," resumed the unknown, "that
my mother and my sister, whilst all this
is going on in honor of the King of
France, have neither money nor bread;
you know that I myself shall be poor and
degraded within a fortnight, when all
Europe will become acquainted with what
you have told me. Parry, are there not
examples in which a man of my condition
should himself ---- "

"My lord, in the name of Heaven ---- "

"You are right, Parry, I am a coward,
and if I do nothing for myself, what
will God do? No, no, I have two arms,
Parry, and I have a sword." And he
struck his arm violently with his hand
and took down his sword, which hung
against the wall.

"What are you going to do, my lord?"

"What am I going to do, Parry? What
every one in my family does. My mother
lives on public charity, my sister begs
for my mother; I have, somewhere or
other, brothers who equally beg for
themselves; and I, the eldest, will go
and do as all the rest do -- I will go
and ask charity!"

And at these words, which he finished
sharply with a nervous and terrible
laugh, the young man girded on his
sword, took his hat from the trunk,
fastened to his shoulder a black cloak,
which he had worn during all his
journey, and pressing the two hands of
the old man, who watched his proceedings
with a look of anxiety, --

"My good Parry," said he, "order a fire,
drink, eat, sleep, and be happy; let us
both be happy, my faithful friend, my
only friend. We are rich, as rich as
kings!"

He struck the bag of pistoles with his
clenched hand as he spoke, and it fell
heavily to the ground. He resumed that
dismal laugh that had so alarmed Parry;
and whilst the whole household was
screaming, singing, and preparing to
install the travelers who had been
preceded by their lackeys, he glided out
by the principal entrance into the
street, where the old man, who had gone
to the window, lost sight of him in a
moment.




CHAPTER 8

What his Majesty King Louis XIV. was at
the Age of Twenty-Two



It has been seen, by the account we have
endeavored to give of it, that the
entree of King Louis XIV. into the city
of Blois had been noisy and brilliant
his young majesty had therefore appeared
perfectly satisfied with it.

On arriving beneath the porch of the
Castle of the States, the king met,
surrounded by his guards and gentlemen,
with S. A. R. the duke, Gaston of
Orleans, whose physiognomy, naturally
rather majestic, had borrowed on this
solemn occasion a fresh luster and a
fresh dignity. On her part, Madame,
dressed in her robes of ceremony,
awaited, in the interior balcony, the
entrance of her nephew. All the windows
of the old castle, so deserted and
dismal on ordinary days, were
resplendent with ladies and lights.

It was then to the sound of drums,
trumpets, and vivats, that the young
king crossed the threshold of that
castle in which, seventy-two years
before, Henry III. had called in the aid
of assassination and treachery to keep
upon his head and in his house a crown
which was already slipping from his
brow, to fall into another family.

All eyes, after having admired the young
king, so handsome and so agreeable,
sought for that other king of France,
much otherwise king than the former, and
so old, so pale, so bent, that people
called him the Cardinal Mazarin.

Louis was at this time endowed with all
the natural gifts which make the perfect
gentleman; his eye was brilliant, mild,
and of a clear azure blue. But the most
skillful physiognomists, those divers
into the soul, on fixing their looks
upon it, if it had been possible for a
subject to sustain the glance of the
king, -- the most skillful
physiognomists, we say, would never have
been able to fathom the depths of that
abyss of mildness. It was with the eyes
of the king as with the immense depths
of the azure heavens, or with those more
terrific, and almost as sublime, which
the Mediterranean reveals under the
keels of its ships in a clear summer
day, a gigantic mirror in which heaven
delights to reflect sometimes its stars,
sometimes its storms.

The king was short of stature -- he was
scarcely five feet two inches: but his
youth made up for this defect, set off
likewise by great nobleness in all his
movements, and by considerable address
in all bodily exercises.

Certes, he was already quite a king, and
it was a great thing to be a king in
that period of traditional devotedness
and respect; but as, up to that time, he
had been but seldom and always poorly
shown to the people, as they to whom he
was shown saw him by the side of his
mother, a tall woman, and monsieur le
cardinal, a man of commanding presence,
many found him so little of a king as to
say, --

"Why, the king is not so tall as
monsieur le cardinal!"

Whatever may be thought of these
physical observations, which were
principally made in the capital, the
young king was welcomed as a god by the
inhabitants of Blois, and almost like a
king by his uncle and aunt, Monsieur and
Madame, the inhabitants of the castle.

It must, however, be allowed, that when
he saw, in the hall of reception, chairs
of equal height placed for himself, his
mother, the cardinal, and his uncle and
aunt, a disposition artfully concealed
by the semicircular form of the
assembly, Louis XIV. became red with
anger, and looked around him to
ascertain by the countenances of those
that were present, if this humiliation
had been prepared for him. But as he saw
nothing upon the impassible visage of
the cardinal, nothing on that of his
mother, nothing on those of the
assembly, he resigned himself, and sat
down, taking care to be seated before
anybody else.

The gentlemen and ladies were presented
to their majesties and monsieur le
cardinal.

The king remarked that his mother and he
scarcely knew the names of any of the
persons who were presented to them;
whilst the cardinal, on the contrary
never failed, with an admirable memory
and presence of mind, to talk to every
one about his estates, his ancestors, or
his children, some of whom he named,
which enchanted those worthy country
gentlemen, and confirmed them in the
idea that he alone is truly king who
knows his subjects, from the same reason
that the sun has no rival, because the
sun alone warms and lightens.

The study of the young king, which had
begun a long time before, without
anybody suspecting it, was continued
then, and he looked around him
attentively to endeavor to make out
something in the physiognomies which had
at first appeared the most insignificant
and trivial.

A collation was served. The king,
without daring to call upon the
hospitality of his uncle, had waited for
it impatiently. This time, therefore, he
had all the honors due, if not to his
rank, at least to his appetite

As to the cardinal, he contented himself
with touching with his withered lips a
bouillon, served in a gold cup. The
all-powerful minister, who had taken her
regency from the queen, and his royalty
from the king, had not been able to take
a good stomach from nature.

Anne of Austria, already suffering from
the cancer which six or eight years
after caused her death, ate very little
more than the cardinal.

For Monsieur, already puffed up with the
great event which had taken place in his
provincial life, he ate nothing
whatever.

Madame alone, like a true Lorrainer,
kept pace with his majesty; so that
Louis XIV., who, without this partner,
might have eaten nearly alone, was at
first much pleased with his aunt, and
afterwards with M. de Saint-Remy, her
maitre d'hotel, who had really
distinguished himself.

The collation over, at a sign of
approbation from M. de Mazarin, the king
arose, and, at the invitation of his
aunt, walked about among the ranks of
the assembly.

The ladies then observed -- there are
certain things for which women are as
good observers at Blois as at Paris --
the ladies then observed that Louis XIV.
had a prompt and bold look, which
premised a distinguished appreciator of
beauty. The men, on their part, observed
that the prince was proud and haughty,
that he loved to look down those who
fixed their eyes upon him too long or
too earnestly, which gave presage of a
master.

Louis XIV. had accomplished about a
third of his review when his ears were
struck with a word which his eminence
pronounced whilst conversing with
Monsieur.

This word was the name of a woman.

Scarcely had Louis XIV. heard this word
than he heard, or rather listened to
nothing else; and neglecting the arc of
the circle which awaited his visit, his
object seemed to be to come as quickly
as possible to the extremity of the
curve.

Monsieur, like a good courtier, was
inquiring of monsieur le cardinal after
the health of his nieces; he regretted,
he said, not having the pleasure of
receiving them at the same time with
their uncle; they must certainly have
grown in stature, beauty and grace, as
they had promised to do the last time
Monsieur had seen them.

What had first struck the king was a
certain contrast in the voices of the
two interlocutors. The voice of Monsieur
was calm and natural while he spoke
thus; while that of M. de Mazarin jumped
by a note and a half to reply above the
diapason of his usual voice. It might
have been said that he wished that voice
to strike, at the end of the salon, any
ear that was too distant.

"Monseigneur," replied he,
"Mesdemoiselles de Mazarin have still to
finish their education: they have duties
to fulfill, and a position to make. An
abode in a young and brilliant court
would dissipate them a little."

Louis, at this last sentence, smiled
sadly. The court was young, it was true,
but the avarice of the cardinal had
taken good care that it should not be
brilliant.

"You have nevertheless no intention,"
replied Monsieur, "to cloister them or
make them bourgeoises?"

"Not at all," replied the cardinal,
forcing his Italian pronunciation in
such a manner that, from soft and
velvety as it was, it became sharp and
vibrating, "not at all: I have a full
and fixed intention to marry them, and
that as well as I shall be able."

"Parties will not be wanting, monsieur
le cardinal," replied Monsieur, with a
bonhomie worthy of one tradesman
congratulating another.

"I hope not, monseigneur, and with
reason, as God has been pleased to give
them grace, intelligence, and beauty."

During this conversation, Louis XIV.,
conducted by Madame, accomplished, as we
have described, the circle of
presentations.

"Mademoiselle Auricule," said the
princess, presenting to his majesty a
fat, fair girl of two-and-twenty, who at
a village fete might have been taken for
a peasant in Sunday finery, -- "the
daughter of my music-mistress."

The king smiled. Madame had never been
able to extract four correct notes from
either viol or harpsichord.

"Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,"
continued Madame, "a young lady of rank,
and my good attendant."

This time it was not the king that
smiled; it was the young lady presented,
because, for the first time in her life,
she heard, given to her by Madame, who
generally showed no tendency to spoil
her, such an honorable qualification.

Our old acquaintance Montalais,
therefore, made his majesty a profound
courtesy, the more respectful from the
necessity she was under of concealing
certain contractions of her laughing
lips, which the king might not have
attributed to their real cause.

It was just at this moment that the king
caught the word which startled him.

"And the name of the third?" asked
Monsieur.

"Mary, monseigneur," replied the
cardinal.

There was doubtless some magical
influence in that word, for, as we have
said, the king started at hearing it,
and drew Madame towards the middle of
the circle, as if he wished to put some
confidential question to her, but, in
reality, for the sake of getting nearer
to the cardinal.

"Madame my aunt," said he, laughing, and
in a suppressed voice, "my
geography-master did not teach me that
Blois was at such an immense distance
from Paris."

"What do you mean, nephew?" asked
Madame.

"Why, because it would appear that it
requires several years, as regards
fashion, to travel the distance! -- Look
at those young ladies!"

"Well; I know them all."

"Some of them are pretty."

"Don't say that too loud, monsieur my
nephew; you will drive them wild."

"Stop a bit, stop a bit, dear aunt!"
said the king, smiling; "for the second
part of my sentence will serve as a
corrective to the first. Well, my dear
aunt, some of them appear old and others
ugly, thanks to their ten-year-old
fashions."

"But, sire, Blois is only five days,
journey from Paris."

"Yes, that is it," said the king: "two
years behind for each day."

"Indeed! do you really think so? Well,
that is strange! It never struck me."

"Now, look, aunt," said Louis XIV.,
drawing still nearer to Mazarin, under
the pretext of gaining a better point of
view, "look at that simple white dress
by the side of those antiquated
specimens of finery, and those
pretentious coiffures. She is probably
one of my mother's maids of honor,
though I don't know her."

"Ah! ah! my dear nephew!" replied
Madame, laughing, "permit me to tell you
that your divinatory science is at fault
for once. The young lady you honor with
your praise is not a Parisian, but a
Blaisoise."

"Oh, aunt!" replied the king with a look
of doubt.

"Come here, Louise," said Madame.

And the fair girl, already known to you
under that name, approached them, timid,
blushing, and almost bent beneath the
royal glance.

"Mademoiselle Louise Francoise de la
Baume le Blanc, the daughter of the
Marquise de la Valliere," said Madame,
ceremoniously.

The young girl bowed with so much grace,
mingled with the profound timidity
inspired by the presence of the king,
that the latter lost, while looking at
her, a few words of the conversation of
Monsieur and the cardinal.

"Daughter-in-law," continued Madame, "of
M. de Saint-Remy, my maitre d'hotel, who
presided over the confection of that
excellent daube truffee which your
majesty seemed so much to appreciate."

No grace, no youth, no beauty, could
stand out against such a presentation.
The king smiled. Whether the words of
Madame were a pleasantry, or uttered in
all innocency, they proved the pitiless
immolation of everything that Louis had
found charming or poetic in the young
girl. Mademoiselle de la Valliere, for
Madame and, by rebound, for the king,
was, for a moment, no more than the
daughter of a man of a superior talent
over dindes truffees.

But princes are thus constituted. The
gods, too, were just like this in
Olympus. Diana and Venus, no doubt,
abused the beautiful Alcmena and poor
Io, when they condescended, for
distraction's sake, to speak, amidst
nectar and ambrosia, of mortal beauties,
at the table of Jupiter.

Fortunately, Louise was so bent in her
reverential salute, that she did not
catch either Madame's words or the
king's smile. In fact, if the poor
child, who had so much good taste as
alone to have chosen to dress herself in
white amidst all her companions -- if
that dove's heart, so easily accessible
to painful emotions, had been touched by
the cruel words of Madame, or the
egotistical cold smile of the king, it
would have annihilated her.

And Montalais herself, the girl of
ingenious ideas, would not have
attempted to recall her to life; for
ridicule kills beauty even.

But fortunately, as we have said,
Louise, whose ears were buzzing, and her
eyes veiled by timidity, -- Louise saw
nothing and heard nothing; and the king,
who had still his attention directed to
the conversation of the cardinal and his
uncle, hastened to return to them.

He came up just at the moment Mazarin
terminated by saying: "Mary, as well as
her sisters, has just set off for
Brouage. I make them follow the opposite
bank of the Loire to that along which we
have traveled; and if I calculate their
progress correctly, according to the
orders I have given, they will to-morrow
be opposite Blois."

These words were pronounced with that
tact -- that measure, that distinctness
of tone, of intention, and reach --
which made del Signor Giulio Mazarini
the first comedian in the world.

It resulted that they went straight to
the heart of Louis XIV., and the
cardinal, on turning round at the simple
noise of the approaching footsteps of
his majesty, saw the immediate effect of
them upon the countenance of his pupil,
an effect betrayed to the keen eyes of
his eminence by a slight increase of
color. But what was the ventilation of
such a secret to him whose craft had for
twenty years deceived all the
diplomatists of Europe?

From the moment the young king heard
these last words, he appeared as if he
had received a poisoned arrow in his
heart. He could not remain quiet in a
place, but cast around an uncertain,
dead, and aimless look over the
assembly. He with his eyes interrogated
his mother more than twenty times: but
she, given up to the pleasure of
conversing with her sister-in-law, and
likewise constrained by the glance of
Mazarin, did not appear to comprehend
any of the supplications conveyed by the
looks of her son.

From this moment, music, lights,
flowers, beauties, all became odious and
insipid to Louis XIV. After he had a
hundred times bitten his lips, stretched
his legs and his arms like a
well-brought-up child who, without
daring to gape, exhausts all the modes
of evincing his weariness -- after
having uselessly again implored his
mother and the minister, he turned a
despairing look towards the door, that
is to say, towards liberty.

At this door, in the embrasure of which
he was leaning, he saw, standing out
strongly, a figure with a brown and
lofty countenance, an aquiline nose, a
stern but brilliant eye, gray and long
hair, a black mustache, the true type of
military beauty, whose gorget, more
sparkling than a mirror, broke all the
reflected lights which concentrated upon
it, and sent them back as lightning.
This officer wore his gray hat with its
long red plumes upon his head, a proof
that he was called there by his duty,
and not by his pleasure. If he had been
brought thither by his pleasure -- if he
had been a courtier instead of a
soldier, as pleasure must always be paid
for at the same price -- he would have
held his hat in his hand.

That which proved still better that this
officer was upon duty, and was
accomplishing a task to which he was
accustomed, was, that he watched, with
folded arms, remarkable indifference,
and supreme apathy, the joys and ennuis
of this fete. Above all, he appeared,
like a philosopher, and all old soldiers
are philosophers, -- he appeared above
all to comprehend the ennuis infinitely
better than the joys; but in the one he
took his part, knowing very well how to
do without the other.

Now, he was leaning, as we have said,
against the carved door-frame when the
melancholy, weary eyes of the king, by
chance, met his.

It was not the first time, as it
appeared, that the eyes of the officer
had met those eyes, and he was perfectly
acquainted with the expression of them;
for, as soon as he had cast his own look
upon the countenance of Louis XIV., and
had read by it what was passing in his
heart -- that is to say, all the ennui
that oppressed him -- all the timid
desire to go out which agitated him, --
he perceived he must render the king a
service without his commanding it, --
almost in spite of himself. Boldly,
therefore, as if he had given the word
of command to cavalry in battle, "On the
king's service!" cried he, in a clear,
sonorous voice.

At these words, which produced the
effect of a peal of thunder, prevailing
over the orchestra, the singing and the
buzz of the promenaders, the cardinal
and the queen-mother looked at each
other with surprise.

Louis XIV., pale, but resolved,
supported as he was by that intuition of
his own thought which he had found in
the mind of the officer of musketeers,
and which he had just manifested by the
order given, arose from his chair, and
took a step towards the door.

"Are you going, my son?" said the queen,
whilst Mazarin satisfied himself with
interrogating by a look which might have
appeared mild if it had not been so
piercing.

"Yes, madame," replied the king; "I am
fatigued, and, besides, wish to write
this evening."

A smile stole over the lips of the
minister, who appeared, by a bend of the
head, to give the king permission.

Monsieur and Madame hastened to give
orders to the officers who presented
themselves.

The king bowed, crossed the hall, and
gained the door, where a hedge of twenty
musketeers awaited him. At the extremity
of this hedge stood the officer,
impassible, with his drawn sword in his
hand. The king passed, and all the crowd
stood on tip-toe, to have one more look
at him.

Ten musketeers, opening the crowd of the
ante-chambers and the steps, made way
for his majesty. The other ten
surrounded the king and Monsieur, who
had insisted upon accompanying his
majesty. The domestics walked behind.
This little cortege escorted the king to
the chamber destined for him. The
apartment was the same that had been
occupied by Henry III. during his
sojourn in the States.

Monsieur had given his orders. The
musketeers, led by their officer, took
possession of the little passage by
which one wing of the castle
communicates with the other. This
passage was commenced by a small square
ante-chamber, dark even in the finest
days. Monsieur stopped Louis XIV.

"You are passing now, sire," said he,
"the very spot where the Duc de Guise
received the first stab of the poniard."

The king was ignorant of all historical
matters; he had heard of the fact, but
he knew nothing of the localities or the
details.

"Ah!" said he with a shudder.

And he stopped. The rest, both behind
and before him, stopped likewise.

"The duc, sire," continued Gaston, "was
nearly where I stand: he was walking in
the same direction as your majesty; M.
de Lorgnes was exactly where your
lieutenant of musketeers is; M. de
Saint-Maline and his majesty's
ordinaries were behind him and around
him. It was here that he was struck."

The king turned towards his officer, and
saw something like a cloud pass over his
martial and daring countenance.

"Yes, from behind!" murmured the
lieutenant, with a gesture of supreme
disdain. And he endeavored to resume the
march, as if ill at ease at being
between walls formerly defiled by
treachery.

But the king, who appeared to wish to be
informed, was disposed to give another
look at this dismal spot.

Gaston perceived his nephew's desire.

"Look, sire," said he, taking a flambeau
from the hands of M. de Saint-Remy,
"this is where he fell. There was a bed
there, the curtains of which he tore
with catching at them."

"Why does the floor seem hollowed out at
this spot?" asked Louis.

"Because it was here the blood flowed,"
replied Gaston; "the blood penetrated
deeply into the oak, and it was only by
cutting it out that they succeeded in
making it disappear. And even then,"
added Gaston, pointing the flambeau to
the spot, "even then this red stain
resisted all the attempts made to
destroy it."

Louis XIV. raised his head. Perhaps he
was thinking of that bloody trace that
had once been shown him at the Louvre,
and which, as a pendant to that of
Blois, had been made there one day by
the king his father with the blood of
Concini.

"Let us go on," said he.

The march was resumed promptly, for
emotion, no doubt, had given to the
voice of the young prince a tone of
command which was not customary with
him. When arrived at the apartment
destined for the king, which
communicated not only with the little
passage we have passed through, but
further with the great staircase leading
to the court, --

"Will your majesty," said Gaston,
"condescend to occupy this apartment,
all unworthy as it is to receive you?"

"Uncle," replied the young king, "I
render you my thanks for your cordial
hospitality."

Gaston bowed to his nephew, embraced
him, and then went out.

Of the twenty musketeers who had
accompanied the king, ten reconducted
Monsieur to the reception-rooms, which
were not yet empty, notwithstanding the
king had retired.

The ten others were posted by their
officer, who himself explored, in five
minutes, all the localities, with that
cold and certain glance which not even
habit gives unless that glance belongs
to genius.

Then, when all were placed, he chose as
his headquarters the ante-chamber, in
which he found a large fauteuil, a lamp,
some wine, some water: and some dry
bread.

He refreshed his lamp, drank half a
glass of wine, curled his lip with a
smile full of expression, installed
himself in his large armchair, and made
preparations for sleeping.




CHAPTER 9

In which the Unknown of the Hostelry of
Les Medici loses his Incognito.



This officer, who was sleeping, or
preparing to sleep, was, notwithstanding
his careless air, charged with a serious
responsibility.

Lieutenant of the king's musketeers, he
commanded all the company which came
from Paris, and that company consisted
of a hundred and twenty men; but, with
the exception of the twenty of whom we
have spoken, the other hundred were
engaged in guarding the queen-mother,
and more particularly the cardinal.

Monsignor Giulio Mazarini economized the
traveling expenses of his guards; he
consequently used the king's, and that
largely, since he took fifty of them for
himself -- a peculiarity which would not
have failed to strike any one
unacquainted with the usages of that
court.

That which would still further have
appeared, if not inconvenient, at least
extraordinary, to a stranger, was, that
the side of the castle destined for
monsieur le cardinal was brilliant,
light and cheerful. The musketeers there
mounted guard before every door, and
allowed no one to enter, except the
couriers, who, even while he was
traveling, followed the cardinal for the
carrying on of his correspondence.

Twenty men were on duty with the
queen-mother; thirty rested, in order to
relieve their companions the next day.

On the king's side, on the contrary,
were darkness, silence, and solitude.
When once the doors were closed, there
was no longer an appearance of royalty.
All the servitors had by degrees
retired. Monsieur le Prince had sent to
know if his majesty required his
attendance; and on the customary "No" of
the lieutenant of musketeers, who was
habituated to the question and the
reply, all appeared to sink into the
arms of sleep, as if in the dwelling of
a good citizen.

And yet it was possible to hear from the
side of the house occupied by the young
king the music of the banquet, and to
see the windows of the great hall richly
illuminated.

Ten minutes after his installation in
his apartment, Louis XIV. had been able
to learn, by movement much more
distinguished than marked his own
leaving, the departure of the cardinal,
who, in his turn, sought his bedroom,
accompanied by a large escort of ladies
and gentlemen.

Besides, to perceive this movement, he
had nothing to do but to look out at his
window, the shutters of which had not
been closed.

His eminence crossed the court,
conducted by Monsieur, who himself held
a flambeau, then followed the
queen-mother, to whom Madame familiarly
gave her arm; and both walked chatting
away, like two old friends.

Behind these two couples filed nobles,
ladies, pages and officers; the
flambeaux gleamed over the whole court,
like the moving reflections of a
conflagration. Then the noise of steps
and voices became lost in the upper
floors of the castle.

No one was then thinking of the king,
who, leaning on his elbow at his window,
had sadly seen pass away all that light,
and heard that noise die off -- no, not
one, if it was not that unknown of the
hostelry des Medici, whom we have seen
go out, enveloped in his cloak.

He had come straight up to the castle,
and had, with his melancholy
countenance, wandered round and round
the palace, from which the people had
not yet departed; and finding that no
one guarded the great entrance, or the
porch, seeing that the soldiers of
Monsieur were fraternizing with the
royal soldiers -- that is to say
swallowing Beaugency at discretion, or
rather indiscretion -- the unknown
penetrated through the crowd, then
ascended to the court, and came to the
landing of the staircase leading to the
cardinal's apartment.

What, according to all probability,
induced him to direct his steps that
way, was the splendor of the flambeaux,
and the busy air of the pages and
domestics. But he was stopped short by a
presented musket and the cry of the
sentinel.

"Where are you going, my friend?" asked
the soldier.

"I am going to the king's apartment,"
replied the unknown, haughtily, but
tranquilly.

The soldier called one of his eminence's
officers, who, in the tone in which a
youth in office directs a solicitor to a
minister, let fall these words: "The
other staircase, in front."

And the officer, without further notice
of the unknown, resumed his interrupted
conversation.

The stranger, without reply, directed
his steps towards the staircase pointed
out to him. On this side there was no
noise, there were no more flambeaux.

Obscurity, through which a sentinel
glided like a shadow; silence, which
permitted him to hear the sound of his
own footsteps, accompanied with the
jingling of his spurs upon the stone
slabs.

This guard was one of the twenty
musketeers appointed for attendance upon
the king, and who mounted guard with the
stiffness and consciousness of a statue.

"Who goes there?" said the guard.

"A friend," replied the unknown.

"What do you want?"

"To speak to the king."

"Do you, my dear monsieur? That's not
very likely."

"Why not?"

"Because the king has gone to bed."

"Gone to bed already?"

"Yes."

"No matter: I must speak to him."

"And I tell you that is impossible."

"And yet ---- "

"Go back!"

"Do you require the word?"

"I have no account to render to you.
Stand back!"

And this time the soldier accompanied
his word with a threatening gesture; but
the unknown stirred no more than if his
feet had taken root.

"Monsieur le mousquetaire," said he,
"are you a gentleman?"

"I have that honor."

"Very well! I also am one, and between
gentlemen some consideration ought to be
observed."

The soldier lowered his arms, overcome
by the dignity with which these words
were pronounced.

"Speak, monsieur," said he; "and if you
ask me anything in my power ---- "

"Thank you. You have an officer, have
you not?"

"Our lieutenant? Yes, monsieur."

"Well, I wish to speak to him."

"Oh, that's a different thing. Come up,
monsieur."

The unknown saluted the soldier in a
lofty fashion, and ascended the
staircase; whilst a cry, "Lieutenant, a
visit!" transmitted from sentinel to
sentinel, preceded the unknown, and
disturbed the slumbers of the officer.

Dragging on his boots, rubbing his eyes,
and hooking his cloak, the lieutenant
made three steps towards the stranger.

"What can I do to serve you, monsieur?"
asked he.

"You are the officer on duty, lieutenant
of the musketeers, are you?"

"I have that honor," replied the
officer.

"Monsieur, I must absolutely speak to
the king."

The lieutenant looked attentively at the
unknown, and in that look, however
rapid, he saw all he wished to see --
that is to say, a person of high
distinction in an ordinary dress.

"I do not suppose you to be mad,"
replied he; "and yet you seem to me to
be in a condition to know, monsieur,
that people do not enter a king's
apartments in this manner without his
consent."

"He will consent."

"Monsieur, permit me to doubt that. The
king has retired this quarter of an
hour; he must be now undressing.
Besides, the word is given."

"When he knows who I am, he will recall
the word."

The officer was more and more surprised,
more and more subdued.

"If I consent to announce you, may I at
least know whom to announce, monsieur?"

"You will announce His Majesty Charles
II., King of England, Scotland, and
Ireland."

The officer uttered a cry of
astonishment, drew back, and there might
be seen upon his pallid countenance one
of the most poignant emotions that ever
an energetic man endeavored to drive
back to his heart.

"Oh, yes, sire; in fact," said he, "I
ought to have recognized you."

"You have seen my portrait, then?"

"No, sire."

"Or else you have seen me formerly at
court, before I was driven from France?"

"No, sire, it is not even that."

"How then could you have recognized me,
if you have never seen my portrait or my
person?"

"Sire, I saw his majesty your father at
a terrible moment."

"The day ---- "

"Yes."

A dark cloud passed over the brow of the
prince; then, dashing his hand across
it, "Do you still see any difficulty in
announcing me?" said he.

"Sire, pardon me," replied the officer,
"but I could not imagine a king under so
simple an exterior; and yet I had the
honor to tell your majesty just now that
I had seen Charles I. But pardon me,
monsieur; I will go and inform the
king."

But returning after going a few steps,
"Your majesty is desirous, without
doubt, that this interview should be a
secret?" said he.

"I do not require it; but if it were
possible to preserve it ---- "

"It is possible, sire, for I can
dispense with informing the first
gentleman on duty; but, for that, your
majesty must please to consent to give
up your sword."

"True, true; I had forgotten that no one
armed is permitted to enter the chamber
of a king of France."

"Your majesty will form an exception, if
you wish it; but then I shall avoid my
responsibility by informing the king's
attendant."

"Here is my sword, monsieur. Will you
now please to announce me to his
majesty?"

"Instantly, sire." And the officer
immediately went and knocked at the door
of communication, which the valet opened
to him.

"His Majesty the King of England!" said
the officer.

"His Majesty the King of England!"
replied the valet de chambre.

At these words a gentleman opened the
folding-doors of the king's apartment,
and Louis XIV. was seen, without hat or
sword, and his pourpoint open, advancing
with signs of the greatest surprise.

"You, my brother -- you at Blois!" cried
Louis XIV., dismissing with a gesture
both the gentleman and the valet de
chambre, who passed out into the next
apartment.

"Sire," replied Charles II., "I was
going to Paris, in the hope of seeing
your majesty, when report informed me of
your approaching arrival in this city. I
therefore prolonged my abode here,
having something very particular to
communicate to you."

"Will this closet suit you, my brother?"

"Perfectly well, sire; for I think no
one can hear us here."

"I have dismissed my gentleman and my
watcher; they are in the next chamber.
There, behind that partition, is a
solitary closet, looking into the
ante-chamber, and in that ante-chamber
you found nobody but a solitary officer,
did you?"

"No, sire."

"Well, then, speak, my brother; I listen
to you."

"Sire, I commence, and entreat your
majesty to have pity on the misfortunes
of our house."

The king of France colored, and drew his
chair closer to that of the king of
England.

"Sire," said Charles II., "I have no
need to ask if your majesty is
acquainted with the details of my
deplorable history."

Louis XIV. blushed, this time more
strongly than before; then, stretching
forth his hand to that of the king of
England, "My brother," said he, "I am
ashamed to say so, but the cardinal
scarcely ever speaks of political
affairs before me. Still more, formerly
I used to get Laporte, my valet de
chambre, to read historical subjects to
me, but he put a stop to these readings,
and took away Laporte from me. So that I
beg my brother Charles to tell me all
those matters as to a man who knows
nothing."

"Well, sire, I think that by taking
things from the beginning I shall have a
better chance of touching the heart of
your majesty."

"Speak on, my brother -- speak on."

"You know, sire, that being called in
1650 to Edinburgh, during Cromwell's
expedition into Ireland, I was crowned
at Scone. A year after, wounded in one
of the provinces he had usurped,
Cromwell returned upon us. To meet him
was my object; to leave Scotland was my
wish."

"And yet," interrupted the young king,
"Scotland is almost your native country,
is it not, my brother?"

"Yes; but the Scots were cruel
compatriots for me, sire; they had
forced me to forsake the religion of my
fathers; they had hung Lord Montrose,
the most devoted of my servants, because
he was not a Covenanter; and as the poor
martyr, to whom they had offered a favor
when dying, had asked that his body
might be cut into as many pieces as
there are cities in Scotland, in order
that evidence of his fidelity might be
met with everywhere, I could not leave
one city, or go into another, without
passing under some fragments of a body
which had acted, fought, and breathed
for me.

"By a bold, almost desperate march, I
passed through Cromwell's army, and
entered England. The Protector set out
in pursuit of this strange flight, which
had a crown for its object. If I had
been able to reach London before him,
without doubt the prize of the race
would have been mine; but he overtook me
at Worcester.

"The genius of England was no longer
with us, but with him. On the 5th of
September, 1651, sire, the anniversary
of the other battle of Dunbar, so fatal
to the Scots, I was conquered. Two
thousand men fell around me before I
thought of retreating a step. At length
I was obliged to fly.

"From that moment my history became a
romance. Pursued with persistent
inveteracy, I cut off my hair, I
disguised myself as a woodman. One day
spent amidst the branches of an oak gave
to that tree the name of the royal oak,
which it bears to this day. My
adventures in the county of Stafford,
whence I escaped with the daughter of my
host on a pillion behind me, still fill
the tales of the country firesides, and
would furnish matter for ballads. I will
some day write all this, sire, for the
instruction of my brother kings.

"I will first tell how, on arriving at
the residence of Mr. Norton, I met with
a court chaplain, who was looking on at
a party playing at skittles, and an old
servant who named me, bursting into
tears, and who was as near and as
certainly killing me by his fidelity as
another might have been by treachery.
Then I will tell of my terrors -- yes,
sire, of my terrors -- when, at the
house of Colonel Windham, a farrier who
came to shoe our horses declared they
had been shod in the north."

"How strange!" murmured Louis XIV. "I
never heard anything of all that; I was
only told of your embarkation at
Brighthelmstone and your landing in
Normandy."

"Oh!" exclaimed Charles, "if Heaven
permits kings to be thus ignorant of the
histories of each other, how can they
render assistance to their brothers who
need it?"

"But tell me," continued Louis XIV.,
"how, after being so roughly received in
England, you can still hope for anything
from that unhappy country and that
rebellious people?"

"Oh, sire! since the battle of
Worcester, everything is changed there.
Cromwell is dead, after having signed a
treaty with France, in which his name is
placed above yours. He died on the 5th
of September, 1658, a fresh anniversary
of the battles of Dunbar and Worcester."

"His son has succeeded him."

"But certain men have a family, sire,
and no heir. The inheritance of Oliver
was too heavy for Richard. Richard was
neither a republican nor a royalist;
Richard allowed his guards to eat his
dinner, and his generals to govern the
republic; Richard abdicated the
protectorate on the 22nd of April, 1659,
more than a year ago, sire.

"From that time England is nothing but a
tennis-court, in which the players throw
dice for the crown of my father. The two
most eager players are Lambert and Monk.
Well, sire, I, in my turn, wish to take
part in this game, where the stakes are
thrown upon my royal mantle. Sire, it
only requires a million to corrupt one
of these players and make an ally of
him, or two hundred of your gentlemen to
drive them out of my palace at
Whitehall, as Christ drove the
money-changers from the temple."

"You come, then," replied Louis XIV.,
"to ask me ---- "

"For your assistance, that is to say,
not only for that which kings owe to
each other, but that which simple
Christians owe to each other -- your
assistance, sire, either in money or
men. Your assistance, sire, and within a
month, whether I oppose Lambert to Monk,
or Monk to Lambert, I shall have
reconquered my paternal inheritance,
without having cost my country a guinea,
or my subjects a drop of blood, for they
are now all drunk with revolutions,
protectorates, and republics, and ask
nothing better than to fall staggering
to sleep in the arms of royalty. Your
assistance, sire, and I shall owe you
more than I owe my father, -- my poor
father, who bought at so dear a rate the
ruin of our house! You may judge, sire,
whether I am unhappy, whether I am in
despair, for I accuse my own father!"

And the blood mounted to the pale face
of Charles II., who remained for an
instant with his head between his hands,
and as if blinded by that blood which
appeared to revolt against the filial
blasphemy.

The young king was not less affected
than his elder brother; he threw himself
about in his fauteuil, and could not
find a single word of reply.

Charles II., to whom ten years in age
gave a superior strength to master his
emotions, recovered his speech the
first.

"Sire," said he, "your reply? I wait for
it as a criminal waits for his sentence.
Must I die?"

"My brother," replied the French prince,
"you ask me for a million -- me, who was
never possessed of a quarter of that
sum! I possess nothing. I am no more
king of France than you are king of
England. I am a name, a cipher dressed
in fleur-de-lised velvet, -- that is
all. I am upon a visible throne; that is
my only advantage over your majesty. I
have nothing -- I can do nothing."

"Can it be so?" exclaimed Charles II.

"My brother," said Louis, sinking his
voice, "I have undergone miseries with
which my poorest gentlemen are
unacquainted. If my poor Laporte were
here, he would tell you that I have
slept in ragged sheets, through the
holes of which my legs have passed; he
would tell you that afterwards, when I
asked for carriages, they brought me
conveyances half-destroyed by the rats
of the coach-houses; he would tell you
that when I asked for my dinner, the
servants went to the cardinal's kitchen
to inquire if there were any dinner for
the king. And look! to-day, this very
day even, when I am twenty-two years of
age, -- to-day, when I have attained the
grade of the majority of kings, --
to-day, when I ought to have the key of
the treasury, the direction of the
policy, the supremacy in peace and
war, -- cast your eyes around me, see
how I am left! Look at this
abandonment -- this disdain -- this
silence! -- Whilst yonder -- look
yonder! View the bustle, the lights, the
homage! There! -- there you see the real
king of France, my brother!

"In the cardinal's apartments?"

"Yes, in the cardinal's apartments."

"Then I am condemned, sire?"

Louis XIV. made no reply.

"Condemned is the word; for I will never
solicit him who left my mother and
sister to die with cold and hunger --
the daughter and grand-daughter of Henry
IV. -- if M. de Retz and the parliament
had not sent them wood and bread."

"To die?" murmured Louis XIV.

"Well!" continued the king of England,
"poor Charles II., grandson of Henry IV.
as you are, sire, having neither
parliament nor Cardinal de Retz to apply
to, will die of hunger, as his mother
and sister had nearly done."

Louis knitted his brow, and twisted
violently the lace of his ruffles.

This prostration, this immobility,
serving as a mark to an emotion so
visible, struck Charles II., and he took
the young man's hand.

"Thanks!" said he, "my brother. You pity
me, and that is all I can require of you
in your present situation."

"Sire," said Louis XIV., with a sudden
impulse, and raising his head, "it is a
million you require, or two hundred
gentlemen, I think you say?"

"Sire, a million would be quite
sufficient."

"That is very little."

"Offered to a single man it is a great
deal. Convictions have been purchased at
a much lower price; and I should have
nothing to do but with venalities."

"Two hundred gentlemen! Reflect! -- that
is little more than a single company."

"Sire, there is in our family a
tradition, and that is, that four men,
four French gentlemen, devoted to my
father, were near saving my father,
though condemned by a parliament,
guarded by an army and surrounded by a
nation."

"Then if I can procure you a million, or
two hundred gentlemen, you will be
satisfied; and you will consider me your
well-affectioned brother?"

"I shall consider you as my saviour; and
if I recover the throne of my father,
England will be, as long as I reign at
least, a sister to France, as you will
have been a brother to me."

"Well, my brother," said Louis, rising,
"what you hesitate to ask for, I will
myself demand; that which I have never
done on my own account, I will do on
yours. I will go and find the king of
France -- the other -- the rich, the
powerful one, I mean. I will myself
solicit this million, or these two
hundred gentlemen; and -- we will see."

"Oh!" cried Charles, "you are a noble
friend, sire -- a heart created by God!
You save me, my brother; and if you
should ever stand in need of the life
you restore me, demand it."

"Silence, my brother, -- silence!" said
Louis, in a suppressed voice. "Take care
that no one hears you! We have not
obtained our end yet. To ask money of
Mazarin -- that is worse than traversing
the enchanted forest, each tree of which
inclosed a demon. It is more than
setting out to conquer a world."

"But yet, sire, when you ask it ---- "

"I have already told you that I never
asked," replied Louis with a haughtiness
that made the king of England turn pale.

And as the latter, like a wounded man,
made a retreating movement -- "Pardon
me, my brother," replied he. "I have
neither a mother nor a sister who are
suffering. My throne is hard and naked,
but I am firmly seated on my throne.
Pardon me that expression, my brother;
it was that of an egotist. I will
retract it, therefore, by a
sacrifice, -- I will go to monsieur le
cardinal. Wait for me, if you please --
I will return."




CHAPTER 10

The Arithmetic of M. de Mazarin



Whilst the king was directing his course
rapidly towards the wing of the castle
occupied by the cardinal, taking nobody
with him but his valet de chambre, the
officer of musketeers came out,
breathing like a man who has for a long
time been forced to hold his breath,
from the little cabinet of which we have
already spoken, and which the king
believed to be quite solitary. This
little cabinet had formerly been part of
the chamber, from which it was only
separated by a thin partition. It
resulted that this partition, which was
only for the eye, permitted the ear the
least indiscreet to hear every word
spoken in the chamber.

There was no doubt, then, that this
lieutenant of musketeers had heard all
that passed in his majesty's apartment.

Warned by the last words of the young
king, he came out just in time to salute
him on his passage, and to follow him
with his eyes till he had disappeared in
the corridor.

Then as soon as he had disappeared, he
shook his head after a fashion
peculiarly his own, and in a voice which
forty years' absence from Gascony had
not deprived of its Gascon accent, "A
melancholy service," said he, "and a
melancholy master!"

These words pronounced, the lieutenant
resumed his place in his fauteuil,
stretched his legs and closed his eyes,
like a man who either sleeps or
meditates.

During this short monologue and the mise
en scene that had accompanied it, whilst
the king, through the long corridors of
the old castle, proceeded to the
apartment of M. de Mazarin, a scene of
another sort was being enacted in those
apartments.

Mazarin was in bed, suffering a little
from the gout. But as he was a man of
order, who utilized even pain, he forced
his wakefulness to be the humble servant
of his labor. He had consequently
ordered Bernouin, his valet de chambre,
to bring him a little traveling-desk, so
that he might write in bed. But the gout
is not an adversary that allows itself
to be conquered so easily; therefore, at
each movement he made, the pain from
dull became sharp.

"Is Brienne there?" asked he of
Bernouin.

"No, monseigneur," replied the valet de
chambre; "M. de Brienne, with your
permission, is gone to bed. But, if it
is the wish of your eminence, he can
speedily be called."

"No, it is not worth while. Let us see,
however. Cursed ciphers!"

And the cardinal began to think,
counting on his fingers the while.

"Oh, ciphers is it?" said Bernouin.
"Very well! if your eminence attempts
calculations, I will promise you a
pretty headache to-morrow! And with that
please to remember M. Guenaud is not
here."

"You are right, Bernouin. You must take
Brienne's place, my friend. Indeed, I
ought to have brought M. Colbert with
me. That young man goes on very well,
Bernouin, very well; a very orderly
youth."

"I do not know," said the valet de
chambre, "but I don't like the
countenance of your young man who goes
on so well."

"Well, well, Bernouin! We don't stand in
need of your advice. Place yourself
there: take the pen and write."

"I am ready, monseigneur; what am I to
write?"

"There, that's the place: after the two
lines already traced."

"I am there."

"Write seven hundred and sixty thousand
livres."

"That is written."

"Upon Lyons ---- " The cardinal appeared
to hesitate.

"Upon Lyons," repeated Bernouin.

"Three millions nine hundred thousand
livres."

"Well, monseigneur?"

"Upon Bordeaux seven millions."

"Seven?" repeated Bernouin.

"Yes," said the cardinal, pettishly,
"seven." Then, recollecting himself,
"You understand, Bernouin," added he,
"that all this money is to be spent?"

"Eh! monseigneur; whether it be to be
spent or put away is of very little
consequence to me, since none of these
millions are mine."

"These millions are the king's; it is
the king's money I am reckoning. Well,
what were we saying? You always
interrupt me!"

"Seven millions upon Bordeaux."

"Ah! yes; that's right. Upon Madrid four
millions. I give you to understand
plainly to whom this money belongs,
Bernouin, seeing that everybody has the
stupidity to believe me rich in
millions. I repel the silly idea. A
minister, besides, has nothing of his
own. Come, go on. Rentrees generales,
seven millions; properties, nine
millions. Have you written that,
Bernouin?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Bourse, six hundred thousand livres;
various property, two millions. Ah! I
forgot -- the furniture of the different
chateaux ---- "

"Must I put of the crown?" asked
Bernouin.

"No, no, it is of no use doing that --
that is understood. Have you written
that, Bernouin?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"And the ciphers?"

"Stand straight under one another."

"Cast them up, Bernouin."

"Thirty-nine millions two hundred and
sixty thousand livres, monseigneur."

"Ah!" cried the cardinal, in a tone of
vexation; "there are not yet forty
millions!"

Bernouin recommenced the addition.

"No, monseigneur; there want seven
hundred and forty thousand livres."

Mazarin asked for the account, and
revised it carefully.

"Yes, but," said Bernouin, "thirty-nine
millions two hundred and sixty thousand
livres make a good round sum."

"Ah, Bernouin, I wish the king had it."

"Your eminence told me that this money
was his majesty's."

"Doubtless, as clear, as transparent as
possible. These thirty-nine millions are
bespoken, and much more."

Bernouin smiled after his own fashion --
that is, like a man who believes no more
than he is willing to believe -- whilst
preparing the cardinal's night draught,
and putting his pillow to rights.

"Oh!" said Mazarin, when the valet had
gone out; "not yet forty millions! I
must, however, attain that sum, which I
had set down for myself. But who knows
whether I shall have time? I sink, I am
going, I shall never reach it! And yet,
who knows that I may not find two or
three millions in the pockets of my good
friends the Spaniards? They discovered
Peru, those people did, and -- what the
devil! they must have something left."

As he was speaking thus, entirely
occupied with his ciphers, and thinking
no more of his gout, repelled by a
preoccupation which, with the cardinal,
was the most powerful of all
preoccupations, Bernouin rushed into the
chamber, quite in a fright.

"Well!" asked the cardinal, "what is the
matter now?"

"The king, monseigneur, -- the king!"

"How? -- the king!" said Mazarin,
quickly concealing his paper. "The king
here! the king at this hour! I thought
he was in bed long ago. What is the
matter, then?"

The king could hear these last words,
and see the terrified gesture of the
cardinal rising up in his bed, for he
entered the chamber at that moment.

"It is nothing, monsieur le cardinal, or
at least nothing which can alarm you. It
is an important communication which I
wish to make to your eminence
to-night -- that is all."

Mazarin immediately thought of that
marked attention which the king had
given to his words concerning
Mademoiselle de Mancini, and the
communication appeared to him probably
to refer to this source. He recovered
his serenity then instantly, and assumed
his most agreeable air, a change of
countenance which inspired the king with
the greatest joy; and when Louis was
seated, --

"Sire," said the cardinal, "I ought
certainly to listen to your majesty
standing, but the violence of my
complaint ---- "

"No ceremony between us, my dear
monsieur le cardinal," said Louis
kindly: "I am your pupil, and not the
king, you know very well, and this
evening in particular, as I come to you
as a petitioner, as a solicitor, and one
very humble, and desirous to be kindly
received, too."

Mazarin, seeing the heightened color of
the king, was confirmed in his first
idea; that is to say, that love thoughts
were hidden under all these fine words.
This time, political cunning, keen as it
was, made a mistake; this color was not
caused by the bashfulness of a juvenile
passion, but only by the painful
contraction of the royal pride.

Like a good uncle, Mazarin felt disposed
to facilitate the confidence.

"Speak, sire," said he, "and since your
majesty is willing for an instant to
forget that I am your subject, and call
me your master and instructor, I promise
your majesty my most devoted and tender
consideration."

"Thanks, monsieur le cardinal," answered
the king; "that which I have to ask of
your eminence has but little to do with
myself."

"So much the worse!" replied the
cardinal, "so much the worse! Sire, I
should wish your majesty to ask of me
something of importance, even a
sacrifice; but whatever it may be that
you ask me, I am ready to set your heart
at rest by granting it, my dear sire."

"Well, this is what brings me here,"
said the king, with a beating of the
heart that had no equal except the
beating of the heart of the minister; "I
have just received a visit from my
brother, the king of England."

Mazarin bounded in his bed as if he had
been put in relation with a Leyden jar
or a voltaic pile, at the same time that
a surprise, or rather a manifest
disappointment, inflamed his features
with such a blaze of anger, that Louis
XIV., little diplomatist as he was, saw
that the minister had hoped to hear
something else.

"Charles II.?" exclaimed Mazarin, with a
hoarse voice and a disdainful movement
of his lips. "You have received a visit
from Charles II.?"

"From King Charles II.," replied Louis,
according in a marked manner to the
grandson of Henry IV. the title which
Mazarin had forgotten to give him. "Yes,
monsieur le cardinal, that unhappy
prince has touched my heart with the
relation of his misfortunes. His
distress is great, monsieur le cardinal,
and it has appeared painful to me, who
have seen my own throne disputed, who
have been forced in times of commotion
to quit my capital, -- to me, in short,
who am acquainted with misfortune, -- to
leave a deposed and fugitive brother
without assistance."

"Eh!" said the cardinal, sharply; "why
had he not, as you have, a Jules Mazarin
by his side? His crown would then have
remained intact."

"I know all that my house owes to your
eminence," replied the king, haughtily,
"and you may believe well that I, on my
part, shall never forget it. It is
precisely because my brother the king of
England has not about him the powerful
genius who has saved me, it is for that,
I say, that I wish to conciliate the aid
of that same genius, and beg you to
extend your arm over his head, well
assured, monsieur le cardinal, that your
hand, by touching him only, would know
how to replace upon his brow the crown
which fell at the foot of his father's
scaffold."

"Sire," replied Mazarin, "I thank you
for your good opinion with regard to
myself, but we have nothing to do
yonder: they are a set of madmen who
deny God, and cut off the heads of their
kings. They are dangerous, observe,
sire, and filthy to the touch after
having wallowed in royal blood and
covenantal murder. That policy has never
suited me, -- I scorn it and reject it."

"Therefore you ought to assist in
establishing a better."

"What is that?"

"The restoration of Charles II., for
example."

"Good heavens!" cried Mazarin, "does the
poor prince flatter himself with that
chimera?"

"Yes, he does," replied the young king,
terrified at the difficulties opposed to
this project, which he fancied he could
perceive in the infallible eye of his
minister; "he only asks for a million to
carry out his purpose."

"Is that all -- a little million, if you
please!" said the cardinal, ironically,
with an effort to conquer his Italian
accent. "A little million, if you
please, brother! Bah! a family of
mendicants!"

"Cardinal," said Louis, raising his
head, "that family of mendicants is a
branch of my family."

"Are you rich enough to give millions to
other people, sire? Have you millions to
throw away?"

"Oh!" replied Louis XIV., with great
pain, which he, however, by a strong
effort, prevented from appearing on his
countenance; -- "oh! yes, monsieur le
cardinal, I am well aware I am poor, and
yet the crown of France is worth a
million, and to perform a good action I
would pledge my crown if it were
necessary. I could find Jews who would
be willing to lend me a million."

"So, sire, you say you want a million?"
said Mazarin.

"Yes, monsieur, I say so."

"You are mistaken, greatly mistaken,
sire; you want much more than that, --
Bernouin! -- you shall see, sire, how
much you really want."

"What, cardinal!" said the king, "are
you going to consult a lackey about my
affairs?"

"Bernouin!" cried the cardinal again,
without appearing to remark the
humiliation of the young prince. "Come
here, Bernouin, and tell me the figures
I gave you just now."

"Cardinal, cardinal! did you not hear
me?" said Louis, turning pale with
anger.

"Do not be angry, sire; I deal openly
with the affairs of your majesty. Every
one in France knows that; my books are
as open as day. What did I tell you to
do just now, Bernouin?"

"Your eminence commanded me to cast up
an account."

"You did it, did you not?"

"Yes, my lord."

"To verify the amount of which his
majesty, at this moment, stands in need.
Did I not tell you so? Be frank, my
friend."

"Your eminence said so."

"Well, what sum did I say I wanted?"

"Forty-five millions, I think."

"And what sum could we find, after
collecting all our resources?"

"Thirty-nine millions two hundred and
sixty thousand."

"That is correct, Bernouin; that is all
I wanted to know. Leave us now," said
the cardinal, fixing his brilliant eye
upon the young king, who sat mute with
stupefaction.

"However ---- " stammered the king.

"What, do you still doubt, sire?" said
the cardinal. "Well, here is a proof of
what I said."

And Mazarin drew from under his bolster
the paper covered with figures, which he
presented to the king, who turned away
his eyes, his vexation was so deep.

"Therefore, as it is a million you want,
sire, and that million is not set down
here, it is forty-six millions your
majesty stands in need of. Well I don't
think that any Jews in the world would
lend such a sum, even upon the crown of
France."

The king, clenching his hands beneath
his ruffles, pushed away his chair.

"So it must be then!" said he, "my
brother the king of England will die of
hunger."

"Sire," replied Mazarin, in the same
tone, "remember this proverb, which I
give you as the expression of the
soundest policy: `Rejoice at being poor
when your neighbor is poor likewise.'"

Louis meditated for a few moments, with
an inquisitive glance directed to the
paper, one end of which remained under
the bolster.

"Then," said he, "it is impossible to
comply with my demand for money, my lord
cardinal, is it?"

"Absolutely, sire."

"Remember, this will secure me a future
enemy, if he succeed in recovering his
crown without my assistance."

"If your majesty only fears that, you
may be quite at ease," replied Mazarin,
eagerly.

"Very well, I say no more about it,"
exclaimed Louis XIV.

"Have I at least convinced you, sire?"
placing his hand upon that of the young
king.

"Perfectly."

"If there be anything else, ask it,
sire, I shall be most happy to grant it
to you, having refused this."

"Anything else, my lord?"

"Why yes, am I not devoted body and soul
to your majesty? Hola! Bernouin! --
lights and guards for his majesty! His
majesty is returning to his own
chamber."

"Not yet, monsieur: since you place your
good-will at my disposal, I will take
advantage of it."

"For yourself, sire?" asked the
cardinal, hoping that his niece was at
length about to be named.

"No, monsieur, not for myself," replied
Louis, "but still for my brother
Charles."

The brow of Mazarin again became
clouded, and he grumbled a few words
that the king could not catch.




CHAPTER 11

Mazarin's Policy



Instead of the hesitation with which he
had accosted the cardinal a quarter of
an hour before, there might be read in
the eyes of the young king that will
against which a struggle might be
maintained, and which might be crushed
by its own impotence, but which, at
least, would preserve, like a wound in
the depth of the heart, the remembrance
of its defeat.

"This time, my lord cardinal, we have to
deal with something more easily found
than a million."

"Do you think so, sire?" said Mazarin,
looking at the king with that
penetrating eye which was accustomed to
read to the bottom of hearts.

"Yes, I think so; and when you know the
object of my request ---- "

"And do you think I do not know it,
sire?"

"You know what remains for me to say to
you?"

"Listen, sire; these are King Charles's
own words ---- "

"Oh, impossible!"

"Listen. `And if that miserly, beggarly
Italian,' said he ---- "

"My lord cardinal!"

"That is the sense, if not the words.
Eh! Good heavens! I wish him no ill on
that account, one is biased by his
passions. He said to you: `If that vile
Italian refuses the million we ask of
him, sire, -- if we are forced, for want
of money, to renounce diplomacy, well,
then, we will ask him to grant us five
hundred gentlemen.'"

The king started, for the cardinal was
only mistaken in the number.

"Is not that it, sire?" cried the
minister, with a triumphant accent. "And
then he added some fine words: he said,
`I have friends on the other side of the
channel, and these friends only want a
leader and a banner. When they see me,
when they behold the banner of France,
they will rally round me, for they will
comprehend that I have your support. The
colors of the French uniform will be
worth as much to me as the million M. de
Mazarin refuses us,' -- for he was
pretty well assured I should refuse him
that million. -- `I shall conquer with
these five hundred gentlemen, sire, and
all the honor will be yours.' Now, that
is what he said, or to that purpose, was
it not? -- turning those plain words
into brilliant metaphors and pompous
images, for they are fine talkers in
that family! The father talked even on
the scaffold."

The perspiration of shame stood upon the
brow of Louis. He felt that it was
inconsistent with his dignity to hear
his brother thus insulted, but he did
not yet know how to act with him to whom
every one yielded, even his mother. At
last he made an effort.

"But," said he, "my lord cardinal, it is
not five hundred men, it is only two
hundred."

"Well, but you see I guessed what he
wanted."

"I never denied that you had a
penetrating eye, and that was why I
thought you would not refuse my brother
Charles a thing so simple and so easy to
grant him as what I ask of you in his
name, my lord cardinal, or rather in my
own."

"Sire," said Mazarin, "I have studied
policy thirty years; first, under the
auspices of M. le Cardinal de Richelieu;
and then alone. This policy has not
always been over-honest, it must be
allowed, but it has never been
unskillful. Now that which is proposed
to your majesty is dishonest and
unskillful at the same time."

"Dishonest, monsieur!"

"Sire, you entered into a treaty with
Cromwell."

"Yes, and in that very treaty Cromwell
signed his name above mine."

"Why did you sign yours so low down,
sire? Cromwell found a good place, and
he took it; that was his custom. I
return, then, to M. Cromwell. You have a
treaty with him, that is to say, with
England, since when you signed that
treaty M. Cromwell was England."

"M. Cromwell is dead."

"Do you think so, sire?"

"No doubt he is, since his son Richard
has succeeded him, and has abdicated."

"Yes, that is it exactly. Richard
inherited after the death of his father,
and England at the abdication of
Richard. The treaty formed part of the
inheritance, whether in the hands of M.
Richard or in the hands of England. The
treaty is, then, still as good, as valid
as ever. Why should you evade it, sire?
What is changed? Charles wants to-day
what we were not willing to grant him
ten years ago; but that was foreseen and
provided against. You are the ally of
England, sire, and not of Charles II. It
was doubtless wrong, from a family point
of view, to sign a treaty with a man who
had cut off the head of the king your
father's brother-in-law, and to contract
an alliance with a parliament which they
call yonder the Rump Parliament; it was
unbecoming, I acknowledge, but it was
not unskillful from a political point of
view, since, thanks to that treaty, I
saved your majesty, then a minor, the
trouble and danger of a foreign war,
which the Fronde -- you remember the
Fronde sire?" -- the young king hung his
head -- "which the Fronde might have
fatally complicated. And thus I prove to
your majesty that to change our plan
now; without warning our allies, would
be at once unskillful and dishonest. We
should make war with the aggression on
our side, we should make it, deserving
to have it made against us, and we
should have the appearance of fearing it
whilst provoking it, for a permission
granted to five hundred men, to two
hundred men, to fifty men, to ten men,
is still a permission. One Frenchman,
that is the nation; one uniform, that is
the army. Suppose, sire, for example,
that, sooner or later, you should have
war with Holland, which, sooner or
later, will certainly happen; or with
Spain, which will perhaps ensue if your
marriage fails" (Mazarin stole a furtive
glance at the king), "and there are a
thousand causes that might yet make your
marriage fail, -- well, would you
approve of England's sending to the
United Provinces or to Spain a regiment,
a company, a squadron even, of English
gentlemen? Would you think that they
kept within the limits of their treaty
of alliance?"

Louis listened; it seemed so strange to
him that Mazarin should invoke good
faith, and he the author of so many
political tricks, called Mazarinades.
"And yet," said the king, "without any
manifest authorization, I cannot prevent
gentlemen of my states from passing over
into England, if such should be their
good pleasure."

"You should compel them to return, sire,
or at least protest against their
presence as enemies in an allied
country."

"But come, my lord cardinal, you who are
so profound a genius, try if you cannot
find means to assist this poor king,
without compromising ourselves."

"And that is exactly what I am not
willing to do, my dear sire," said
Mazarin. "If England were to act exactly
according to my wishes, she could not
act better than she does; if I directed
the policy of England from this place, I
should not direct it otherwise. Governed
as she is governed, England is an
eternal nest of contention for all
Europe. Holland protects Charles II.,
let Holland do so; they will quarrel,
they will fight. They are the only two
maritime powers. Let them destroy each
other's navies, we can construct ours
with the wrecks of their vessels; when
we shall save our money to buy nails."

"Oh, how paltry and mean is all this
that you are telling me, monsieur le
cardinal!"

"Yes, but nevertheless it is true, sire;
you must confess that. Still further.
Suppose I admit, for a moment, the
possibility of breaking your word, and
evading the treaty -- such a thing
sometimes happens, but that is when some
great interest is to be promoted by it,
or when the treaty is found to be too
troublesome -- well, you will authorize
the engagement asked of you: France --
her banner, which is the same thing --
will cross the Straits and will fight;
France will be conquered."

"Why so?"

"Ma foi! we have a pretty general to
fight under this Charles II.! Worcester
gave us good proofs of that."

"But he will no longer have to deal with
Cromwell, monsieur."

"But he will have to deal with Monk, who
is quite as dangerous. The brave brewer
of whom we are speaking was a visionary;
he had moments of exaltation, of
inflation, during which he ran over like
an over-filled cask; and from the chinks
there always escaped some drops of his
thoughts, and by the sample the whole of
his thought was to be made out. Cromwell
has thus allowed us more than ten times
to penetrate into his very soul, when
one would have conceived that soul to be
enveloped in triple brass, as Horace has
it. But Monk! Oh, sire, God defend you
from ever having anything to transact
politically with Monk. It is he who has
given me, in one year, all the gray
hairs I have. Monk is no fanatic;
unfortunately he is a politician; he
does not overflow, he keeps close
together. For ten years he has had his
eyes fixed upon one object, and nobody
has yet been able to ascertain what.
Every morning, as Louis XI. advised, he
burns his nightcap. Therefore, on the
day when this plan slowly and solitarily
ripened, shall break forth, it will
break forthwith all the conditions of
success which always accompany an
unforeseen event. That is Monk, sire, of
whom perhaps, you have never heard -- of
whom, perhaps, you did not even know the
name before your brother Charles II.,
who knows what he is, pronounced it
before you. He is a marvel of depth and
tenacity, the two only things against
which intelligence and ardor are
blunted. Sire, I had ardor when I was
young, I always was intelligent. I may
safely boast of it, because I am
reproached with it. I have done very
well with these two qualities, since,
from the son of a fisherman of Piscina,
I have become prime minister to the king
of France; and in that position your
majesty will perhaps acknowledge I have
rendered some service to the throne of
your majesty. Well, sire, if I had met
with Monk on my way, instead of Monsieur
de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz, or
Monsieur le Prince -- well, we should
have been ruined. If you engage yourself
rashly, sire, you will fall into the
talons of this politic soldier. The
casque of Monk, sire, is an iron coffer,
in the recesses of which he shuts up his
thoughts, and no one has the key of it.
Therefore, near him, or rather before
him, I bow, sire, for I have nothing but
a velvet cap."

"What do you think Monk wishes to do,
then?"

"Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not
tell you to mistrust him, for I should
be stronger than he; but with him, I am
afraid to guess -- to guess! -- you
understand my word? -- for if I thought
I had guessed, I should stop at an idea,
and, in spite of myself, should pursue
that idea. Since that man has been in
power yonder, I am like one of the
damned in Dante whose neck Satan has
twisted, and who walk forward looking
behind them. I am traveling towards
Madrid, but I never lose sight of
London. To guess, with that devil of a
man, is to deceive one's self, and to
deceive one's self is to ruin one's
self. God keep me from ever seeking to
guess what he aims at; I confine myself
to watching what he does, and that is
well enough. Now I believe -- you
observe the meaning of the word I
believe? -- I believe, with respect to
Monk, ties one to nothing -- I believe
that he has a strong inclination to
succeed Cromwell. Your Charles II. has
already caused proposals to be made to
him by ten persons; he has satisfied
himself with driving these ten meddlers
from his presence, without saying
anything to them but, `Begone, or I will
have you hung.' That man is a sepulcher!
At this moment Monk is affecting
devotion to the Rump Parliament; of this
devotion, observe, I am not the dupe.
Monk has no wish to be assassinated, --
an assassination would stop him in the
midst of his operations, and his work
must be accomplished; -- so I believe --
but do not believe, what I believe,
sire: for I say I believe from habit --
I believe that Monk is keeping on
friendly terms with the parliament till
the day comes for dispersing it. You are
asked for swords, but they are to fight
against Monk. God preserve you from
fighting against Monk sire; for Monk
would beat us, and I should never
console myself after being beaten by
Monk. I should say to myself, Monk has
foreseen that victory ten years. For
God's sake, sire, out of friendship for
you, if not out of consideration for
himself, let Charles II. keep quiet.
Your majesty will give him a little
income here; give him one of your
chateaux. Yes, yes -- wait awhile. But I
forgot the treaty -- that famous treaty
of which we were just now speaking. Your
majesty has not even the right to give
him a chateau."

"How is that?"

"Yes, yes, your majesty is bound not to
grant hospitality to King Charles, and
to compel him to leave France even. It
was on this account we forced him to
quit you, and yet here he is again.
Sire, I hope you will give your brother
to understand that he cannot remain with
us; that it is impossible he should be
allowed to compromise us, or I
myself ---- "

"Enough, my lord," said Louis XIV,
rising. "In refusing me a million,
perhaps you may be right; your millions
are your own. In refusing me two hundred
gentlemen, you are still further in the
right; for you are prime minister, and
you have, in the eyes of France, the
responsibility of peace and war. But
that you should pretend to prevent me,
who am king, from extending my
hospitality to the grandson of Henry
IV., to my cousin-german, to the
companion of my childhood -- there your
power stops, and there begins my will."

"Sire," said Mazarin, delighted at being
let off so cheaply, and who had,
besides, only fought so earnestly to
arrive at that, -- "sire, I shall always
bend before the will of my king. Let my
king, then, keep near him, or in one of
his chateaux, the king of England; let
Mazarin know it, but let not the
minister know it."

"Good-night, my lord," said Louis XIV.,
"I go away in despair."

"But convinced, and that is all I
desire, sire," replied Mazarin.

The king made no answer, and retired
quite pensive, convinced, not of all
Mazarin had told him, but of one thing
which he took care not to mention to
him; and that was, that it was necessary
for him to study seriously both his own
affairs and those of Europe, for he
found them very difficult and very
obscure. Louis found the king of England
seated in the same place where he had
left him. On perceiving him, the English
prince arose; but at the first glance he
saw discouragement written in dark
letters upon his cousin's brow. Then,
speaking first, as if to facilitate the
painful avowal that Louis had to make to
him, --

"Whatever it may be," said he, "I shall
never forget all the kindness, all the
friendship you have exhibited towards
me."

"Alas!" replied Louis, in a melancholy
tone, "only barren good-will, my
brother."

Charles II. became extremely pale; he
passed his cold hand over his brow, and
struggled for a few instants against a
faintness that made him tremble. "I
understand," said he at last; "no more
hope!"

Louis seized the hand of Charles II.
"Wait, my brother," said he;
"precipitate nothing, everything may
change; hasty resolutions ruin all
causes, add another year of trial, I
implore you, to the years you have
already undergone. You have, to induce
you to act now rather than at another
time, neither occasion nor opportunity.
Come with me, my brother; I will give
you one of my residences, whichever you
prefer, to inhabit. I, with you, will
keep my eyes upon events; we will
prepare. Come, then, my brother, have
courage!"

Charles II. withdrew his hand from that
of the king, and drawing back, to salute
him with more ceremony, "With all my
heart, thanks!" replied he, "sire; but I
have prayed without success to the
greatest king on earth; now I will go
and ask a miracle of God." And he went
out without being willing to hear any
more, his head carried loftily, his hand
trembling, with a painful contraction of
his noble countenance, and that profound
gloom which, finding no more hope in the
world of men, appeared to go beyond it,
and ask it in worlds unknown. The
officer of musketeers, on seeing him
pass by thus pale, bowed almost to his
knees as he saluted him. He then took a
flambeau, called two musketeers, and
descended the deserted staircase with
the unfortunate king, holding in his
left hand his hat, the plume of which
swept the steps. Arrived at the door,
the musketeer asked the king which way
he was going, that he might direct the
musketeers.

"Monsieur," replied Charles II., in a
subdued voice, "you who have known my
father, say, did you ever pray for him?
If you have done so, do not forget me in
your prayers. Now, I am going alone, and
beg of you not to accompany me, or have
me accompanied any further."

The officer bowed and sent away the
musketeers into the interior of the
palace. But he himself remained an
instant under the porch watching the
departing Charles II., till he was lost
in the turn of the next street. "To him
as to his father formerly," murmured he,
"Athos, if he were here, would say with
reason, -- `Salute fallen majesty!'"
Then, reascending the staircase: "Oh!
the vile service that I follow!" said he
at every step. "Oh! my pitiful master!
Life thus carried on is no longer
tolerable, and it is at length time that
I should do something! No more
generosity, no more energy! The master
has succeeded, the pupil is starved
forever. Mordioux! I will not resist.
Come, you men," continued he, entering
the ante-chamber, "why are you all
looking at me so? Extinguish these
torches and return to your posts. Ah!
you were guarding me? Yes, you watch
over me, do you not, worthy fellows?
Brave fools! I am not the Duc de Guise.
Begone! They will not assassinate me in
the little passage. Besides," added he,
in a low voice, "that would be a
resolution, and no resolutions have been
formed since Monsieur le Cardinal de
Richelieu died. Now, with all his
faults, that was a man! It is settled:
to-morrow I will throw my cassock to the
nettles."

Then, reflecting: "No," said he, "not
yet! I have one great trial to make and
I will make it; but that, and I swear
it, shall be the last, Mordioux!"

He had not finished speaking when a
voice issued from the king's chamber.
"Monsieur le lieutenant!" said this
voice.

"Here am I," replied he.

"The king desires to speak to you."

"Humph!" said the lieutenant; "perhaps
of what I was thinking about." And he
went into the king's apartment.




CHAPTER 12

The King and the Lieutenant



As soon as the king saw the officer
enter, he dismissed his valet de chambre
and his gentleman. "Who is on duty
to-morrow, monsieur?" asked he.

The lieutenant bowed his head with
military politeness and replied, "I am,
sire."

"What! still you?"

"Always I, sire."

"How can that be, monsieur?"

"Sire, when traveling, the musketeers
supply all the posts of your majesty's
household; that is to say, yours, her
majesty the queen's, and monsieur le
cardinal's, the latter of whom borrows
of the king the best part, or rather the
most numerous part, of the royal guard."

"But in the interims?"

"There are no interims, sire, but for
twenty or thirty men who rest out of a
hundred and twenty. At the Louvre it is
very different, and if I were at the
Louvre I should rely upon my brigadier;
but, when traveling, sire, no one knows
what may happen, and I prefer doing my
duty myself."

"Then you are on guard every day?"

"And every night. Yes, sire."

"Monsieur, I cannot allow that -- I will
have you rest."

"That is very kind, sire, but I will
not."

"What do you say?" said the king who did
not at first comprehend the full meaning
of this reply.

"I say, sire, that I will not expose
myself to the chance of a fault. If the
devil had a trick to play on me, you
understand, sire, as he knows the man
with whom he has to deal, he would
choose the moment when I should not be
there. My duty and the peace of my
conscience before everything, sire."

"But such duty will kill you, monsieur."

"Eh! sire, I have performed it for
thirty years, and in all France and
Navarre there is not a man in better
health than I am. Moreover, I entreat
you, sire, not to trouble yourself about
me. That would appear very strange to
me, seeing that I am not accustomed to
it."

The king cut short the conversation by a
fresh question. "Shall you be here,
then, to-morrow morning?"

"As at present? yes, sire."

The king walked several times up and
down his chamber; it was very plain that
he burned with a desire to speak, but
that he was restrained by some fear or
other. The lieutenant, standing
motionless, hat in hand, watched him
making these evolutions, and, whilst
looking at him, grumbled to himself,
biting his mustache:

"He has not half a crown worth of
resolution! Parole d'honneur! I would
lay a wager he does not speak at all!"

The king continued to walk about,
casting from time to time a side glance
at the lieutenant. "He is the very image
of his father," continued the latter, in
his secret soliloquy, "he is at once
proud, avaricious, and timid. The devil
take his master, say I."

The king stopped. "Lieutenant," said he.

"I am here, sire."

"Why did you cry out this evening, down
below in the salons -- `The king's
service! His majesty's musketeers!'"

"Because you gave me the order, sire."

"I?"

"Yourself."

"Indeed, I did not say a word,
monsieur."

"Sire, an order is given by a sign, by a
gesture, by a glance, as intelligibly,
as freely, and as clearly as by word of
mouth. A servant who has nothing but
ears is not half a good servant."

"Your eyes are very penetrating, then,
monsieur."

"How is that, sire?"

"Because they see what is not."

"My eyes are good, though, sire,
although they have served their master
long and much: when they have anything
to see, they seldom miss the
opportunity. Now, this evening, they saw
that your majesty colored with
endeavoring to conceal the inclination
to yawn, that your majesty looked with
eloquent supplications, first at his
eminence, and then at her majesty, the
queen-mother, and at length to the
entrance door, and they so thoroughly
remarked all I have said, that they saw
your majesty's lips articulate these
words: `Who will get me out of this?'"

"Monsieur!"

"Or something to this effect, sire --
`My musketeers!' I could then no longer
hesitate. That look was for me -- the
order was for me. I cried out instantly,
`His Majesty's musketeers!' And,
besides, that was shown to be true,
sire, not only by your majesty's not
saying I was wrong, but proving I was
right by going out at once."

The king turned away to smile; then,
after a few seconds, he again fixed his
limpid eye upon that countenance, so
intelligent, so bold, and so firm, that
it might have been said to be the proud
and energetic profile of the eagle
facing the sun. "That is all very well,"
said he, after a short silence, during
which he endeavored, in vain, to make
his officer lower his eyes.

But seeing the king said no more, the
latter pirouetted on his heels, and took
three steps towards the door, muttering,
"He will not speak! Mordioux! he will
not speak!"

"Thank you, monsieur," said the king at
last.

"Humph!" continued the lieutenant;
"there was only wanting that. Blamed for
having been less of a fool than another
might have been." And he went to the
door, allowing his spurs to jingle in
true military style. But when he was on
the threshold, feeling that the king's
desire drew him back, he returned.

"Has your majesty told me all?" asked
he, in a tone we cannot describe, but
which, without appearing to solicit the
royal confidence, contained so much
persuasive frankness, that the king
immediately replied:

"Yes, but draw near, monsieur."

"Now then," murmured the officer, "he is
coming to it at last."

"Listen to me."

"I shall not lose a word, sire."

"You will mount on horseback to-morrow,
at about half-past four in the morning,
and you will have a horse saddled for
me."

"From your majesty's stables?"

"No, one of your musketeers' horses."

"Very well, sire. Is that all?"

"And you will accompany me."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

"Shall I come to seek your majesty, or
shall I wait?"

"You will wait for me."

"Where, sire?"

"At the little park-gate."

The lieutenant bowed, understanding that
the king had told him all he had to say.
In fact, the king dismissed him with a
gracious wave of the hand. The officer
left the chamber of the king, and
returned to place himself
philosophically in his fauteuil, where,
far from sleeping, as might have been
expected, considering how late it was,
he began to reflect more deeply than he
had ever reflected before. The result of
these reflections was not so melancholy
as the preceding ones had been.

"Come, he has begun," said he. "Love
urges him on, and he goes forward -- he
goes forward! The king is nobody in his
own palace; but the man perhaps may
prove to be worth something. Well, we
shall see to-morrow morning. Oh! oh!"
cried he, all at once starting up, "that
is a gigantic idea, mordioux! and
perhaps my fortune depends, at least,
upon that idea!" After this exclamation,
the officer arose and marched, with his
hands in the pockets of his justacorps,
about the immense ante-chamber that
served him as an apartment. The
wax-light flamed furiously under the
effects of a fresh breeze which stole in
through the chinks of the door and the
window, and cut the salle diagonally. It
threw out a reddish, unequal light,
sometimes brilliant, sometimes dull, and
the tall shadow of the lieutenant was
seen marching on the wall, in profile,
like a figure by Callot, with his long
sword and feathered hat.

"Certainly!" said he, "I am mistaken if
Mazarin is not laying a snare for this
amorous boy. Mazarin, this evening, gave
an address, and made an appointment as
complacently as M. Dangeau himself could
have done -- I heard him, and I know the
meaning of his words. `To-morrow
morning,' said he, `they will pass
opposite the bridge of Blois. Mordioux!
that is clear enough, and particularly
for a lover. That is the cause of this
embarrassment; that is the cause of this
hesitation; that is the cause of this
order -- `Monsieur the lieutenant of my
musketeers, be on horseback to-morrow at
four o'clock in the morning.' Which is
as clear as if he had said, -- `Monsieur
the lieutenant of my musketeers,
to-morrow, at four, at the bridge of
Blois -- do you understand?' Here is a
state secret, then, which I, humble as I
am, have in my possession, while it is
in action. And how do I get it? Because
I have good eyes, as his majesty just
now said. They say he loves this little
Italian doll furiously. They say he
threw himself at his mother's feet, to
beg her to allow him to marry her. They
say the queen went so far as to consult
the court of Rome, whether such a
marriage, contracted against her will,
would be valid. Oh, if I were but
twenty-five! If I had by my side those I
no longer have! If I did not despise the
whole world most profoundly, I would
embroil Mazarin with the queen-mother,
France with Spain, and I would make a
queen after my own fashion. But let that
pass." And the lieutenant snapped his
fingers in disdain.

"This miserable Italian -- this poor
creature -- this sordid wretch -- who
has just refused the king of England a
million, would not perhaps give me a
thousand pistoles for the news I could
carry him. Mordioux! I am falling into
second childhood -- I am becoming stupid
indeed! The idea of Mazarin giving
anything! ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed in
a subdued voice.

"Well, let us go to sleep -- let us go
to sleep; and the sooner the better. My
mind is wearied with my evening's work,
and will see things to-morrow more
clearly than to-day."

And upon this recommendation, made to
himself, he folded his cloak around him,
looking with contempt upon his royal
neighbor. Five minutes after this he was
asleep, with his hands clenched and his
lips apart, giving escape, not to his
secret, but to a sonorous sound, which
rose and spread freely beneath the
majestic roof of the ante-chamber.




CHAPTER 13

Mary de Mancini



The sun had scarcely shed its first
beams on the majestic trees of the park
and the lofty turrets of the castle,
when the young king, who had been awake
more than two hours, possessed by the
sleeplessness of love, opened his
shutters himself, and cast an inquiring
look into the courts of the sleeping
palace. He saw that it was the hour
agreed upon: the great court clock
pointed to a quarter past four. He did
not disturb his valet de chambre, who
was sleeping soundly at some distance;
he dressed himself, and the valet, in a
great fright sprang up, thinking he had
been deficient in his duty; but the king
sent him back again, commanding him to
preserve the most absolute silence. He
then descended the little staircase,
went out at a lateral door, and
perceived at the end of the wall a
mounted horseman holding another horse
by the bridle. This horseman could not
be recognized in his cloak and slouched
hat. As to the horse, saddled like that
of a rich citizen, it offered nothing
remarkable to the most experienced eye.
Louis took the bridle: the officer held
the stirrup without dismounting, and
asked his majesty's orders in a low
voice.

"Follow me," replied the king.

The officer put his horse to the trot,
behind that of his master, and they
descended the hill towards the bridge.
When they reached the other side of the
Loire, --

"Monsieur," said the king, "you will
please to ride on till you see a
carriage coming; then return and inform
me. I will wait here."

"Will your majesty deign to give me some
description of the carriage I am charged
to discover?"

"A carriage in which you will see two
ladies, and probably their attendants
likewise."

"Sire, I should not wish to make a
mistake; is there no other sign by which
I may know this carriage?"

"It will bear, in all probability, the
arms of monsieur le cardinal."

"That is sufficient, sire," replied the
officer, fully instructed in the object
of his search. He put his horse to the
trot, and rode sharply on in the
direction pointed out by the king. But
he had scarcely gone five hundred paces
when he saw four mules and then a
carriage, loom up from behind a little
hill. Behind this carriage came another.
It required only one glance to assure
him that these were the equipages he was
in search of; he therefore turned his
bridle, and rode back to the king.

"Sire," said he, "here are the
carriages. The first, as you said,
contains two ladies with their femmes de
chambre; the second contains the
footmen, provisions, and necessaries."

"That is well," replied the king in an
agitated voice. "Please to go and tell
those ladies that a cavalier of the
court wishes to pay his respects to them
alone."

The officer set off at a gallop.
"Mordioux!" said he, as he rode on,
"here is a new and an honorable
employment, I hope! I complained of
being nobody. I am the king's confidant:
that is enough to make a musketeer burst
with pride."

He approached the carriage, and
delivered his message gallantly and
intelligently. There were two ladies in
the carriage: one of great beauty,
although rather thin; the other less
favored by nature, but lively, graceful,
and uniting in the delicate lines of her
brow all the signs of a strong will. Her
eyes, animated and piercing in
particular, spoke more eloquently than
all the amorous phrases in fashion in
those days of gallantry. It was to her
D'Artagnan addressed himself, without
fear of being mistaken, although the
other was, as we have said, the more
handsome of the two.

"Madame," said he, "I am the lieutenant
of the musketeers, and there is on the
road a horseman who awaits you, and is
desirous of paying his respects to you."

At these words, the effect of which he
watched closely, the lady with the black
eyes uttered a cry of joy, leant out of
the carriage window, and seeing the
cavalier approaching, held out her arms,
exclaiming:

"Ah, my dear sire!" and the tears gushed
from her eyes.

The coachman stopped his team; the women
rose in confusion from the back of the
carriage, and the second lady made a
slight curtsey, terminated by the most
ironical smile that jealousy ever
imparted to the lips of woman.

"Marie? dear Marie?" cried the king,
taking the hand of the black-eyed lady
in both his. And opening the heavy door
himself, he drew her out of the carriage
with so much ardor, that she was in his
arms before she touched the ground. The
lieutenant, posted on the other side of
the carriage, saw and heard all without
being observed.

The king offered his arm to Mademoiselle
de Mancini, and made a sign to the
coachman and lackeys to proceed. It was
nearly six o'clock; the road was fresh
and pleasant; tall trees with their
foliage still inclosed in the golden
down of their buds let the dew of
morning filter from their trembling
branches like liquid diamonds; the grass
was bursting at the foot of the hedges;
the swallows, having returned since only
a few days, described their graceful
curves between the heavens and the
water; a breeze, laden with the perfumes
of the blossoming woods, sighed along
the road, and wrinkled the surface of
the waters of the river; all these
beauties of the day, all these perfumes
of the plants, all these aspirations of
the earth towards heaven, intoxicated
the two lovers, walking side by side,
leaning upon each other, eyes fixed upon
eyes, hand clasping hand, and who,
lingering as by a common desire, did not
dare to speak they had so much to say.

The officer saw that the king's horse,
in wandering this way and that, annoyed
Mademoiselle de Mancini. He took
advantage of the pretext of securing the
horse to draw near them, and
dismounting, walked between the two
horses he led; he did not lose a single
word or gesture of the lovers. It was
Mademoiselle de Mancini who at length
began.

"Ah, my dear sire!" said she, "you do
not abandon me, then?"

"No, Marie," replied the king; "you see
I do not."

"I had so often been told, though, that
as soon as we should be separated you
would no longer think of me."

"Dear Marie, is it then to-day only that
you have discovered we are surrounded by
people interested in deceiving us?"

"But, then, sire, this journey, this
alliance with Spain? They are going to
marry you off!"

Louis hung his head. At the same time
the officer could see the eyes of Marie
de Mancini shine in the sun with the
brilliancy of a dagger starting from its
sheath. "And you have done nothing in
favor of our love?" asked the girl,
after a silence of a moment.

"Ah! mademoiselle, how could you believe
that? I threw myself at the feet of my
mother; I begged her, I implored her; I
told her all my hopes of happiness were
in you, I even threatened ---- "

"Well?" asked Marie, eagerly.

"Well? the queen-mother wrote to the
court of Rome, and received as answer,
that a marriage between us would have no
validity, and would be dissolved by the
holy father. At length, finding there
was no hope for us, I requested to have
my marriage with the infanta at least
delayed."

"And yet that does not prevent your
being on the road to meet her?"

"How can I help it? To my prayers, to my
supplications, to my tears, I received
no answer but reasons of state."

"Well, well?"

"Well, what is to be done, mademoiselle,
when so many wills are leagued against
me?"

It was now Marie's turn to hang her
head. "Then I must bid you adieu for
ever," said she. "You know that I am
being exiled; you know that I am going
to be buried alive; you know still more
that they want to marry me off, too."

Louis became very pale, and placed his
hand upon his heart.

"If I had thought that my life only had,
been at stake, I have been so persecuted
that I might have yielded; but I thought
yours was concerned, my dear sire, and I
stood out for the sake of preserving
your happiness. "

"Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!"
murmured the king, more gallantly than
passionately, perhaps.

"The cardinal might have yielded," said
Marie, "if you had addressed yourself to
him, if you had pressed him. For the
cardinal to call the king of France his
nephew! do you not perceive, sire? He
would have made war even for that honor;
the cardinal, assured of governing
alone, under the double pretext of
having brought up the king and given his
niece to him in marriage -- the cardinal
would have fought all antagonists,
overcome all obstacles. Oh, sire! I can
answer for that. I am a woman, and I see
clearly into everything where love is
concerned."

These words produced a strange effect
upon the king. Instead of heightening
his passion, they cooled it. He stopped,
and said hastily, --

"What is to be said, mademoiselle?
Everything has failed."

"Except your will, I trust, my dear
sire?"

"Alas!" said the king, coloring, "have I
a will?"

"Oh!" said Mademoiselle de Mancini
mournfully, wounded by that expression.

"The king has no will but that which
policy dictates, but that which reasons
of state impose upon him."

"Oh! it is because you have no love,"
cried Mary; "if you loved, sire, you
would have a will."

On pronouncing these words, Mary raised
her eyes to her lover, whom she saw more
pale and more cast down than an exile
who is about to quit his native land
forever. "Accuse me," murmured the king,
"but do not say I do not love you."

A long silence followed these words,
which the young king had pronounced with
a perfectly true and profound feeling.
"I am unable to think that to-morrow,
and after to-morrow, I shall see you no
more; I cannot think that I am going to
end my sad days at a distance from
Paris; that the lips of an old man, of
an unknown, should touch that hand which
you hold within yours; no, in truth, I
cannot think of all that, my dear sire,
without having my poor heart burst with
despair."

And Marie de Mancini did shed floods of
tears. On his part, the king, much
affected, carried his handkerchief to
his mouth, and stifled a sob.

"See," said she, "the carriages have
stopped, my sister waits for me, the
time is come; what you are about to
decide upon will be decided for life.
Oh, sire! you are willing, then, that I
should lose you? You are willing, then,
Louis, that she to whom you have said `I
love you,' should belong to another than
to her king; to her master, to her
lover? Oh! courage, Louis! courage! One
word, a single word! Say `I will!' and
all my life is enchained to yours, and
all my heart is yours forever."

The king made no reply. Mary then looked
at him as Dido looked at AEneas in the
Elysian fields, fierce and disdainful.

"Farewell, then," said she; "farewell
life! love! heaven!"

And she took a step away. The king
detained her, seized her hand, which he
pressed to his lips, and despair
prevailing over the resolution he
appeared to have inwardly formed, he let
fall upon that beautiful hand a burning
tear of regret, which made Mary start,
so really had that tear burnt her. She
saw the humid eyes of the king, his pale
brow, his convulsed lips, and cried,
with an accent that cannot be
described, --

"Oh, sire! you are a king, you weep, and
yet I depart!"

As his sole reply, the king hid his face
in his handkerchief. The officer uttered
something so like a roar that it
frightened the horses. Mademoiselle de
Mancini, quite indignant, quitted the
king's arm, hastily entered the
carriage, crying to the coachman, "Go
on, go on, and quick!"

The coachman obeyed, flogged his mules,
and the heavy carriage rocked upon its
creaking axle, whilst the king of
France, alone, cast down, annihilated,
did not dare to look either behind or
before him.




CHAPTER 14

In which the King and the Lieutenant
each give Proofs of Memory



When the king, like all the people in
the world who are in love, had long and
attentively watched disappear in the
distance the carriage which bore away
his mistress; when he had turned and
turned again a hundred times to the same
side and had at length succeeded in
somewhat calming the agitation of his
heart and thoughts, he recollected that
he was not alone. The officer still held
the horse by the bridle, and had not
lost all hope of seeing the king recover
his resolution. He had still the
resource of mounting and riding after
the carriage; they would have lost
nothing by waiting a little. But the
imagination of the lieutenant of the
musketeers was too rich and too
brilliant; it left far behind it that of
the king, who took care not to allow
himself to be carried away to any such
excess. He contented himself with
approaching the officer, and in a
doleful voice, "Come," said he, "let us
be gone; all is ended. To horse!"

The officer imitated this carriage, this
slowness, this sadness, and leisurely
mounted his horse. The king pushed on
sharply, the lieutenant followed him. At
the bridge Louis turned around for the
last time. The lieutenant, patient as a
god who has eternity behind and before
him, still hoped for a return of energy.
But it was groundless, nothing appeared.
Louis gained the street which led to the
castle, and entered as seven was
striking. When the king had returned,
and the musketeer, who saw everything,
had seen a corner of the tapestry over
the cardinal's window lifted up, he
breathed a profound sigh, like a man
unloosed from the tightest bounds, and
said in a low voice:

"Now, then, my officer, I hope that it
is over."

The king summoned his gentleman. "Please
to understand I shall receive nobody
before two o'clock," said he.

"Sire," replied the gentleman, "there
is, however, some one who requests
admittance."

"Who is that?"

"Your lieutenant of musketeers."

"He who accompanied me?"

"Yes, sire."

"Ah," said the king, "let him come in."

The officer entered. The king made a
sign, and the gentleman and the valet
retired. Louis followed them with his
eyes until they had shut the door, and
when the tapestries had fallen behind
them, -- "You remind me by your
presence, monsieur, of something I had
forgotten to recommend to you, that is
to say, the most absolute discretion."

"Oh! sire, why does your majesty give
yourself the trouble of making me such a
recommendation? It is plain you do not
know me."

"Yes, monsieur, that is true. I know
that you are discreet; but as I had
prescribed nothing ---- "

The officer bowed. "Has your majesty
nothing else to say to me?"

"No, monsieur; you may retire."

"Shall I obtain permission not to do so
till I have spoken to the king, sire?"

"What have you to say to me? Explain
yourself, monsieur."

"Sire, a thing without importance to
you, but which interests me greatly.
Pardon me, then, for speaking of it.
Without urgency, without necessity, I
never would have done it, and I would
have disappeared, mute and insignificant
as I always have been."

"How! Disappeared! I do not understand
you, monsieur."

"Sire, in a word," said the officer, "I
am come to ask for my discharge from
your majesty's service."

The king made a movement of surprise,
but the officer remained as motionless
as a statue.

"Your discharge -- yours, monsieur? and
for how long a time, I pray?"

"Why, forever, sire."

"What, you are desirous of quitting my
service, monsieur?" said Louis, with an
expression that revealed something more
than surprise.

"Sire, I regret to say that I am."

"Impossible!"

"It is so, however, sire. I am getting
old; I have worn harness now thirty-five
years; my poor shoulders are tired; I
feel that I must give place to the
young. I don't belong to this age; I
have still one foot in the old one; it
results that everything is strange in my
eyes, everything astonishes and
bewilders me. In short, I have the honor
to ask your majesty for my discharge."

"Monsieur," said the king, looking at
the officer, who wore his uniform with
an ease that would have caused envy in a
young man, "you are stronger and more
vigorous than I am."

"Oh!" replied the officer, with an air
of false modesty, "your majesty says so
because I still have a good eye and a
tolerably firm foot -- because I can
still ride a horse, and my mustache is
black; but, sire, vanity of vanities all
that -- illusions all that --
appearance, smoke, sire! I have still a
youthful air, it is true, but I feel
old, and within six months I am certain
I shall be broken down, gouty, impotent.
Therefore, then sire ---- "

"Monsieur," interrupted the king,
"remember your words of yesterday. You
said to me in this very place where you
now are, that you were endowed with the
best health of any man in France; that
fatigue was unknown to you! that you did
not mind spending whole days and nights
at your post. Did you tell me that,
monsieur, or not? Try and recall,
monsieur."

The officer sighed. "Sire," said he,
"old age is boastful; and it is
pardonable for old men to praise
themselves when others no longer do it.
It is very possible I said that; but the
fact is, sire, I am very much fatigued,
and request permission to retire."

"Monsieur," said the king, advancing
towards the officer with a gesture full
of majesty, "you are not assigning me
the true reason. You wish to quit my
service, it may be true, but you
disguise from me the motive of your
retreat."

"Sire, believe that ---- "

"I believe what I see, monsieur; I see a
vigorous, energetic man, full of
presence of mind, the best soldier in
France, perhaps; and this personage
cannot persuade me the least in the
world that you stand in need of rest."

"Ah! sire," said the lieutenant, with
bitterness, "what praise! Indeed, your
majesty confounds me! Energetic,
vigorous, brave, intelligent, the best
soldier in the army! But, sire, your
majesty exaggerates my small portion of
merit to such a point, that however good
an opinion I may have of myself, I do
not recognize myself; in truth I do not.
If I were vain enough to believe only
half of your majesty's words, I should
consider myself a valuable,
indispensable man. I should say that a
servant possessed of such brilliant
qualities was a treasure beyond all
price. Now, sire, I have been all my
life -- I feel bound to say it -- except
at the present time, appreciated, in my
opinion, much below my value. I
therefore repeat, your majesty
exaggerates."

The king knitted his brow, for he saw a
bitter raillery beneath the words of the
officer. "Come, monsieur," said he, "let
us meet the question frankly. Are you
dissatisfied with my service, say? No
evasions; speak boldly, frankly -- I
command you to do so."

The officer, who had been twisting his
hat about in his hands, with an
embarrassed air, for several minutes,
raised his head at these words. "Oh!
sire," said he, "that puts me a little
more at my ease. To a question put so
frankly, I will reply frankly. To tell
the truth is a good thing, as much from
the pleasure one feels in relieving
one's heart, as on account of the rarity
of the fact. I will speak the truth,
then, to my king, at the same time
imploring him to excuse the frankness of
an old soldier."

Louis looked at his officer with
anxiety, which he manifested by the
agitation of his gesture. "Well, then
speak," said he, "for I am impatient to
hear the truths you have to tell me."

The officer threw his hat upon a table,
and his countenance, always so
intelligent and martial, assumed, all at
once, a strange character of grandeur
and solemnity. "Sire," said he, "I quit
the king's service because I am
dissatisfied. The valet, in these times,
can approach his master as respectfully
as I do, can give him an account of his
labor, bring back his tools, return the
funds that have been intrusted to him,
and say, `Master, my day's work is done.
Pay me, if you please, and let us
part.'"

"Monsieur! monsieur!" exclaimed the
king, crimson with rage.

"Ah! sire," replied the officer, bending
his knee for a moment, "never was
servant more respectful than I am before
your majesty; only you commanded me to
tell the truth. Now I have begun to tell
it, it must come out, even if you
command me to hold my tongue."

There was so much resolution expressed
in the deep-sunk muscles of the
officer's countenance, that Louis XIV.
had no occasion to tell him to continue;
he continued, therefore, whilst the king
looked at him with a curiosity mingled
with admiration.

"Sire, I have, as I have said, now
served the house of France thirty-five
years; few people have worn out so many
swords in that service as I have, and
the swords I speak of were good swords,
too, sire. I was a boy, ignorant of
everything except courage, when the king
your father guessed that there was a man
in me. I was a man, sire, when the
Cardinal de Richelieu, who was a judge
of manhood, discovered an enemy in me.
Sire, the history of that enmity between
the ant and the lion may be read from
the first to the last line, in the
secret archives of your family. If ever
you feel an inclination to know it, do
so, sire; the history is worth the
trouble -- it is I who tell you so. You
will there read that the lion, fatigued,
harassed, out of breath, at length cried
for quarter, and the justice must be
rendered him to say that he gave as much
as he required. Oh! those were glorious
times, sire, strewed over with battles
like one of Tasso's or Ariosto's epics.
The wonders of those times, to which the
people of ours would refuse belief, were
every-day occurrences. For five years
together, I was a hero every day; at
least, so I was told by persons of
judgment; and that is a long period for
heroism, trust me, sire, a period of
five years. Nevertheless, I have faith
in what these people told me, for they
were good judges. They were named M. de
Richelieu, M. de Buckingham, M. de
Beaufort, M. de Retz, a mighty genius
himself in street warfare, -- in short,
the king, Louis XIII., and even the
queen, your noble mother, who one day
condescended to say, `Thank you.' I
don't know what service I had had the
good fortune to render her. Pardon me,
sire, for speaking so boldly; but what I
relate to you, as I have already had the
honor to tell your majesty, is history."

The king bit his lips, and threw himself
violently on a chair.

"I appear importunate to your majesty,"
said the lieutenant. "Eh! sire, that is
the fate of truth; she is a stern
companion; she bristles all over with
steel; she wounds those whom she
attacks, and sometimes him who speaks
her."

"No, monsieur," replied the king; "I
bade you speak -- speak then."

"After the service of the king and the
cardinal came the service of the
regency, sire; I fought pretty well in
the Fronde -- much less, though, than
the first time. The men began to
diminish in stature. I have,
nevertheless, led your majesty's
musketeers on some perilous occasions,
which stand upon the orders of the day
of the company. Mine was a beautiful
luck at that time. I was the favorite of
M. de Mazarin. Lieutenant here!
lieutenant there! lieutenant to the
right! lieutenant to the left! There was
not a buffet dealt in France, of which
your humble servant did not have the
dealing; but soon France was not enough.
The cardinal sent me to England on
Cromwell's account; another gentleman
who was not over gentle, I assure you,
sire. I had the honor of knowing him,
and I was well able to appreciate him. A
great deal was promised me on account of
that mission. So, as I did much more
than I had been bidden to do, I was
generously paid, for I was at length
appointed captain of the musketeers,
that is to say, the most envied position
in court, which takes precedence over
the marshals of France, and justly, for
who says captain of the musketeers says
the flower of chivalry and king of the
brave."

"Captain, monsieur!" interrupted the
king, "you make a mistake. Lieutenant,
you mean."

"Not at all, sire -- I make no mistake;
your majesty may rely upon me in that
respect. Monsieur le cardinal gave me
the commission himself."

"Well!"

"But M. de Mazarin, as you know better
than anybody, does not often give, and
sometimes takes back what he has given;
he took it back again as soon as peace
was made and he was no longer in want of
me. Certainly I was not worthy to
replace M. de Treville, of illustrious
memory; but they had promised me, and
they had given me; they ought to have
stopped there."

"Is that what dissatisfies you,
monsieur? Well I shall make inquiries. I
love justice; and your claim, though
made in military fashion, does not
displease me."

"Oh, sire!" said the officer, "your
majesty has ill understood me; I no
longer claim anything now."

"Excess of delicacy, monsieur; but I
will keep my eye upon your affairs, and
later ---- "

"Oh, sire! what a word! -- later! Thirty
years have I lived upon that promising
word, which has been pronounced by so
many great personages, and which your
mouth has, in its turn, just pronounced.
Later -- that is how I have received a
score of wounds, and how I have reached
fifty-four years of age without ever
having had a louis in my purse, and
without ever having met with a protector
on my way, -- I who have protected so
many people! So I change my formula,
sire; and when any one says to me
`Later,' I reply `Now.' It is rest that
I solicit, sire. That may be easily
granted me. That will cost nobody
anything."

"I did not look for this language,
monsieur, particularly from a man who
has always lived among the great. You
forget you are speaking to the king, to
a gentleman who is, I suppose, of as
good a house as yourself; and when I say
later, I mean a certainty."

"I do not at all doubt it, sire, but
this is the end of the terrible truth I
had to tell you. If I were to see upon
that table a marshal's stick, the sword
of constable, the crown of Poland,
instead of later, I swear to you, sire,
that I should still say Now! Oh, excuse
me, sire! I am from the country of your
grandfather, Henry IV. I do not speak
often; but when I do speak, I speak
all."

"The future of my reign has little
temptation for you, monsieur, it
appears," said Louis, haughtily.

"Forgetfulness, forgetfulness
everywhere!" cried the officer, with a
noble air; "the master has forgotten the
servant, so that the servant is reduced
to forget his master. I live in
unfortunate times, sire. I see youth
full of discouragement and fear, I see
it timid and despoiled, when it ought to
be rich and powerful. I yesterday
evening, for example, open the door to a
king of England, whose father, humble as
I am, I was near saving, if God had not
been against me -- God, who inspired His
elect, Cromwell! I open, I said, the
door, that is to say, the palace of one
brother to another brother, and I see --
stop, sire, that is a load on my
heart! -- I see the minister of that
king drive away the proscribed prince,
and humiliate his master by condemning
to want another king, his equal. Then I
see my prince, who is young, handsome,
and brave, who has courage in his heart,
and lightning in his eye, -- I see him
tremble before a priest, who laughs at
him behind the curtain of his alcove,
where he digests all the gold of France,
which he afterwards stuffs into secret
coffers. Yes -- I understand your looks,
sire. I am bold to madness; but what is
to be said? I am an old man, and I tell
you here, sire, to you, my king, things
which I would cram down the throat of
any one who should dare to pronounce
them before me. You have commanded me to
pour out the bottom of my heart before
you, sire, and I cast at the feet of
your majesty the pent-up indignation of
thirty years, as I would pour out all my
blood, if your majesty commanded me to
do so."

The king, without speaking a word, wiped
the drops of cold and abundant
perspiration which trickled from his
temples. The moment of silence which
followed this vehement outbreak
represented for him who had spoken, and
for him who had listened, ages of
suffering.

"Monsieur," said the king at length,
"you spoke the word forgetfulness. I
have heard nothing but that word; I will
reply, then, to it alone. Others have
perhaps been able to forget, but I have
not, and the proof is, that I remember
that one day of riot, that one day when
the furious people, raging and roaring
as the sea, invaded the royal palace;
that one day when I feigned sleep in my
bed, one man alone, naked sword in hand,
concealed behind my curtain, watched
over my life, ready to risk his own for
me, as he had before risked it twenty
times for the lives of my family. Was
not the gentleman, whose name I then
demanded, called M. d'Artagnan? say,
monsieur."

"Your majesty has a good memory,"
replied the officer, coldly.

"You see, then," continued the king, "if
I have such remembrances of my
childhood, what an amount I may gather
in the age of reason."

"Your majesty has been richly endowed by
God," said the officer, in the same
tone.

"Come, Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued
Louis, with feverish agitation, "ought
you not to be as patient as I am? Ought
you not to do as I do? Come!"

"And what do you do, sire?"

"I wait."

"Your majesty may do so, because you are
young; but I, sire, have not time to
wait; old age is at my door, and death
is behind it, looking into the very
depths of my house. Your majesty is
beginning life, its future is full of
hope and fortune; but I, sire, I am on
the other side of the horizon, and we
are so far from each other, that I
should never have time to wait till your
majesty came up to me."

Louis made another turn in his
apartment, still wiping the moisture
from his brow, in a manner that would
have terrified his physicians, if his
physicians had witnessed the state his
majesty was in.

"It is very well, monsieur," said Louis
XIV., in a sharp voice; "you are
desirous of having your discharge, and
you shall have it. You offer me your
resignation of the rank of lieutenant of
the musketeers?"

"I deposit it humbly at your majesty's
feet, sire."

"That is sufficient. I will order your
pension."

"I shall have a thousand obligations to
your majesty."

"Monsieur," said the king, with a
violent effort, "I think you are losing
a good master."

"And I am sure of it, sire."

"Shall you ever find such another?"

"Oh, sire! I know that your majesty is
alone in the world; therefore will I
never again take service with any king
upon earth, and will never again have
other master than myself."

"You say so?"

"I swear so, your majesty."

"I shall remember that word, monsieur."

D'Artagnan bowed.

"And you know I have a good memory,"
said the king.

"Yes, sire, and yet I should desire that
that memory should fail your majesty in
this instance, in order that you might
forget all the miseries I have been
forced to spread before your eyes. Your
majesty is so much above the poor and
the mean that I hope ---- "

"My majesty, monsieur, will act like the
sun, which looks upon all, great and
small, rich and poor, giving luster to
some, warmth to others, and life to all.
Adieu Monsieur d'Artagnan -- adieu: you
are free."

And the king, with a hoarse sob, which
was lost in his throat, passed quickly
into the next room. D'Artagnan took up
his hat from the table upon which he had
thrown it, and went out.




CHAPTER 15

The Proscribed



D'Artagnan had not reached the bottom of
the staircase, when the king called his
gentleman. "I have a commission to give
you, monsieur," said he.

"I am at your majesty's commands."

"Wait, then." And the young king began
to write the following letter, which
cost him more than one sigh, although,
at the same time, something like a
feeling of triumph glittered in his
eyes:



"My Lord Cardinal, -- Thanks to your
good counsels and, above all, thanks to
your firmness, I have succeeded in
overcoming a weakness unworthy of a
king. You have too ably arranged my
destiny to allow gratitude not to stop
me at the moment when I was about to
destroy your work. I felt I was wrong to
wish to make my life turn from the
course you had marked out for it.
Certainly it would have been a
misfortune to France and my family if a
misunderstanding had taken place between
me and my minister. This, however, would
certainly have happened if I had made
your niece my wife. I am perfectly aware
of this, and will henceforth oppose
nothing to the accomplishment of my
destiny. I am prepared, then, to wed the
infanta, Maria Theresa. You may at once
open the conference. -- Your
affectionate Louis."



The king, after reperusing the letter,
sealed it himself. "This letter for my
lord cardinal," said he.

The gentleman took it. At Mazarin's door
he found Bernouin waiting with anxiety.

"Well?" asked the minister's valet de
chambre.

"Monsieur," said the gentleman, "here is
a letter for his eminence."

"A letter! Ah! we expected one after the
little journey of the morning."

"Oh! you know, then, that his
majesty ---- "

"As first minister, it belongs to the
duties of our charge to know everything.
And his majesty prays and implores, I
presume."

"I don't know, but he sighed frequently
whilst he was writing."

"'Yes, yes, yes; we understand all that;
people sigh sometimes from happiness as
well as from grief, monsieur."

"And yet the king did not look very
happy when he returned, monsieur."

"You did not see clearly. Besides, you
only saw his majesty on his return, for
he was only accompanied by the
lieutenant of the guards. But I had his
eminence's telescope, I looked through
it when he was tired, and I am sure they
both wept."

"Well! was it for happiness they wept?"

"No, but for love, and they vowed to
each other a thousand tendernesses,
which the king asks no better than to
keep. Now this letter is a beginning of
the execution."

"And what does his eminence think of
this love, which is, by the bye, no
secret to anybody?"

Bernouin took the gentleman by the arm,
and whilst ascending the staircase, --
"In confidence," said he, in a low
voice, "his eminence looks for success
in the affair. I know very well we shall
have war with Spain; but, bah! war will
please the nobles. My lord cardinal,
besides, can endow his niece royally,
nay, more than royally. There will be
money, festivities, and fireworks --
everybody will be delighted."

"Well, for my part," replied the
gentleman, shaking his head, "it appears
to me that this letter is very light to
contain all that."

"My friend," replied Bernouin, "I am
certain of what I tell you. M.
d'Artagnan related all that passed to
me."

"Ay, ay! and what did he tell you? Let
us hear."

"I accosted him by asking him, on the
part of the cardinal, if there were any
news, without discovering my designs,
observe, for M. d'Artagnan is a cunning
hand. `My dear Monsieur Bernouin,' he
replied, `the king is madly in love with
Mademoiselle de Mancini, that is all I
have to tell you.' And then I asked him
`Do you think, to such a degree that it
will urge him to act contrary to the
designs of his eminence?' `Ah! don't ask
me,' said he; `I think the king capable
of anything; he has a will of iron, and
what he wills he wills in earnest. If he
takes it into his head to marry
Mademoiselle de Mancini, he will marry
her, depend upon it.' And thereupon he
left me and went straight to the
stables, took a horse, saddled it
himself, jumped upon its back, and set
off as if the devil were at his heels."

"So that you believe, then ---- "

"I believe that monsieur the lieutenant
of the guards knew more than he was
willing to say."

"In your opinion, then, M.
d'Artagnan ---- "

"Is gone, according to all probability,
after the exiles, to carry out all that
can facilitate the success of the king's
love."

Chatting thus, the two confidants
arrived at the door of his eminence's
apartment. His eminence's gout had left
him; he was walking about his chamber in
a state of great anxiety, listening at
doors and looking out of windows.
Bernouin entered, followed by the
gentleman, who had orders from the king
to place the letter in the hands of the
cardinal himself. Mazarin took the
letter, but before opening it, he got up
a ready smile, a smile of circumstance,
able to throw a veil over emotions of
whatever sort they might be. So
prepared, whatever was the impression
received from the letter, no reflection
of that impression was allowed to
transpire upon his countenance.

"Well," said he, when he had read and
reread the letter, "very well, monsieur.
Inform the king that I thank him for his
obedience to the wishes of the
queen-mother, and that I will do
everything for the accomplishment of his
will."

The gentlemen left the room. The door
had scarcely closed before the cardinal,
who had no mask for Bernouin, took off
that which had so recently covered his
face, and with a most dismal
expression, -- "Call M. de Brienne,"
said he. Five minutes afterward the
secretary entered.

"Monsieur," said Mazarin, "I have just
rendered a great service to the
monarchy, the greatest I have ever
rendered it. You will carry this letter,
which proves it, to her majesty the
queen-mother, and when she shall have
returned it to you, you will lodge it in
portfolio B., which is filled with
documents and papers relative to my
ministry."

Brienne went as desired, and, as the
letter was unsealed, did not fail to
read it on his way. There is likewise no
doubt that Bernouin, who was on good
terms with everybody, approached so near
to the secretary as to be able to read
the letter over his shoulder; so that
the news spread with such activity
through the castle, that Mazarin might
have feared it would reach the ears of
the queen-mother before M. de Brienne
could convey Louis XIV.'s letter to her.
A moment after orders were given for
departure, and M. de Conde having been
to pay his respects to the king on his
pretended rising, inscribed the city of
Poitiers upon his tablets, as the place
of sojourn and rest for their majesties.

Thus in a few instants was unraveled an
intrigue which had covertly occupied all
the diplomacies of Europe. It had
nothing, however, very clear as a
result, but to make a poor lieutenant of
musketeers lose his commission and his
fortune. It is true, that in exchange he
gained his liberty. We shall soon know
how M. d'Artagnan profited by this. For
the moment, if the reader will permit
us, we shall return to the hostelry of
les Medici, of which one of the windows
opened at the very moment the orders
were given for the departure of the
king.

The window that opened was that of one
of the rooms of Charles II. The
unfortunate prince had passed the night
in bitter reflections, his head resting
on his hands, and his elbows on the
table, whilst Parry, infirm and old,
wearied in body and in mind, had fallen
asleep in a corner. A singular fortune
was that of this faithful servant, who
saw beginning for the second generation
the fearful series of misfortunes which
had weighed so heavily on the first.
When Charles II. had well thought over
the fresh defeat he had experienced,
when he perfectly comprehended the
complete isolation into which he had
just fallen, on seeing his fresh hope
left behind him, he was seized as with a
vertigo, and sank back in the large
armchair in which he was seated. Then
God took pity on the unhappy prince, and
sent to console him sleep, the innocent
brother of death. He did not wake till
half-past six, that is to say, till the
sun shone brightly into his chamber, and
Parry, motionless with fear of waking
him, was observing with profound grief
the eyes of the young man already red
with wakefulness, and his cheeks pale
with suffering and privations.

At length the noise of some heavy carts
descending towards the Loire awakened
Charles. He arose, looked around him
like a man who has forgotten everything,
perceived Parry, shook him by the hand,
and commanded him to settle the
reckoning with Master Cropole. Master
Cropole, being called upon to settle his
account with Parry, acquitted himself,
it must be allowed, like an honest man;
he only made his customary remark, that
the two travelers had eaten nothing,
which had the double disadvantage of
being humiliating for his kitchen, and
of forcing him to ask payment for a
repast not consumed, but not the less
lost. Parry had nothing to say to the
contrary, and paid.

"I hope," said the king, "it has not
been the same with the horses. I don't
see that they have eaten at your
expense, and it would be a misfortune
for travelers like us, who have a long
journey to make, to have our horses fail
us."

But Cropole, at this doubt, assumed his
majestic air, and replied that the
stables of les Medici were not less
hospitable than its refectory.

The king mounted his horse; his old
servant did the same, and both set out
towards Paris, without meeting a single
person on their road, in the streets or
the faubourgs of the city. For the
prince the blow was the more severe, as
it was a fresh exile. The unfortunates
cling to the smallest hopes, as the
happy do to the greatest good; and when
they are obliged to quit the place where
that hope has soothed their hearts, they
experience the mortal regret which the
banished man feels when he places his
foot upon the vessel which is to bear
him into exile. It appears that the
heart already wounded so many times
suffers from the least scratch; it
appears that it considers as a good the
momentary absence of evil, which is
nothing but the absence of pain; and
that God, into the most terrible
misfortunes, has thrown hope as the drop
of water which the rich bad man in hell
entreated of Lazarus.

For one instant even the hope of Charles
II. had been more than a fugitive
joy; -- that was when he found himself
so kindly welcomed by his brother king;
then it had taken a form that had become
a reality; then, all at once, the
refusal of Mazarin had reduced the
fictitious reality to the state of a
dream. This promise of Louis XIV., so
soon retracted, had been nothing but a
mockery; a mockery like his crown --
like his scepter -- like his friends --
like all that had surrounded his royal
childhood, and which had abandoned his
proscribed youth. Mockery! everything
was a mockery for Charles II. except the
cold, black repose promised by death.

Such were the ideas of the unfortunate
prince while sitting listlessly upon his
horse, to which he abandoned the reins;
he rode slowly along beneath the warm
May sun, in which the somber misanthropy
of the exile perceived a last insult to
his grief.




CHAPTER 16

"Remember!"



A horseman was going rapidly along the
road leading towards Blois, which he had
left nearly half an hour before, passed
the two travelers, and, though
apparently in haste, raised his hat as
he passed them. The king scarcely
observed this young man, who was about
twenty-five years of age, and who,
turning round several times, made
friendly signals to a man standing
before the gate of a handsome
white-and-red house; that is to say,
built of brick and stone, with a slated
roof, situated on the left hand of the
road the prince was traveling.

This man, old, tall, and thin, with
white hair, -- we speak of the one
standing by the gate; -- this man
replied to the farewell signals of the
young one by signs of parting as tender
as could have been made by a father, The
young man disappeared at the first turn
of the road, bordered by fine trees, and
the old man was preparing to return to
the house, when the two travelers,
arriving in front of the gate, attracted
his attention.

The king, we have said, was riding with
his head cast down, his arms inert,
leaving his horse to go what pace he
liked, whilst Parry, behind him, the
better to imbibe the genial influence of
the sun, had taken off his hat, and was
looking about right and left. His eyes
encountered those of the old man leaning
against the gate; the latter, as if
struck by some strange spectacle,
uttered an exclamation, and made one
step towards the two travelers. From
Parry his eyes immediately turned
towards the king, upon whom they rested
for an instant. This exclamation,
however rapid, was instantly reflected
in a visible manner upon the features of
the tall old man. For scarcely had he
recognized the younger of the
travelers -- and we say recognized, for
nothing but a perfect recognition could
have explained such an act -- scarcely,
we say, had he recognized the younger of
the two travelers, than he clapped his
hands together, with respectful
surprise, and, raising his hat from his
head, bowed so profoundly that it might
have been said he was kneeling. This
demonstration, however absent, or
rather, however absorbed was the king in
his reflections, attracted his attention
instantly; and checking his horse and
turning towards Parry, he exclaimed,
"Good God, Parry, who is that man who
salutes me in such a marked manner? Can
he know me, think you?"

Parry, much agitated and very pale, had
already turned his horse towards the
gate. "Ah, sire!" said he, stopping
suddenly at five of six paces' distance
from the still bending man: "sire, I am
seized with astonishment, for I think I
recognize that brave man. Yes, it must
be he! Will your majesty permit me to
speak to him?"

"Certainly."

"Can it be you, Monsieur Grimaud?" asked
Parry.

"Yes, it is I," replied the tall old
man, drawing himself up, but without
losing his respectful demeanor.

"Sire," then said Parry, "I was not
deceived. This good man is the servant
of the Comte de la Fere, and the Comte
de la Fere, if you remember, is the
worthy gentleman of whom I have so often
spoken to your majesty that the
remembrance of him must remain, not only
in your mind, but in your heart."

"He who assisted my father at his last
moments?" asked Charles, evidently
affected at the remembrance.

"The same, sire."

"Alas!" said Charles; and then
addressing Grimaud, whose penetrating
and intelligent eyes seemed to search
and divine his thoughts, -- "My friend,"
said he, "does your master, Monsieur le
Comte de la Fere, live in this
neighborhood?"

"There," replied Grimaud, pointing with
his outstretched arm to the
white-and-red house behind the gate.

"And is Monsieur le Comte de la Fere at
home at present?"

"At the back, under the chestnut trees."

"Parry," said the king, "I will not miss
this opportunity, so precious for me, to
thank the gentleman to whom our house is
indebted for such a noble example of
devotedness and generosity. Hold my
horse, my friend, if you please." And,
throwing the bridle to Grimaud, the king
entered the abode of Athos, quite alone,
as one equal enters the dwelling of
another. Charles had been informed by
the concise explanation of Grimaud, --
"At the back, under the chestnut trees;"
he left, therefore, the house on the
left, and went straight down the path
indicated. The thing was easy; the tops
of those noble trees, already covered
with leaves and flowers, rose above all
the rest.

On arriving under the lozenges, by turns
luminous and dark, which checkered the
ground of this path according as the
trees were more or less in leaf, the
young prince perceived a gentleman
walking with his arms behind him,
apparently plunged in a deep meditation.
Without doubt, he had often had this
gentleman described to him, for, without
hesitating, Charles II. walked straight
up to him. At the sound of his
footsteps, the Comte de la Fere raised
his head, and seeing an unknown man of
noble and elegant carriage coming
towards him, he raised his hat and
waited. At some paces from him, Charles
II. likewise took off his hat. Then, as
if in reply to the comte's mute
interrogation, --

"Monsieur le Comte," said he," I come to
discharge a duty towards you. I have,
for a long time, had the expression of a
profound gratitude to bring you. I am
Charles II., son of Charles Stuart, who
reigned in England, and died on the
scaffold."

On hearing this illustrious name, Athos
felt a kind of shudder creep through his
veins, but at the sight of the young
prince standing uncovered before him,
and stretching out his hand towards him,
two tears, for an instant, dimmed his
brilliant eyes. He bent respectfully,
but the prince took him by the hand.

"See how unfortunate I am, my lord
count; it is only due to chance that I
have met with you. Alas! I ought to have
people around me whom I love and honor,
whereas I am reduced to preserve their
services in my heart, and their names in
my memory: so that if your servant had
not recognized mine, I should have
passed by your door as by that of a
stranger."

"It is but too true," said Athos,
replying with his voice to the first
part of the king's speech, and with a
bow to the second; "it is but too true,
indeed, that your majesty has seen many
evil days."

"And the worst, alas!" replied Charles,
"are perhaps still to come."

"Sire, let us hope."

"Count, count," continued Charles,
shaking his head, "I entertained hope
till last night, and that of a good
Christian, I swear."

Athos looked at the king as if to
interrogate him.

"Oh, the history is soon related," said
Charles. "Proscribed, despoiled,
disdained, I resolved, in spite of all
my repugnance, to tempt fortune one last
time. Is it not written above, that, for
our family, all good fortune and all bad
fortune shall eternally come from
France? You know something of that,
monsieur, -- you, who are one of the
Frenchmen whom my unfortunate father
found at the foot of his scaffold, on
the day of his death, after having found
them at his right hand on the day of
battle."

"Sire," said Athos modestly, "I was not
alone. My companions and I did, under
the circumstances, our duty as
gentlemen, and that was all. Your
majesty was about to do me the honor to
relate ---- "

"That is true. I had the protection, --
pardon my hesitation, count, but, for a
Stuart, you, who understand everything,
you will comprehend that the word is
hard to pronounce; -- I had, I say, the
protection of my cousin the stadtholder
of Holland; but without the
intervention, or at least without the
authorization of France, the stadtholder
would not take the initiative. I came,
then, to ask this authorization of the
king of France, who has refused me."

"The king has refused you, sire!"

"Oh, not he; all justice must be
rendered to my younger brother Louis;
but Monsieur de Mazarin ---- "

Athos bit his lips.

"You perhaps think I should have
expected this refusal?" said the king,
who had noticed the movement.

"That was, in truth, my thought, sire,"
replied Athos, respectfully, "I know
that Italian of old."

"Then I determined to come to the test,
and know at once the last word of my
destiny. I told my brother Louis, that,
not to compromise either France or
Holland, I would tempt fortune myself in
person, as I had already done, with two
hundred gentlemen, if he would give them
to me, and a million, if he would lend
it me."

"Well, sire?"

"Well, monsieur, I am suffering at this
moment something strange, and that is,
the satisfaction of despair. There is in
certain souls, -- and I have just
discovered that mine is of the
number, -- a real satisfaction in the
assurance that all is lost, and the time
is come to yield."

"Oh, I hope," said Athos, "that your
majesty is not come to that extremity."

"To say so, my lord count, to endeavor
to revive hope in my heart, you must
have ill understood what I have just
told you. I came to Blois to ask of my
brother Louis the alms of a million,
with which I had the hopes of
re-establishing my affairs; and my
brother Louis has refused me. You see,
then, plainly, that all is lost."

"Will your majesty permit me to express
a contrary opinion?"

"How is that, count? Do you think my
heart of so low an order that I do not
know how to face my position?"

"Sire, I have always seen that it was in
desperate positions that suddenly the
great turns of fortune have taken
place."

"Thank you, count, it is some comfort to
meet with a heart like yours, that is to
say, sufficiently trustful in God and in
monarchy, never to despair of a royal
fortune, however low it may be fallen.
Unfortunately, my dear count, your words
are like those remedies they call
`sovereign,' and which, though able to
cure curable wounds or diseases, fail
against death. Thank you for your
perseverance in consoling me, count,
thanks for your devoted remembrance, but
I know in what I must trust -- nothing
will save me now. And see, my friend, I
was so convinced, that I was taking the
route of exile with my old Parry; I was
returning to devour my poignant griefs
in the little hermitage offered me by
Holland. There, believe me, count, all
will soon be over, and death will come
quickly, it is called so often by this
body, eaten up by its soul, and by this
soul, which aspires to heaven."

"Your majesty has a mother, a sister,
and brothers; your majesty is the head
of the family, and ought, therefore, to
ask a long life of God, instead of
imploring Him for a prompt death. Your
majesty is an exile, a fugitive, but you
have right on your side; you ought to
aspire to combats, dangers, business,
and not to rest in heavens."

"Count," said Charles II., with a smile
of indescribable sadness, "have you ever
heard of a king who reconquered his
kingdom with one servant of the age of
Parry, and with three hundred crowns
which that servant carried in his
purse?"

"No, sire; but I have heard -- and that
more than once -- that a dethroned king
has recovered his kingdom with a firm
will, perseverance, some friends, and a
million skillfully employed."

"But you cannot have understood me. The
million I asked of my brother Louis was
refused me."

"Sire," said Athos, "will your majesty
grant me a few minutes, and listen
attentively to what remains for me to
say to you?"

Charles II. looked earnestly at Athos.
"Willingly, monsieur," said he.

"Then I will show your majesty the way,"
resumed the count, directing his steps
towards the house. He then conducted the
king to his study, and begged him to be
seated. "Sire," said he, "your majesty
just now told me that, in the present
state of England, a million would
suffice for the recovery of your
kingdom."

"To attempt it at least, monsieur, and
to die as a king if I should not
succeed."

"Well, then, sire, let your majesty,
according to the promise you have made
me, have the goodness to listen to what
I have to say." Charles made an
affirmative sign with his head. Athos
walked straight up to the door, the
bolts of which he drew, after looking to
see if anybody was near, and then
returned. "Sire," said he, "your majesty
has kindly remembered that I lent
assistance to the very noble and very
unfortunate Charles I., when his
executioners conducted him from St.
James's to Whitehall."

"Yes, certainly, I do remember it, and
always shall remember it."

"Sire, it is a dismal history to be
heard by a son who no doubt has had it
related to him many times; and yet I
ought to repeat it to your majesty
without omitting one detail."

"Speak on, monsieur."

"When the king your father ascended the
scaffold, or rather when he passed from
his chamber to the scaffold on a level
with his window, everything was prepared
for his escape. The executioner was got
out of the way; a hole contrived under
the floor of his apartment; I myself was
beneath the funeral vault, which I heard
all at once creak beneath his feet."

"Parry has related to me all these
terrible details, monsieur."

Athos bowed, and resumed. "But here is
something he has not related to you,
sire, for what follows passed between
God, your father, and myself; and never
has the revelation of it been made even
to my dearest friends. `Go a little
further off,' said the august patient to
the executioner; `it is but for an
instant, and I know that I belong to
you; but remember not to strike till I
give the signal. I wish to offer up my
prayers in freedom.'"

"Pardon me," said Charles II., turning
very pale, "but you, count, who know so
many details of this melancholy
event, -- details which, as you said
just now, have never been revealed to
anyone, -- do you know the name of that
infernal executioner, of that base
wretch who concealed his face that he
might assassinate a king with impunity?"

Athos became slightly pale. "His name?"
said he, "yes, I know it, but cannot
tell it."

"And what is become of him, for nobody
in England knows his destiny?"

"He is dead."

"But he did not die in his bed; he did
not die a calm and peaceful death, he
did not die the death of the good?"

"He died a violent death, in a terrible
night, rendered so by the passions of
man and a tempest from God. His body,
pierced by a dagger, sank to the depths
of the ocean. God pardon his murderer!"

"Proceed, then," said Charles II.,
seeing that the count was unwilling to
say more.

"The king of England, after having, as I
have said, spoken thus to the masked
executioner, added, -- `Observe, you
will not strike till I shall stretch out
my arms saying -- REMEMBER!'"

"I was aware," said Charles, in an
agitated voice, "that that was the last
word pronounced by my unfortunate
father. But why and for whom?"

"For the French gentleman placed beneath
his scaffold."

"For you, then, monsieur?"

"Yes, sire; and every one of the words
which he spoke to me, through the planks
of the scaffold covered with a black
cloth, still sounds in my ears. The king
knelt down on one knee: `Comte de la
Fere,' said he, `are you there?' `Yes,
sire,' replied I. Then the king stooped
towards the boards."

Charles II., also palpitating with
interest, burning with grief, stooped
towards Athos, to catch, one by one,
every word that escaped from him. His
head touched that of the comte.

"Then," continued Athos, "the king
stooped. `Comte de la Fere,' said he, `I
could not be saved by you: it was not to
be. Now, even though I commit a
sacrilege, I must speak to you. Yes, I
have spoken to men -- yes, I have spoken
to God, and I speak to you the last. To
sustain a cause which I thought sacred,
I have lost the throne of my fathers and
the heritage of my children.'"

Charles II. concealed his face in his
hands, and a bitter tear glided between
his white and slender fingers.

"`I have still a million in gold,'
continued the king. `I buried it in the
vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a
moment before I left that city.'"
Charles raised his head with an
expression of such painful joy that it
would have drawn tears from any one
acquainted with his misfortunes.

"A million!" murmured he. "Oh, count!"

"`You alone know that this money exists:
employ it when you think it can be of
the greatest service to my eldest son.
And now, Comte de la Fere, bid me
adieu!'

"`Adieu, adieu, sire!' cried I."

Charles arose, and went and leant his
burning brow against the window.

"It was then," continued Athos, "that
the king pronounced the word,
`REMEMBER!' addressed to me. You see,
sire, that I have remembered."

The king could not resist or conceal his
emotion. Athos beheld the movement of
his shoulders, which undulated
convulsively; he heard the sobs which
burst from his overcharged breast. He
was silent himself, suffocated by the
flood of bitter remembrances he had just
poured upon that royal head. Charles
II., with a violent effort, left the
window, devoured his tears, and came and
sat by Athos. "Sire," said the latter,
"I thought till to-day that the time had
not yet arrived for the employment of
that last resource; but, with my eyes
fixed upon England, I felt it was
approaching. To-morrow I meant to go and
inquire in what part of the world your
majesty was, and then I purposed going
to you. You come to me, sire; that is an
indication that God is with us."

"My lord," said Charles, in a voice
choked by emotion, "you are, for me,
what an angel sent from heaven would
be, -- you are a preserver sent to me
from the tomb of my father himself; but,
believe me, for ten years' civil war has
passed over my country, striking down
men, tearing up the soil, it is no more
probable that gold should remain in the
entrails of the earth, than love in the
hearts of my subjects."

"Sire, the spot in which his majesty
buried the million is well known to me,
and no one, I am sure, has been able to
discover it. Besides, is the castle of
Newcastle quite destroyed? Have they
demolished it stone by stone, and
uprooted the soil to the last tree?"

"No, it is still standing: but at this
moment General Monk occupies it and is
encamped there. The only spot from which
I could look for succor, where I possess
a single resource, you see, is invaded
by my enemies."

"General Monk, sire, cannot have
discovered the treasure which I speak
of."

"Yes, but can I go and deliver myself up
to Monk, in order to recover this
treasure? Ah! count, you see plainly I
must yield to destiny, since it strikes
me to the earth every time I rise. What
can I do with Parry as my only servant,
with Parry, whom Monk has already driven
from his presence? No, no, no, count, we
must yield to this last blow."

"But what your majesty cannot do, and
what Parry can no more attempt, do you
not believe that I could succeed in
accomplishing?"

"You -- you, count -- you would go?"

"If it please your majesty," said Athos,
bowing to the king, "yes, I will go,
sire."

"What! you so happy here, count?"

"I am never happy when I have a duty
left to accomplish, and it is an
imperative duty which the king your
father left me to watch over your
fortunes, and make a royal use of his
money. So, if your majesty honors me
with a sign, I will go with you."

"Ah, monsieur!" said the king,
forgetting all royal etiquette, and
throwing his arms around the neck of
Athos, "you prove to me that there is a
God in heaven, and that this God
sometimes sends messengers to the
unfortunate who groan on the earth."

Athos, exceedingly moved by this burst
of feeling of the young man, thanked him
with profound respect, and approached
the window. "Grimaud!" cried he, "bring
out my horses."

"What, now -- immediately!" said the
king. "Ah, monsieur, you are indeed a
wonderful man!"

"Sire," said Athos, "I know nothing more
pressing than your majesty's service.
Besides," added he, smiling, "it is a
habit contracted long since, in the
service of the queen your aunt, and of
the king your father. How is it possible
for me to lose it at the moment your
majesty's service calls for it?"

"What a man!" murmured the king.

Then after a moment's reflection, --
"But no, count, I cannot expose you to
such privations. I have no means of
rewarding such services."

"Bah!" said Athos, laughing. "Your
majesty is joking, have you not a
million? Ah! why am I not possessed of
half such a sum! I would already have
raised a regiment. But, thank God! I
have still a few rolls of gold and some
family diamonds left. Your majesty will,
I hope, deign to share with a devoted
servant."

"With a friend -- yes, count, but on
condition that, in his turn, that friend
will share with me hereafter!"

"Sire!" said Athos, opening a casket,
from which he drew both gold and jewels,
"you see, sire, we are too rich.
Fortunately, there are four of us, in
the event of our meeting with thieves."

Joy made the blood rush to the pale
cheeks of Charles II., as he saw Athos's
two horses, led by Grimaud, already
booted for the journey, advance towards
the porch.

"Blaisois, this letter for the Vicomte
de Bragelonne. For everybody else I am
gone to Paris. I confide the house to
you, Blaisois." Blaisois bowed, shook
hands with Grimaud, and shut the gate.




CHAPTER 17

In which Aramis is sought and only Bazin
is found



Two hours had scarcely elapsed since the
departure of the master of the house,
who, in Blaisois's sight, had taken the
road to Paris, when a horseman, mounted
on a good pied horse, stopped before the
gate, and with a sonorous "hola!" called
the stable-boys who, with the gardeners,
had formed a circle round Blaisois, the
historian-in-ordinary to the household
of the chateau. This "hola," doubtless
well known to Master Blaisois, made him
turn his head and exclaim -- "Monsieur
d'Artagnan! run quickly, you chaps, and
open the gate."

A swarm of eight brisk lads flew to the
gate, which was opened as if it had been
made of feathers; and every one loaded
him with attentions, for they knew the
welcome this friend was accustomed to
receive from their master; and for such
remarks the eye of the valet may always
be depended upon.

"Ah!" said M. d'Artagnan, with an
agreeable smile, balancing himself upon
his stirrup to jump to the ground,
"where is that dear count?"

"Ah! how unfortunate you are, monsieur!"
said Blaisois: "and how unfortunate will
monsieur le comte our master, think
himself when he hears of your coming! As
ill luck will have it, monsieur le comte
left home two hours ago."

D'Artagnan did not trouble himself about
such trifles. "Very good!" said he. "You
always speak the best French in the
world; you shall give me a lesson in
grammar and correct language, whilst I
wait the return of your master."

"That is impossible, monsieur," said
Blaisois; "you would have to wait too
long."

"Will he not come back to-day, then?"

"No, nor to-morrow, nor the day after
to-morrow. Monsieur le comte has gone on
a journey."

"A journey!" said D'Artagnan, surprised;
"that's a fable, Master Blaisois."

"Monsieur, it is no more than the truth.
Monsieur has done me the honor to give
me the house in charge; and he added,
with his voice so full of authority and
kindness -- that is all one to me: `You
will say I have gone to Paris.'"

"Well!" cried D'Artagnan, "since he is
gone towards Paris, that is all I wanted
to know! you should have told me so at
first, booby! He is then two hours in
advance?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I shall soon overtake him. Is he
alone?"

"No, monsieur."

"Who is with him, then?"

"A gentleman whom I don't know, an old
man, and M. Grimaud."

"Such a party cannot travel as fast as I
can -- I will start."

"Will monsieur listen to me an instant?"
said Blaisois, laying his hand gently on
the reins of the horse.

"Yes, if you don't favor me with fine
speeches, and make haste."

"Well, then, monsieur, that word Paris
appears to me to be only an excuse."

"Oh, oh!" said D'Artagnan, seriously,
"an excuse, eh?"

"Yes, monsieur; and monsieur le comte is
not going to Paris, I will swear."

"What makes you think so?"

"This -- M. Grimaud always knows where
our master is going; and he had promised
me that the first time he went to Paris,
he would take a little money for me to
my wife."

"What, have you a wife, then?"

"I had one -- she was of this country;
but monsieur thought her a noisy scold,
and I sent her to Paris; it is sometimes
inconvenient, but very agreeable at
others."

"I understand; but go on. You do not
believe the count gone to Paris?"

"No, monsieur; for then M. Grimaud would
have broken his word; he would have
perjured himself, and that is
impossible."

"That is impossible," repeated
D'Artagnan, quite in a study, because he
was quite convinced. "Well, my brave
Blaisois, many thanks to you."

Blaisois bowed.

"Come, you know I am not curious -- I
have serious business with your master.
Could you not, by a little bit of a
word -- you who speak so well -- give me
to understand -- one syllable, only -- I
will guess the rest."

"Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot. I am
quite ignorant where monsieur le comte
is gone. As to listening at doors, that
is contrary to my nature; and besides it
is forbidden here."

"My dear fellow," said D'Artagnan, "this
is a very bad beginning for me. Never
mind, you know when monsieur le comte
will return, at least?"

"As little, monsieur, as the place of
his destination."

"Come, Blaisois, come, search."

"Monsieur doubts my sincerity? Ah,
monsieur, that grieves me much."

"The devil take his gilded tongue!"
grumbled D'Artagnan. "A clown with a
word would be worth a dozen of him.
Adieu!"

"Monsieur, I have the honor to present
you my respects."

"Cuistre!" said D'Artagnan to himself,
"the fellow is unbearable." He gave
another look up to the house, turned his
horse's head, and set off like a man who
has nothing either annoying or
embarrassing in his mind. When he was at
the end of the wall, and out of
sight, -- "Well, now, I wonder," said
he, breathing quickly, "whether Athos
was at home. No; all those idlers,
standing with their arms crossed, would
have been at work if the eye of the
master was near. Athos gone a
journey? -- that is incomprehensible.
Bah! it is all devilish mysterious! And
then -- no -- he is not the man I want.
I want one of a cunning, patient mind.
My business is at Melun, in a certain
presbytery I am acquainted with.
Forty-five leagues -- four days and a
half! Well, it is fine weather, and I am
free. Never mind the distance!"

And he put his horse into a trot,
directing his course towards Paris. On
the fourth day he alighted at Melun as
he had intended.

D'Artagnan was never in the habit of
asking any one on the road for any
common information. For these sorts of
details, unless in very serious
circumstances, he confided in his
perspicacity, which was so seldom at
fault, in his experience of thirty
years, and in a great habit of reading
the physiognomies of houses, as well as
those of men. At Melun, D'Artagnan
immediately found the presbytery -- a
charming house, plastered over red
brick, with vines climbing along the
gutters, and a cross, in carved stone,
surmounting the ridge of the roof. From
the ground-floor of this house came a
noise, or rather a confusion of voices,
like the chirping of young birds when
the brood is just hatched under the
down. One of these voices was spelling
the alphabet distinctly. A voice, thick,
yet pleasant, at the same time scolded
the talkers and corrected the faults of
the reader. D'Artagnan recognized that
voice, and as the window of the
ground-floor was open, he leant down
from his horse under the branches and
red fibers of the vine and cried "Bazin,
my dear Bazin! good-day to you."

A short, fat man, with a flat face, a
craniun ornamented with a crown of gray
hairs, cut short, in imitation of a
tonsure, and covered with an old black
velvet cap, arose as soon as he heard
D'Artagnan -- we ought not to say arose,
but bounded up. In fact, Bazin bounded
up, carrying with him his little low
chair, which the children tried to take
away, with battles more fierce than
those of the Greeks endeavoring to
recover the body of Patroclus from the
hands of the Trojans. Bazin did more
than bound; he let fall both his
alphabet and his ferule. "You!" said he,
"you, Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Yes, myself! Where is Aramis -- no, M.
le Chevalier d'Herblay -- no, I am still
mistaken -- Monsieur le
Vicaire-General?"

"Ah, monsieur," said Bazin, with
dignity, "monseigneur is at his
diocese."

"What did you say?" said D'Artagnan.
Bazin repeated the sentence.

"Ah, ah! but has Aramis a diocese?"

"Yes, monsieur. Why not?"

"Is he a bishop, then?"

"Why, where can you come from," said
Bazin, rather irreverently, "that you
don't know that?"

"My dear Bazin, we pagans, we men of the
sword, know very well when a man is made
a colonel, or maitre-de-camp, or marshal
of France; but if he be made a bishop,
archbishop, or pope -- devil take me if
the news reaches us before the three
quarters of the earth have had the
advantage of it!"

"Hush! hush!" said Bazin, opening his
eyes: "do not spoil these poor children,
in whom I am endeavoring to inculcate
such good principles." In fact, the
children had surrounded D'Artagnan,
whose horse, long sword, spurs, and
martial air they very much admired. But
above all, they admired his strong
voice; so that, when he uttered his
oath, the whole school cried out, "The
devil take me!" with fearful bursts of
laughter, shouts, and bounds, which
delighted the musketeer, and bewildered
the old pedagogue.

"There!" said he, "hold your tongues,
you brats! You have come, M. d'Artagnan,
and all my good principles fly away.
With you, as usual, comes disorder.
Babel is revived. Ah! Good Lord! Ah! the
wild little wretches!" And the worthy
Bazin distributed right and left blows
which increased the cries of his
scholars by changing the nature of them.

"At least," said he, "you will no longer
decoy any one here."

"Do you think so?" said D'Artagnan, with
a smile which made a shudder creep over
the shoulders of Bazin.

"He is capable of it," murmured he.

"Where is your master's diocese?"

"Monseigneur Rene is bishop of Vannes."

"Who had him nominated?"

"Why, monsieur le surintendant, our
neighbor."

"What! Monsieur Fouquet?"

"To be sure he did."

"Is Aramis on good terms with him,
then?"

"Monseigneur preached every Sunday at
the house of monsieur le surintendant at
Vaux; then they hunted together."

"Ah!"

"And monseigneur composed his
homilies -- no, I mean his sermons --
with monsieur le surintendant."

"Bah! he preached in verse, then, this
worthy bishop?"

"Monsieur, for the love of heaven, do
not jest with sacred things."

"There, Bazin, there! So, then, Aramis
is at Vannes?"

"At Vannes, in Bretagne."

"You are a deceitful old hunks, Bazin;
that is not true."

"See, monsieur, if you please; the
apartments of the presbytery are empty."

"He is right there," said D'Artagnan,
looking attentively at the house, the
aspect of which announced solitude.

"But monseigneur must have written you
an account of his promotion."

"When did it take place?"

"A month back."

"Oh! then there is no time lost. Aramis
cannot yet have wanted me. But how is
it, Bazin, you do not follow your
master?"

"Monsieur, I cannot; I have
occupations."

"Your alphabet?"

"And my penitents."

"What, do you confess, then? Are you a
priest?"

"The same as one. I have such a call."

"But the orders?"

"Oh," said Bazin, without hesitation,
"now that monseigneur is a bishop, I
shall soon have my orders, or at least
my dispensations." And he rubbed his
hands.

"Decidedly," said D'Artagnan to himself,
"there will be no means of uprooting
these people. Get me some supper Bazin."

"With pleasure, monsieur."

"A fowl, a bouillon, and a bottle of
wine."

"This is Saturday, monsieur -- it is a
day of abstinence."

"I have a dispensation," said
D'Artagnan.

Bazin looked at him suspiciously.

"Ah, ah, master hypocrite!" said the
musketeer, "for whom do you take me? If
you, who are the valet, hope for
dispensation to commit a crime, shall
not I, the friend of your bishop, have
dispensation for eating meat at the call
of my stomach? Make yourself agreeable
with me, Bazin, or, by heavens! I will
complain to the king, and you shall
never confess. Now you know that the
nomination of bishops rests with the
king -- I have the king, I am the
stronger."

Bazin smiled hypocritically. "Ah, but we
have monsieur le surintendant," said he.

"And you laugh at the king, then?"

Bazin made no reply; his smile was
sufficiently eloquent.

"My supper," said D'Artagnan, "it is
getting towards seven o'clock."

Bazin turned round and ordered the
eldest of the pupils to inform the cook.
In the meantime, D'Artagnan surveyed the
presbytery.

"Phew!" said he, disdainfully,
"monseigneur lodged his grandeur very
meanly here."

"We have the Chateau de Vaux," said
Bazin.

"Which is perhaps equal to the Louvre?"
said D'Artagnan, jeeringly.

"Which is better," replied Bazin, with
the greatest coolness imaginable.

"Ah, ah!" said D'Artagnan.

He would perhaps have prolonged the
discussion, and maintained the
superiority of the Louvre, but the
lieutenant perceived that his horse
remained fastened to the bars of a gate.

"The devil!" said he. "Get my horse
looked after; your master the bishop has
none like him in his stables."

Bazin cast a sidelong glance at the
horse, and replied, "Monsieur le
surintendant gave him four from his own
stables; and each of the four is worth
four of yours."

The blood mounted to the face of
D'Artagnan. His hand itched and his eye
glanced over the head of Bazin, to
select the place upon which he should
discharge his anger. But it passed away;
reflection came, and D'Artagnan
contented himself with saying, --

"The devil! the devil! I have done well
to quit the service of the king. Tell
me, worthy Master Bazin," added he, "how
many musketeers does monsieur le
surintendant retain in his service?"

"He could have all there are in the
kingdom with his money," replied Bazin,
closing his book, and dismissing the
boys with some kindly blows of his cane.

"The devil! the devil!" repeated
D'Artagnan, once more, as if to annoy
the pedagogue. But as supper was now
announced, he followed the cook, who
introduced him into the refectory, where
it awaited him. D'Artagnan placed
himself at the table, and began a hearty
attack upon his fowl.

"It appears to me," said D'Artagnan,
biting with all his might at the tough
fowl they had served up to him, and
which they had evidently forgotten to
fatten, -- "it appears that I have done
wrong in not seeking service with that
master yonder. A powerful noble this
intendant, seemingly! In good truth, we
poor fellows know nothing at the court,
and the rays of the sun prevent our
seeing the large stars, which are also
suns, at a little greater distance from
our earth, -- that is all."

As D'Artagnan delighted, both from
pleasure and system, in making people
talk about things which interested him,
he fenced in his best style with Master
Bazin, but it was pure loss of time;
beyond the tiresome and hyperbolical
praises of monsieur le surintendant of
the finances, Bazin, who, on his side,
was on his guard, afforded nothing but
platitudes to the curiosity of
D'Artagnan, so that our musketeer, in a
tolerably bad humor, desired to go to
bed as soon as he had supped. D'Artagnan
was introduced by Bazin into a mean
chamber, in which there was a poor bed;
but D'Artagnan was not fastidious in
that respect. He had been told that
Aramis had taken away the key of his own
private apartment, and as he knew Aramis
was a very particular man, and had
generally many things to conceal in his
apartment, he had not been surprised.
He, therefore, although it appeared
comparatively even harder, attacked the
bed as bravely as he had done the fowl;
and, as he had as good an inclination to
sleep as he had had to eat, he took
scarcely longer time to be snoring
harmoniously than he had employed in
picking the last bones of the bird.

Since he was no longer in the service of
any one, D'Artagnan had promised himself
to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he
had formerly slept lightly; but with
whatever good faith D'Artagnan had made
himself this promise, and whatever
desire he might have to keep it
religiously, he was awakened in the
middle of the night by a loud noise of
carriages, and servants on horseback. A
sudden illumination flashed over the
walls of his chamber; he jumped out of
bed and ran to the window in his shirt.
"Can the king be coming this way?" he
thought, rubbing his eyes; "in truth,
such a suite can only be attached to
royalty."

"Vive monsieur le surintendant!" cried,
or rather vociferated, from a window on
the ground-floor, a voice which he
recognized as Bazin's, who at the same
time waved a handkerchief with one hand,
and held a large candle in the other.
D'Artagnan then saw something like a
brilliant human form leaning out of the
principal carriage; at the same time
loud bursts of laughter, caused, no
doubt, by the strange figure of Bazin,
and issuing from the same carriage,
left, as it were, a train of joy upon
the passage of the rapid cortege.

"I might easily see it was not the
king," said D'Artagnan; "people don't
laugh so heartily when the king passes.
Hola, Bazin!" cried he to his neighbor,
three-quarters of whose body still hung
out of the window, to follow the
carriage with his eyes as long as he
could. "What is all that about?"

"It is M. Fouquet," said Bazin, in a
patronizing tone.

"And all those people?"

"That is the court of M. Fouquet."

"Oh, oh!" said D'Artagnan; "what would
M. de Mazarin say to that if he heard
it?" And he returned to his bed, asking
himself how Aramis always contrived to
be protected by the most powerful
personages in the kingdom. "Is it that
he has more luck than I, or that I am a
greater fool than he? Bah!" that was the
concluding word by the aid of which
D'Artagnan, having become wise, now
terminated every thought and every
period of his style. Formerly he said,
"Mordioux!" which was a prick of the
spur, but now he had become older, and
he murmured that philosophical "Bah!"
which served as a bridle to all the
passions.




CHAPTER 18

In which D'Artagnan seeks Porthos, and
only finds Mousqueton



When D'Artagnan had perfectly convinced
himself that the absence of the
Vicar-General d'Herblay was real, and
that his friend was not to be found at
Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin
without regret, cast an ill-natured
glance at the magnificent Chateau de
Vaux which was beginning to shine with
that splendor which brought on its ruin,
and, compressing his lips like a man
full of mistrust and suspicion, he put
spurs to his pied horse, saying, "Well,
well! I have still Pierrefonds left, and
there I shall find the best man and the
best filled coffer. And that is all I
want, for I have an idea of my own."

We will spare our readers the prosaic
incidents of D'Artagnan's journey, which
terminated on the morning of the third
day within sight of Pierrefonds.
D'Artagnan came by the way of
Nanteuil-le-Hardouin and Crepy. At a
distance he perceived the Castle of
Louis of Orleans, which, having become
part of the crown domain, was kept by an
old concierge. This was one of those
marvelous manors of the middle ages,
with walls twenty feet in thickness, and
a hundred in height.

D'Artagnan rode slowly past its walls,
measured its towers with his eye and
descended into the valley. From afar he
looked down upon the chateau of Porthos,
situated on the shores of a small lake,
and contiguous to a magnificent forest.
It was the same place we have already
had the honor of describing to our
readers; we shall therefore satisfy
ourselves with naming it. The first
thing D'Artagnan perceived after the
fine trees, the May sun gilding the
sides of the green hills, the long rows
of feather-topped trees which stretched
out towards Compiegne, was a large
rolling box, pushed forward by two
servants and dragged by two others. In
this box there was an enormous
green-and-gold thing, which went along
the smiling glades of the park, thus
dragged and pushed. This thing, at a
distance, could not be distinguished,
and signified absolutely nothing;
nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in
gold-bound green cloth; when close, it
was a man, or rather a poussa, the
interior extremity of whom, spreading
over the interior of the box, entirely
filled it, when still closer, the man
was Mousqueton -- Mousqueton, with gray
hair and a face as red as Punchinello's.

"Pardieu!" cried D'Artagnan; "why,
that's my dear Monsieur Mousqueton!"

"Ah!" cried the fat man -- "ah! what
happiness! what joy! There's M.
d'Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!" These
last words were addressed to the lackeys
who pushed and dragged him. The box
stopped, and the four lackeys, with a
precision quite military, took off their
laced hats and ranged themselves behind
it.

"Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said
Mousqueton, "why can I not embrace your
knees? But I have become impotent, as
you see."

"Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age."

"No, monsieur, it is not age; it is
infirmities -- troubles."

"Troubles! you, Mousqueton?" said
D'Artagnan making the tour of the box;
"are you out of your mind, my dear
friend? Thank God! you are as hearty as
a three-hundred-year-old oak."

"Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!"
groaned the faithful servant.

"What's the matter with your legs?"

"Oh, they will no longer bear me!"

"Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you
feed them well, Mousqueton, apparently."

"Alas, yes! They can reproach me with
nothing in that respect," said
Mousqueton, with a sigh; "I have always
done what I could for my poor body; I am
not selfish." And Mousqueton sighed
afresh.

"I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be
a baron, too, as he sighs after that
fashion?" thought D'Artagnan.

"Mon Dieu, monsieur!" said Mousqueton,
as if rousing himself from a painful
reverie; "how happy monseigneur will be
that you have thought of him!"

"Kind Porthos!" cried D'Artagnan, "I am
anxious to embrace him."

"Oh!" said Mousqueton, much affected, "I
shall certainly write to him."

"What!" cried D'Artagnan, "you will
write to him?"

"This very day; I shall not delay it an
hour."

"Is he not here, then?"

"No, monsieur."

"But is he near at hand? -- is he far
off?"

"Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?"

"Mordioux!" cried the musketeer,
stamping with his foot, "I am
unfortunate. Porthos such a
stay-at-home!"

"Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary
man than monseigneur, but ---- "

"But what?"

"When a friend presses you ---- "

"A friend?"

"Doubtless -- the worthy M. d'Herblay."

"What, has Aramis pressed Porthos?"

"This is how the thing happened,
Monsieur d'Artagnan. M. d'Herblay wrote
to monseigneur ---- "

"Indeed!"

"A letter, monsieur, such a pressing
letter that it threw us all into a
bustle."

"Tell me all about it, my dear friend."
said D'Artagnan; "but remove these
people a little further off first."

Mousqueton shouted, "Fall back, you
fellows," with such powerful lungs that
the breath, without the words, would
have been sufficient to disperse the
four lackeys. D'Artagnan seated himself
on the shaft of the box and opened his
ears. "Monsieur," said Mousqueton,
"monseigneur, then, received a letter
from M. le Vicaire-General d'Herblay,
eight or nine days ago; it was the day
of the rustic pleasures, yes, it must
have been Wednesday."

"What do you mean?" said D'Artagnan.
"The day of rustic pleasures?"

"Yes, monsieur; we have so many
pleasures to take in this delightful
country, that we were encumbered by
them; so much so, that we have been
forced to regulate the distribution of
them."

"How easily do I recognize Porthos's
love of order in that! Now, that idea
would never have occurred to me; but
then I am not encumbered with
pleasures."

"We were, though," said Mousqueton.

"And how did you regulate the matter,
let me know?" said D'Artagnan.

"It is rather long, monsieur."

"Never mind, we have plenty of time; and
you speak so well, my dear Mousqueton,
that it is really a pleasure to hear
you."

"It is true," said Mousqueton, with a
sigh of satisfaction, which emanated
evidently from the justice which had
been rendered him, "it is true I have
made great progress in the company of
monseigneur."

"I am waiting for the distribution of
the pleasures, Mousqueton, and with
impatience. I want to know if I have
arrived on a lucky day."

"Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said
Mousqueton in a melancholy tone, "since
monseigneur's departure all the
pleasures have gone too!"

"Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your
memory."

"With what day shall I begin?"

"Eh, pardieux! begin with Sunday; that
is the Lord's day."

"Sunday, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"Sunday pleasures are religious:
monseigneur goes to mass, makes the
bread-offering, and has discourses and
instructions made to him by his
almoner-in-ordinary. That is not very
amusing, but we expect a Carmelite from
Paris who will do the duty of our
almonry, and who, we are assured, speaks
very well, which will keep us awake,
whereas our present almoner always sends
us to sleep. These are Sunday religious
pleasures. On Monday, worldly
pleasures."

"Ah, ah!" said D'Artagnan, "what do you
mean by that? Let us have a glimpse at
your worldly pleasures."

"Monsieur, on Monday we go into the
world; we pay and receive visits, we
play on the lute, we dance, we make
verses, and burn a little incense in
honor of the ladies."

"Peste! that is the height of
gallantry," said the musketeer, who was
obliged to call to his aid all the
strength of his facial muscles to
suppress an enormous inclination to
laugh.

"Tuesday, learned pleasures."

"Good!" cried D'Artagnan. "What are
they? Detail them, my dear Mousqueton."

"Monseigneur has bought a sphere or
globe, which I shall show you; it fills
all the perimeter of the great tower,
except a gallery which he has had built
over the sphere: there are little
strings and brass wires to which the sun
and moon are hooked. It all turns; and
that is very beautiful. Monseigneur
points out to me seas and distant
countries. We don't intend to visit
them, but it is very interesting."

"Interesting! yes, that's the word,"
repeated D'Artagnan. "And Wednesday?"

"Rustic pleasures, as I have had the
honor to tell you, monsieur le
chevalier. We look over monseigneur's
sheep and goats; we make the shepherds
dance to pipes and reeds, as is written
in a book monseigneur has in his
library, which is called `Bergeries.'
The author died about a month ago."

"Monsieur Racan, perhaps," said
D'Artagnan,

"Yes, that was his name -- M. Racan. But
that is not all: we angle in the little
canal, after which we dine, crowned with
flowers. That is Wednesday."

"Peste!" said D'Artagnan, "you don't
divide your pleasures badly. And
Thursday? -- what can be left for poor
Thursday?"

"It is not very unfortunate, monsieur,"
said Mousqueton, smiling. "Thursday,
Olympian pleasures. Ah, monsieur, that
is superb! We get together all
monseigneur's young vassals, and we make
them throw the disc, wrestle, and run
races. Monseigneur can't run now, no
more can I; but monseigneur throws the
disc as nobody else can throw it. And
when he does deal a blow, oh, that
proves a misfortune!"

"How so?"

"Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to
renounce the cestus. He cracked heads;
he broke jaws -- beat in ribs. It was
charming sport; but nobody was willing
to play with him."

"Then his wrist ---- "

"Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever.
Monseigneur gets a trifle weaker in his
legs, -- he confesses that himself; but
his strength has all taken refuge in his
arms, so that ---- "

"So that he can knock down bullocks, as
he used formerly."

"Monsieur, better than that -- he beats
in walls. Lately, after having supped
with one of our farmers -- you know how
popular and kind monseigneur is -- after
supper as a joke, he struck the wall a
blow. The wall crumbled away beneath his
hand, the roof fell in, and three men
and an old woman were stifled."

"Good God, Mousqueton! And your master?"

"Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was
rubbed off his head. We bathed the
wounds with some water which the monks
gave us. But there was nothing the
matter with his hand."

"Nothing?"

"No, nothing, monsieur."

"Deuce take the Olympic pleasures! They
must cost your master too dear, for
widows and orphans ---- "

"They all had pensions, monsieur; a
tenth of monseigneur's revenue was spent
in that way."

"Then pass on to Friday," said
D'Artagnan.

"Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We
hunt, we fence, we dress falcons and
break horses. Then, Saturday is the day
for intellectual pleasures: we adorn our
minds; we look at monseigneur's pictures
and statues; we write, even, and trace
plans: and then we fire monseigneur's
cannon."

"You draw plans, and fire cannon?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Why, my friend," said D'Artagnan, "M.
du Vallon, in truth, possesses the most
subtle and amiable mind that I know. But
there is one kind of pleasure you have
forgotten, it appears to me."

"What is that, monsieur?" asked
Mousqueton, with anxiety.

"The material pleasures."

Mousqueton colored. "What do you mean by
that, monsieur?" said he, casting down
his eyes.

"I mean the table -- good wine --
evenings occupied in passing the
bottle."

"Ah, monsieur, we don't reckon those
pleasures, -- we practice them every
day."

"My brave Mousqueton," resumed
D'Artagnan, "pardon me, but I was so
absorbed in your charming recital that I
have forgotten the principal object of
our conversation, which was to learn
what M. le Vicaire-General d'Herblay
could have to write to your master
about."

"That is true, monsieur," said
Mousqueton; "the pleasures have misled
us. Well, monsieur, this is the whole
affair."

"I am all attention, Mousqueton."

"On Wednesday ---- "

"The day of the rustic pleasures?"

"Yes -- a letter arrived; he received it
from my hands. I had recognized the
writing."

"Well?"

"Monseigneur read it and cried out,
`Quick, my horses! my arms!'"

"Oh, good Lord! then it was for some
duel?" said D'Artagnan.

"No, monsieur, there were only these
words: `Dear Porthos, set out, if you
would wish to arrive before the Equinox.
I expect you.'"

"Mordioux!" said D'Artagnan,
thoughtfully, "that was pressing,
apparently."

"I think so; therefore," continued
Mousqueton, "monseigneur set out the
very same day with his secretary, in
order to endeavor to arrive in time."

"And did he arrive in time?"

"I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty,
as you know, monsieur, repeated
incessantly, `Tonno Dieu! What can this
mean? The Equinox? Never mind, a fellow
must be well mounted to arrive before I
do.'"

"And you think Porthos will have arrived
first, do you?" asked D'Artagnan.

"I am sure of it. This Equinox, however
rich he may be, has certainly no horses
so good as monseigneur's."

D'Artagnan repressed his inclination to
laugh, because the brevity of Aramis's
letter gave rise to reflection. He
followed Mousqueton, or rather
Mousqueton's chariot, to the castle. He
sat down to a sumptuous table, of which
they did him the honors as to a king.
But he could draw nothing from
Mousqueton, -- the faithful servant
seemed to shed tears at will, but that
was all.

D'Artagnan, after a night passed in an
excellent bed, reflected much upon the
meaning of Aramis's letter; puzzled
himself as to the relation of the
Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and
being unable to make anything out unless
it concerned some amour of the bishop's,
for which it was necessary that the days
and nights should be equal, D'Artagnan
left Pierrefonds as he had left Melun,
as he had left the chateau of the Comte
de la Fere. It was not, however, without
a melancholy, which might in good sooth
pass for one of the most dismal of
D'Artagnan's moods. His head cast down,
his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to
hang on each side of his horse, and said
to himself, in that vague sort of
reverie which ascends sometimes to the
sublimest eloquence:

"No more friends! no more future! no
more anything! My energies are broken
like the bonds of our ancient
friendship. Oh, old age is coming, cold
and inexorable; it envelops in its
funereal crape all that was brilliant,
all that was embalming in my youth; then
it throws that sweet burthen on its
shoulders and carries it away with the
rest into the fathomless gulf of death."

A shudder crept through the heart of the
Gascon, so brave and so strong against
all the misfortunes of life; and during
some moments the clouds appeared black
to him, the earth slippery and full of
pits as that of cemeteries.

"Whither am I going?" said he to
himself. "What am I going to do! Alone,
quite alone -- without family, without
friends! Bah!" cried he all at once. And
he clapped spurs to his horse, who,
having found nothing melancholy in the
heavy oats of Pierrefonds profited by
this permission to show his gayety in a
gallop which absorbed two leagues. "To
Paris!" said D'Artagnan to himself. And
on the morrow he alighted in Paris. He
had devoted six days to this journey.




CHAPTER 19

What D'Artagnan went to Paris for



The lieutenant dismounted before a shop
in the Rue des Lombards, at the sign of
the Pilon d'Or. A man of good
appearance, wearing a white apron, and
stroking his gray mustache with a large
hand, uttered a cry of joy on perceiving
the pied horse. "Monsieur le chevalier,"
said he, "ah, is that you?"

"Bon jour, Planchet," replied
D'Artagnan, stooping to enter the shop.

"Quick, somebody," cried Planchet, "to
look after Monsieur d'Artagnan's
horse, -- somebody to get ready his
room, -- somebody to prepare his
supper."

"Thanks, Planchet. Good-day, my
children!" said D'Artagnan to the eager
boys.

"Allow me to send off this coffee, this
treacle, and these raisins," said
Planchet; "they are for the store-room
of monsieur le surintendant."

"Send them off, send them off!"

"That is only the affair of a moment,
then we shall sup."

"Arrange it that we may sup alone; I
want to speak to you."

Planchet looked at his old master in a
significant manner.

"Oh, don't be uneasy, it is nothing
unpleasant," said D'Artagnan .

"So much the better -- so much the
better!" And Planchet breathed freely
again, whilst D'Artagnan seated himself
quietly down in the shop, upon a bale of
corks, and made a survey of the
premises. The shop was well stocked;
there was a mingled perfume of ginger,
cinnamon, and ground pepper, which made
D'Artagnan sneeze. The shop-boy, proud
of being in company with so renowned a
warrior, of a lieutenant of musketeers,
who approached the person of the king,
began to work with an enthusiasm which
was something like delirium, and to
serve the customers with a disdainful
haste that was noticed by several.

Planchet put away his money, and made up
his accounts, amidst civilities
addressed to his former master. Planchet
had with his equals the short speech and
the haughty familiarity of the rich
shopkeeper who serves everybody and
waits for nobody. D'Artagnan observed
this habit with a pleasure which we
shall analyze presently. He saw night
come on by degrees, and at length
Planchet conducted him to a chamber on
the first story, where, amidst bales and
chests, a table very nicely set out
awaited the two guests.

D'Artagnan took advantage of a moment's
pause to examine the countenance of
Planchet, whom he had not seen for a
year. The shrewd Planchet had acquired a
slight protuberance in front, but his
countenance was not puffed. His keen eye
still played with facility in its
deep-sunk orbit; and fat, which levels
all the characteristic saliences of the
human face, had not yet touched either
his high cheek-bones, the sign of
cunning and cupidity, or his pointed
chin, the sign of acuteness and
perseverance. Planchet reigned with as
much majesty in his dining-room as in
his shop. He set before his master a
frugal, but perfectly Parisian repast:
roast meat, cooked at the baker's, with
vegetables, salad, and a dessert
borrowed from the shop itself.
D'Artagnan was pleased that the grocer
had drawn from behind the fagots a
bottle of that Anjou wine which during
all his life had been D'Artagnan's
favorite wine.

"Formerly, monsieur," said Planchet,
with a smile full of bonhomie, "it was I
who drank your wine; now you do me the
honor to drink mine."

"And, thank God, friend Planchet, I
shall drink it for a long time to come,
I hope; for at present I am free."

"Free? You have leave of absence,
monsieur?"

"Unlimited."

"You are leaving the service?" said
Planchet, stupefied.

"Yes, I am resting."

"And the king?" cried Planchet, who
could not suppose it possible that the
king could do without the services of
such a man as D'Artagnan.

"The king will try his fortune
elsewhere. But we have supped well, you
are disposed to enjoy yourself; you
invite me to confide in you. Open your
ears, then."

"They are open." And Planchet, with a
laugh more frank than cunning, opened a
bottle of white wine.

"Leave me my reason, at least."

"Oh, as to you losing your head -- you,
monsieur!"

"Now my head is my own, and I mean to
take better care of it than ever. In the
first place we shall talk business. How
fares our money-box?"

"Wonderfully well, monsieur. The twenty
thousand livres I had of you are still
employed in my trade, in which they
bring me nine per cent. I give you
seven, so I gain two by you."

"And you are still satisfied?"

"Delighted. Have you brought me any
more?"

"Better than that. But do you want any?"

"Oh! not at all. Every one is willing to
trust me now. I am extending my
business."

"That was your intention."

"I play the banker a little. I buy goods
of my needy brethren; I lend money to
those who are not ready for their
payments."

"Without usury?"

"Oh! monsieur, in the course of the last
week I have had two meetings on the
boulevards, on account of the word you
have just pronounced."

"What?"

"You shall see: it concerned a loan. The
borrower gives me in pledge some raw
sugars, on condition that I should sell
if repayment were not made within a
fixed period. I lend a thousand livres.
He does not pay me and I sell the sugars
for thirteen hundred livres. He learns
this and claims a hundred crowns. Ma
foi! I refused, pretending that I could
not sell them for more than nine hundred
livres. He accused me of usury. I begged
him to repeat that word to me behind the
boulevards. He was an old guard, and he
came: and I passed your sword through
his left thigh."

"Tu dieu! what a pretty sort of banker
you make!" said D'Artagnan.

"For above thirteen per cent. I fight,"
replied Planchet; "that is my
character."

"Take only twelve," said D'Artagnan,
"and call the rest premium and
brokerage."

"You are right, monsieur; but to your
business."

"Ah! Planchet, it is very long and very
hard to speak."

"Do speak it, nevertheless."

D'Artagnan twisted his mustache like a
man embarrassed with the confidence he
is about to make and mistrustful of his
confidant.

"Is it an investment?" asked Planchet.

"Why, yes."

"At good profit?"

"A capital profit, -- four hundred per
cent., Planchet."

Planchet gave such a blow with his fist
upon the table, that the bottles bounded
as if they had been frightened.

"Good heavens! is that possible?"

"I think it will be more," replied
D'Artagnan coolly; "but I like to lay it
at the lowest!"

"The devil!" said Planchet, drawing
nearer. "Why monsieur, that is
magnificent! Can one put much money in
it?"

"Twenty thousand livres each, Planchet."

"Why, that is all you have, monsieur.
For how long a time?"

"For a month."

"And that will give us ---- "

"Fifty thousand livres each, profit."

"It is monstrous! It is worth while to
fight for such interest as that!"

"In fact, I believe it will be necessary
to fight not a little," said D'Artagnan,
with the same tranquillity; "but this
time there are two of us, Planchet, and
I shall take all the blows to myself."

"Oh! monsieur, I will not allow that."

"Planchet, you cannot be concerned in
it; you would be obliged to leave your
business and your family."

"The affair is not in Paris, then?"

"No."

"Abroad?"

"In England."

"A speculative country, that is true,"
said Planchet, -- "a country that I know
well. What sort of an affair, monsieur,
without too much curiosity?"

"Planchet, it is a restoration."

"Of monuments?"

"Yes, of monuments; we shall restore
Whitehall."

"That is important. And in a month, you
think?"

"I shall undertake it."

"That concerns you, monsieur, and when
once you are engaged ---- "

"Yes, that concerns me. I know what I am
about; nevertheless, I will freely
consult with you."

"You do me great honor; but I know very
little about architecture."

"Planchet, you are wrong; you are an
excellent architect, quite as good as I
am, for the case in question."

"Thanks, monsieur. But your old friends
of the musketeers?"

"I have been, I confess, tempted to
speak of the thing to those gentlemen,
but they are all absent from their
houses. It is vexatious, for I know none
more bold or more able."

"Ah! then it appears there will be an
opposition, and the enterprise will be
disputed?"

"Oh, yes, Planchet, yes."

"I burn to know the details, monsieur."

"Here they are, Planchet -- close all
the doors tight."

"Yes, monsieur." And Planchet
double-locked them.

"That is well; now draw near." Planchet
obeyed.

"And open the window, because the noise
of the passers-by and the carts will
deafen all who might hear us." Planchet
opened the window as desired, and the
gust of tumult which filled the chamber
with cries, wheels, barkings, and steps
deafened D'Artagnan himself, as he had
wished. He then swallowed a glass of
white wine and began in these terms:
"Planchet, I have an idea."

"Ah! monsieur, I recognize you so well
in that!" replied Planchet, panting with
emotion.




CHAPTER 20

Of the Society which was formed in the
Rue des Lombards, at the Sign of the
Pilon d'Or, to carry out M. d'Artagnan's
Idea



After a moment's silence, in which
D'Artagnan appeared to be collecting,
not one idea, but all his ideas -- "It
cannot be, my dear Planchet," said he,
"that you have not heard of his majesty
Charles I. of England?"

"Alas! yes, monsieur, since you left
France in order to assist him, and that,
in spite of that assistance, he fell,
and was near dragging you down in his
fall."

"Exactly so; I see you have a good
memory, Planchet."

"Peste! the astonishing thing would be,
if I could have lost that memory,
however bad it might have been. When one
has heard Grimaud, who, you know, is not
given to talking, relate how the head of
King Charles fell, how you sailed the
half of a night in a scuttled vessel,
and saw floating on the water that good
M. Mordaunt with a certain gold-hafted
dagger buried in his breast, one is not
very likely to forget such things."

"And yet there are people who forget
them, Planchet."

"Yes, such as have not seen them, or
have not heard Grimaud relate them."

"Well, it is all the better that you
recollect all that; I shall only have to
remind you of one thing, and that is
that Charles I. had a son."

"Without contradicting you, monsieur, he
had two," said Planchet; "for I saw the
second one in Paris, M. le Duke of York,
one day, as he was going to the Palais
Royal, and I was told that he was not
the eldest son of Charles I. As to the
eldest, I have the honor of knowing him
by name, but not personally."

"That is exactly the point, Planchet, we
must come to: it is to this eldest son,
formerly called the Prince of Wales, and
who is now styled Charles II., king of
England."

"A king without a kingdom, monsieur,"
replied Planchet, sententiously.

"Yes, Planchet, and you may add an
unfortunate prince, more unfortunate
than the poorest man of the people lost
in the worst quarter of Paris."

Planchet made a gesture full of that
sort of compassion which we grant to
strangers with whom we think we can
never possibly find ourselves in
contact. Besides, he did not see in this
politico-sentimental operation any sign
of the commercial idea of M. d'Artagnan,
and it was in this idea that D'Artagnan,
who was, from habit, pretty well
acquainted with men and things, had
principally interested Planchet.

"I am coming to our business. This young
Prince of Wales, a king without a
kingdom, as you have so well said,
Planchet, has interested me. I,
D'Artagnan, have seen him begging
assistance of Mazarin, who is a miser,
and the aid of Louis, who is a child,
and it appeared to me, who am acquainted
with such things, that in the
intelligent eye of the fallen king, in
the nobility of his whole person, a
nobility apparent above all his
miseries, I could discern the stuff of a
man and the heart of a king."

Planchet tacitly approved of all this;
but it did not at all, in his eyes at
least, throw any light upon D'Artagnan's
idea. The latter continued: "This, then,
is the reasoning which I made with
myself. Listen attentively, Planchet,
for we are coming to the conclusion."

"I am listening."

"Kings are not so thickly sown upon the
earth, that people can find them
whenever they want them. Now, this king
without a kingdom is, in my opinion, a
grain of seed which will blossom in some
season or other, provided a skillful,
discreet, and vigorous hand sow it duly
and truly, selecting soil, sky, and
time."

Planchet still approved by a nod of his
head, which showed that he did not
perfectly comprehend all that was said.

"`Poor little seed of a king,' said I to
myself, and really I was affected,
Planchet, which leads me to think I am
entering upon a foolish business. And
that is why I wished to consult you, my
friend."

Planchet colored with pleasure and
pride.

"`Poor little seed of a king! I will
pick you up and cast you into good
ground.'"

"Good God!" said Planchet, looking
earnestly at his old master, as if in
doubt as to the state of his reason.

"Well, what is it?" said D'Artagnan;
"who hurts you?"

"Me! nothing, monsieur."

"You said, `Good God!'"

"Did I?"

"I am sure you did. Can you already
understand?"

"I confess, M. d'Artagnan, that I am
afraid ---- "

"To understand?"

"Yes."

"To understand that I wish to replace
upon his throne this King Charles II.,
who has no throne? Is that it?"

Planchet made a prodigious bound in his
chair. "Ah, ah!" said he, in evident
terror, "that is what you call a
restoration!"

"Yes, Planchet; is it not the proper
term for it?"

"Oh, no doubt, no doubt! But have you
reflected seriously?"

"Upon what?"

"Upon what is going on yonder."

"Where?"

"In England."

"And what is that? let us see,
Planchet."

"In the first place, monsieur, I ask
your pardon for meddling in these
things, which have nothing to do with my
trade; but since it is an affair that
you propose to me -- for you are
proposing an affair, are you not? ---- "

"A superb one, Planchet."

"But as it is business you propose to
me, I have the right to discuss it."

"Discuss it, Planchet; out of discussion
is born light."

"Well, then, since I have monsieur's
permission, I will tell him that there
is yonder, in the first place, the
parliament."

"Well, next?"

"And then the army."

"Good! Do you see anything else?"

"Why, then the nation."

"Is that all?"

"The nation which consented to the
overthrow and death of the late king,
the father of this one, and which will
not be willing to belie its acts."

"Planchet," said D'Artagnan, "you argue
like a cheese! The nation -- the nation
is tired of these gentlemen who give
themselves such barbarous names, and who
sing songs to it. Chanting for chanting,
my dear Planchet; I have remarked that
nations prefer singing a merry chant to
the plain chant. Remember the Fronde;
what did they sing in those times? Well
those were good times."

"Not too good, not too good! I was near
being hung in those times."

"Well, but you were not."

"No."

"And you laid the foundation of your
fortune in the midst of all those
songs?"

"That is true."

"Then you have nothing to say against
them."

"Well, I return, then, to the army and
parliament."

"I say that I borrow twenty thousand
livres of M. Planchet, and that I put
twenty thousand livres of my own to it,
and with these forty thousand livres I
raise an army."

Planchet clasped his hands; he saw that
D'Artagnan was in earnest, and, in good
truth, he believed his master had lost
his senses.

"An army! -- ah, monsieur," said he,
with his most agreeable smile, for fear
of irritating the madman, and rendering
him furious, -- "an army! -- how many?"

"Of forty men," said D'Artagnan.

"Forty against forty thousand! that is
not enough. I know very well that you,
M. d'Artagnan, alone, are equal to a
thousand men, but where are we to find
thirty-nine men equal to you? Or, if we
could find them, who would furnish you
with money to pay them?"

"Not bad, Planchet. Ah, the devil! you
play the courtier."

"No, monsieur, I speak what I think, and
that is exactly why I say that, in the
first pitched battle you fight with your
forty men, I am very much afraid ---- "

"Therefore I shall fight no pitched
battles, my dear Planchet," said the
Gascon, laughing. "We have very fine
examples in antiquity of skillful
retreats and marches, which consisted in
avoiding the enemy instead of attacking
them. You should know that, Planchet,
you who commanded the Parisians the day
on which they ought to have fought
against the musketeers, and who so well
calculated marches and countermarches,
that you never left the Palais Royal."

Planchet could not help laughing. "It is
plain," replied he, "that if your forty
men conceal themselves, and are not
unskillful, they may hope not to be
beaten: but you propose obtaining some
result, do you not?"

"No doubt. This, then, in my opinion, is
the plan to be proceeded upon in order
quickly to replace his majesty Charles
II. on his throne."

"Good!" said Planchet, increasing his
attention; "let us see your plan. But in
the first place it seems to me we are
forgetting something."

"What is that?"

"We have set aside the nation, which
prefers singing merry songs to psalms,
and the army, which we will not fight:
but the parliament remains, and that
seldom sings."

"Nor does it fight. How is it, Planchet,
that an intelligent man like you should
take any heed of a set of brawlers who
call themselves Rumps and Barebones. The
parliament does not trouble me at all,
Planchet."

"As soon as it ceases to trouble you,
monsieur, let us pass on."

"Yes, and arrive at the result. You
remember Cromwell, Planchet?"

"I have heard a great deal of talk about
him."

"He was a rough soldier."

"And a terrible eater, moreover."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, at one gulp he swallowed all
England."

"Well, Planchet, the evening before the
day on which he swallowed England, if
any one had swallowed M. Cromwell?"

"Oh, monsieur, it is one of the axioms
of mathematics that the container must
be greater than the contained."

"Very well! That is our affair,
Planchet."

"But M. Cromwell is dead, and his
container is now the tomb."

"My dear Planchet, I see with pleasure
that you have not only become a
mathematician, but a philosopher."

"Monsieur, in my grocery business I use
much printed paper, and that instructs
me."

"Bravo! You know then, in that case --
for you have not learnt mathematics and
philosophy without a little history --
that after this Cromwell so great, there
came one who was very little."

"Yes; he was named Richard, and he has
done as you have, M. d'Artagnan -- he
has tendered his resignation."

"Very well said -- very well! After the
great man who is dead, after the little
one who tendered his resignation, there
came a third. This one is named Monk; he
is an able general, considering he has
never fought a battle; he is a skillful
diplomatist, considering that he never
speaks in public, and that having to say
`good-day' to a man, he meditates twelve
hours, and ends by saying `good-night;'
which makes people exclaim `miracle!'
seeing that it falls out correctly."

"That is rather strong," said Planchet;
"but I know another political man who
resembles him very much."

"M. Mazarin you mean?"

"Himself."

"You are right, Planchet; only M.
Mazarin does not aspire to the throne of
France; and that changes everything. Do
you see? Well, this M. Monk, who has
England ready-roasted in his plate, and
who is already opening his mouth to
swallow it -- this M. Monk, who says to
the people of Charles II., and to
Charles II. himself, `Nescio vos' ---- "

"I don't understand English," said
Planchet.

"Yes, but I understand it," said
D'Artagnan. "`Nescio vos' means `I do
not know you.' This M. Monk, the most
important man in England, when he shall
have swallowed it ---- "

"Well?" asked Planchet.

"Well, my friend, I shall go over
yonder, and with my forty men, I shall
carry him off, pack him up, and bring
him into France, where two modes of
proceeding present themselves to my
dazzled eyes."

"Oh! and to mine too," cried Planchet,
transported with enthusiasm. "We will
put him in a cage and show him for
money."

"Well, Planchet, that is a third plan,
of which I had not thought."

"Do you think it a good one?"

"Yes, certainly, but I think mine
better."

"Let us see yours, then."

"In the first place, I shall set a
ransom on him."

"Of how much?"

"Peste! a fellow like that must be well
worth a hundred thousand crowns."

"Yes, yes!"

"You see, then -- in the first place, a
ransom of a hundred thousand crowns."

"Or else ---- "

"Or else, what is much better, I deliver
him up to King Charles, who, having no
longer either a general or an army to
fear, nor a diplomatist to trick him,
will restore himself, and when once
restored, will pay down to me the
hundred thousand crowns in question.
That is the idea I have formed; what do
you say to it, Planchet?"

"Magnificent, monsieur!" cried Planchet,
trembling with emotion. "How did you
conceive that idea?"

"It came to me one morning on the banks
of the Loire, whilst our beloved king,
Louis XIV., was pretending to weep upon
the hand of Mademoiselle de Mancini."

"Monsieur, I declare the idea is
sublime. But ---- "

"Ah! is there a but?"

"Permit me! But this is a little like
the skin of that fine bear -- you
know -- that they were about to sell,
but which it was necessary to take from
the back of the living bear. Now, to
take M. Monk, there will be a bit of
scuffle, I should think."

"No doubt; but as I shall raise an army
to ---- "

"Yes, yes -- I understand, parbleu! -- a
coup-de-main. Yes, then, monsieur, you
will triumph, for no one equals you in
such sorts of encounters."

"I certainly am lucky in them," said
D'Artagnan, with a proud simplicity.
"You know that if for this affair I had
my dear Athos, my brave Porthos, and my
cunning Aramis, the business would be
settled; but they are all lost, as it
appears, and nobody knows where to find
them. I will do it, then, alone. Now, do
you find the business good, and the
investment advantageous?"

"Too much so -- too much so."

"How can that be?"

"Because fine things never reach the
expected point."

"This is infallible, Planchet, and the
proof is that I undertake it. It will be
for you a tolerably pretty gain, and for
me a very interesting stroke. It will be
said, `Such was the old age of M.
d'Artagnan,' and I shall hold a place in
tales and even in history itself,
Planchet. I am greedy of honor."

"Monsieur," cried Planchet, "when I
think that it is here, in my home, in
the midst of my sugar, my prunes, and my
cinnamon, that this gigantic project is
ripened, my shop seems a palace to me."

"Beware, beware, Planchet! If the least
report of this escapes, there is the
Bastile for both of us. Beware, my
friend, for this is a plot we are
hatching. M. Monk is the ally of M.
Mazarin -- beware!"

"Monsieur, when a man has had the honor
to belong to you, he knows nothing of
fear; and when he has the advantage of
being bound up in interests with you, he
holds his tongue."

"Very well, that is more your affair
than mine, seeing that in a week I shall
be in England."

"Depart, monsieur, depart -- the sooner
the better."

"Is the money, then, ready?"

"It will be to-morrow, to-morrow you
shall receive it from my own hands. Will
you have gold or silver?"

"Gold; that is most convenient. But how
are we going to arrange this? Let us
see."

"Oh, good Lord! in the simplest way
possible. You shall give me a receipt,
that is all."

"No, no," said D'Artagnan, warmly; "we
must preserve order in all things."

"That is likewise my opinion; but with
you, M. d'Artagnan ---- "

"And if I should die yonder -- if I
should be killed by a musket-ball -- if
I should burst from drinking beer?"

"Monsieur, I beg you to believe that in
that case I should be so much afflicted
at your death, that I should not think
about the money."

"Thank you, Planchet; but no matter. We
shall, like two lawyers' clerks, draw up
together an agreement, a sort of act,
which may be called a deed of company."

"Willingly, monsieur."

"I know it is difficult to draw such a
thing up, but we can try."

"Let us try, then." And Planchet went in
search of pens, ink, and paper.
D'Artagnan took the pen and wrote: --
"Between Messire d'Artagnan,
ex-lieutenant of the king's musketeers,
at present residing in the Rue
Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette; and
the Sieur Planchet, grocer, residing in
the Rue les Lombards, at the sign of the
Pilon d'Or, it has been agreed as
follows: -- A company, with a capital of
forty thousand livres, and formed for
the purpose of carrying out an idea
conceived by M. d'Artagnan, and the said
Planchet approving of it in all points,
will place twenty thousand livres in the
hands of M. d'Artagnan. He will require
neither repayment nor interest before
the return of M. d'Artagnan from a
journey he is about to take into
England. On his part, M. d'Artagnan
undertakes to find twenty thousand
livres, which he will join to the twenty
thousand already laid down by the Sieur
Planchet. He will employ the said sum of
forty thousand livres according to his
judgment in an undertaking which is
described below. On the day when M.
d'Artagnan shall have re-established, by
whatever means, his majesty King Charles
II. upon the throne of England, he will
pay into the hands of M. Planchet the
sum of ---- "

"The sum of a hundred and fifty thousand
livres," said Planchet, innocently,
perceiving that D'Artagnan hesitated.

"Oh, the devil, no!" said D'Artagnan,
"the division cannot be made by half;
that would not be just."

"And yet, monsieur; we each lay down
half," objected Planchet, timidly.

"Yes; but listen to this clause, my dear
Planchet, and if you do not find it
equitable in every respect when it is
written, well, we can scratch it out
again: -- `Nevertheless, as M.
d'Artagnan brings to the association,
besides his capital of twenty thousand
livres, his time, his idea, his industry
and his skin, -- things which he
appreciates strongly, particularly the
last, -- M. d'Artagnan will keep, of the
three hundred thousand livres two
hundred thousand livres for himself,
which will make his share two-thirds."

"Very well," said Planchet.

"Is it just?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Perfectly just, monsieur."

"And you will be contented with a
hundred thousand livres?"

"Peste! I think so. A hundred thousand
for twenty thousand!"

"And in a month, understand."

"How, in a month?"

"Yes, I only ask one month."

"Monsieur," said Planchet, generously,
"I give you six weeks."

"Thank you," replied the musketeer,
politely; after which the two partners
reperused their deed.

"That is perfect, monsieur," said
Planchet, "and the late M. Coquenard,
the first husband of Madame la Baronne
du Vallon, could not have done it
better."

"Do you find it so? Let us sign it,
then." And both affixed their
signatures.

"In this fashion," said D'Artagnan, "I
shall be under obligations to no one."

"But I shall be under obligations to
you," said Planchet.

"No; for whatever store I set by it,
Planchet, I may lose my skin yonder, and
you will lose all. A propos -- peste! --
that makes me think of the principal, an
indispensable clause. I shall write
it: -- `In the case of M. d'Artagnan
dying in this enterprise, liquidation
will be considered made, and the Sieur
Planchet will give quittance from that
moment to the shade of Messire
d'Artagnan for the twenty thousand
livres paid by him into the hands of the
said company.'"

This last clause made Planchet knit his
brows a little, but when he saw the
brilliant eye, the muscular hand, the
supple and strong back of his associate,
he regained his courage, and, without
regret, he at once added another stroke
to his signature. D'Artagnan did the
same. Thus was drawn the first known
company contract; perhaps such things
have been abused a little since, both in
form and principle.

"Now," said Planchet, pouring out the
last glass of Anjou wine for
D'Artagnan, -- "now go to sleep, my dear
master."

"No," replied D'Artagnan; "for the most
difficult part now remains to be done,
and I will think over that difficult
part."

"Bah!" said Planchet; "I have such great
confidence in you, M. d'Artagnan, that I
would not give my hundred thousand
livres for ninety thousand livres down."

"And devil take me if I don't think you
are right!" Upon which D'Artagnan took a
candle and went up to his bedroom.




CHAPTER 21

In which D'Artagnan prepares to travel
for the Firm of Planchet and Company



D'Artagnan reflected to such good
purpose during the night that his plan
was settled by morning. "This is it,"
said he, sitting up in bed, supporting
his elbow on his knee, and his chin in
his hand; -- "this is it. I shall seek
out forty steady, firm men, recruited
among people a little compromised, but
having habits of discipline. I shall
promise them five hundred livres for a
month if they return, nothing if they do
not return, or half for their kindred.
As to food and lodging, that concerns
the English, who have cattle in their
pastures, bacon in their bacon-racks,
fowls in their poultry-yards, and corn
in their barns. I will present myself to
General Monk with my little body of
troops. He will receive me. I shall win
his confidence, and take advantage of
it, as soon as possible."

But without going farther, D'Artagnan
shook his head and interrupted himself.
"No," said he; "I should not dare to
relate this to Athos; the way is
therefore not honorable. I must use
violence," continued he, -- "very
certainly I must, but without
compromising my loyalty. With forty men
I will traverse the country as a
partisan. But if I fall in with, not
forty thousand English, as Planchet
said, but purely and simply with four
hundred, I shall be beaten. Supposing
that among my forty warriors there
should be found at least ten stupid
ones -- ten who will allow themselves to
be killed one after the other, from mere
folly? No; it is, in fact, impossible to
find forty men to be depended upon --
they do not exist. I must learn how to
be contented with thirty. With ten men
less I should have the right of avoiding
any armed encounter, on account of the
small number of my people; and if the
encounter should take place, my chance
is better with thirty men than forty.
Besides, I should save five thousand
francs; that is to say, the eighth of my
capital; that is worth the trial. This
being so, I should have thirty men. I
shall divide them into three bands, --
we will spread ourselves about over the
country, with an injunction to reunite
at a given moment; in this fashion, ten
by ten, we should excite no suspicion --
we should pass unperceived. Yes, yes,
thirty -- that is a magic number. There
are three tens -- three, that divine
number! And then, truly, a company of
thirty men, when all together, will look
rather imposing. Ah! stupid wretch that
I am!" continued D'Artagnan, "I want
thirty horses. That is ruinous. Where
the devil was my head when I forgot the
horses? We cannot, however, think of
striking such a blow without horses.
Well, so be it, that sacrifice must be
made; we can get the horses in the
country -- they are not bad, besides.
But I forgot -- peste! Three bands --
that necessitates three leaders; there
is the difficulty. Of the three
commanders I have already one -- that is
myself; -- yes, but the two others will
of themselves cost almost as much money
as all the rest of the troop. No;
positively I must have but one
lieutenant. In that ease, then, I should
reduce my troop to twenty men. I know
very well that twenty men is but very
little; but since with thirty I was
determined not to seek to come to blows,
I should do so more carefully still with
twenty. Twenty -- that is a round
number; that, besides, reduces the
number of the horses by ten, which is a
consideration; and then, with a good
lieutenant -- Mordioux! what things
patience and calculation are! Was I not
going to embark with forty men, and I
have now reduced them to twenty for an
equal success? Ten thousand livres saved
at one stroke, and more safety; that is
well! Now, then, let us see; we have
nothing to do but to find this
lieutenant -- let him be found, then;
and after -- That is not so easy; he
must be brave and good, a second myself.
Yes, but a lieutenant must have my
secret, and as that secret is worth a
million, and I shall only pay my man a
thousand livres, fifteen hundred at the
most, my man will sell the secret to
Monk. Mordioux! no lieutenant. Besides,
this man, were he as mute as a disciple
of Pythagoras, -- this man would be sure
to have in the troop some favourite
soldier, whom he would make his
sergeant, the sergeant would penetrate
the secret of the lieutenant, in case
the latter should be honest and
unwilling to sell it. Then the sergeant,
less honest and less ambitious, will
give up the whole for fifty thousand
livres. Come, come! that is impossible.
The lieutenant is impossible. But then I
must have no fractions; I cannot divide
my troop into two, and act upon two
points, at once, without another self,
who -- But what is the use of acting
upon two points, as we have only one man
to take? What can be the good of
weakening a corps by placing the right
here, and the left there? A single
corps -- Mordioux! a single one, and
that commanded by D'Artagnan. Very well.
But twenty men marching in one band are
suspected by everybody; twenty horsemen
must not be seen marching together, or a
company will be detached against them
and the password will be required; the
which company, upon seeing them
embarrassed to give it, would shoot M.
d'Artagnan and his men like so many
rabbits. I reduce myself then to ten
men; in this fashion I shall act simply
and with unity; I shall be forced to be
prudent, which is half the success in an
affair of the kind I am undertaking; a
greater number might, perhaps, have
drawn me into some folly. Ten horses are
not many, either to buy or take. A
capital idea; what tranquillity it
infuses into my mind! no more
suspicions -- no passwords -- no more
dangers! Ten men, they are valets or
clerks. Ten men, leading ten horses
laden with merchandise of whatever kind,
are tolerated, well received everywhere.
Ten men travel on account of the house
of Planchet & Co., of France -- nothing
can be said against that. These ten men,
clothed like manufacturers, have a good
cutlass or a good musket at their
saddle-bow, and a good pistol in the
holster. They never allow themselves to
be uneasy, because they have no evil
designs. They are, perhaps, in truth, a
little disposed to be smugglers, but
what harm is in that? Smuggling is not,
like polygamy, a hanging offense. The
worst that can happen to us is the
confiscation of our merchandise. Our
merchandise confiscated -- fine affair
that! Come, come! it is a superb plan.
Ten men only -- ten men, whom I will
engage for my service; ten men who shall
be as resolute as forty, who would cost
me four times as much, and to whom, for
greater security, I will never open my
mouth as to my designs, and to whom I
shall only say, `My friends, there is a
blow to be struck.' Things being after
this fashion, Satan will be very
malicious if he plays me one of his
tricks. Fifteen thousand livres saved --
that's superb -- out of twenty!"

Thus fortified by his laborious
calculations, D'Artagnan stopped at this
plan, and determined to change nothing
in it. He had already on a list
furnished by his inexhaustible memory,
ten men illustrious amongst the seekers
of adventures, ill-treated by fortune,
and not on good terms with justice. Upon
this D'Artagnan rose, and instantly set
off on the search, telling Planchet not
to expect him to breakfast, and perhaps
not to dinner. A day and a half spent in
rummaging amongst certain dens of Paris
sufficed for his recruiting; and,
without allowing his adventurers to
communicate with each other, he had
picked up and got together, in less than
thirty hours, a charming collection of
ill-looking faces, speaking a French
less pure than the English they were
about to attempt. These men were, for
the most part, guards, whose merit
D'Artagnan had had an opportunity of
appreciating in various encounters, whom
drunkenness, unlucky sword-thrusts,
unexpected winnings at play, or the
economical reforms of Mazarin, had
forced to seek shade and solitude, those
two great consolers of irritated and
chafing spirits. They bore upon their
countenances and in their vestments the
traces of the heartaches they had
undergone. Some had their visages
scarred, -- all had their clothes in
rags. D'Artagnan comforted the most
needy of these brotherly miseries by a
prudent distribution of the crowns of
the society; then, having taken care
that these crowns should be employed in
the physical improvement of the troop,
he appointed a trysting place in the
north of France, between Berghes and
Saint Omer. Six days were allowed as the
utmost term, and D'Artagnan was
sufficiently acquainted with the
good-will, the good-humor, and the
relative probity of these illustrious
recruits, to be certain that not one of
them would fail in his appointment.
These orders given, this rendezvous
fixed, he went to bid farewell to
Planchet, who asked news of his army.
D'Artagnan did not think proper to
inform him of the reduction he had made
in his personnel. He feared that the
confidence of his associate would be
abated by such an avowal. Planchet was
delighted to learn that the army was
levied, and that he (Planchet) found
himself a kind of half king, who from
his throne-counter kept in pay a body of
troops destined to make war against
perfidious Albion, that enemy of all
true French hearts. Planchet paid down
in double louis, twenty thousand livres
to D'Artagnan, on the part of himself
(Planchet), and twenty thousand livres,
still in double louis, in account with
D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan placed each of
the twenty thousand francs in a bag, and
weighing a hag in each hand, -- "This
money is very embarrassing, my dear
Planchet," said he. "Do you know this
weighs thirty pounds?"

"Bah! your horse will carry that like a
feather."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Don't tell
me such things, Planchet: a horse
overloaded with thirty pounds, in
addition to the rider and his
portmanteau, cannot cross a river so
easily -- cannot leap over a wall or
ditch so lightly; and the horse failing,
the horseman fails. It is true that you,
Planchet, who have served in the
infantry, may not be aware of all that."

"Then what is to be done, monsieur?"
said Planchet, greatly embarrassed.

"Listen to me," said D'Artagnan. "I will
pay my army on its return home. Keep my
half of twenty thousand livres, which
you can use during that time."

"And my half?" said Planchet.

"I shall take that with me."

"Your confidence does me honor," said
Planchet: "but supposing you should not
return?"

"That is possible, though not very
probable. Then, Planchet, in case I
should not return -- give me a pen! I
will make my will." D'Artagnan took a
pen and some paper, and wrote upon a
plain sheet, -- "I, D'Artagnan, possess
twenty thousand livres, laid up cent by
cent during thirty years that I have
been in the service of his majesty the
king of France. I leave five thousand to
Athos, five thousand to Porthos and five
thousand to Aramis, that they may give
the said sums in my name and their own
to my young friend Raoul, Vicomte de
Bragelonne. I give the remaining five
thousand to Planchet, that he may
distribute the fifteen thousand with
less regret among my friends. With which
purpose I sign these presents. --
D'Artagnan.

Planchet appeared very curious to know
what D'Artagnan had written.

"Here," said the musketeer, "read it"

On reading the last lines the tears came
into Planchet's eyes. "You think, then,
that I would not have given the money
without that? Then I will have none of
your five thousand francs."

D'Artagnan smiled. "Accept it, accept
it, Planchet; and in that way you will
only lose fifteen thousand francs
instead of twenty thousand, and you will
not be tempted to disregard the
signature of your master and friend, by
losing nothing at all."

How well that dear Monsieur d'Artagnan
knew the hearts of men and grocers! They
who have pronounced Don Quixote mad
because he rode out to the conquest of
an empire with nobody but Sancho, his
squire, and they who have pronounced
Sancho mad because he accompanied his
master in his attempt to conquer the
said empire, -- they certainly will have
no hesitation in extending the same
judgment to D'Artagnan and Planchet. And
yet the first passed for one of the most
subtle spirits among the astute spirits
of the court of France. As to the
second, he had acquired by good right
the reputation of having one of the
longest heads among the grocers of the
Rue des Lombards; consequently of Paris,
and consequently of France. Now, to
consider these two men from the point of
view from which you would consider other
men, and the means by the aid of which
they contemplated to restore a monarch
to his throne, compared with other
means, the shallowest brains of the
country where brains are most shallow
must have revolted against the
presumptuous madness of the lieutenant
and the stupidity of his associate.
Fortunately, D'Artagnan was not a man to
listen to the idle talk of those around
him, or to the comments that were made
on himself. He had adopted the motto,
"Act well, and let people talk."
Planchet on his part, had adopted this,
"Act and say nothing." It resulted from
this, that, according to the custom of
all superior geniuses, these two men
flattered themselves intra pectus, with
being in the right against all who found
fault with them.

As a beginning, D'Artagnan set out in
the finest of possible weather, without
a cloud in the heavens -- without a
cloud on his mind, joyous and strong,
calm and decided, great in his
resolution, and consequently carrying
with him a tenfold dose of that potent
fluid which the shocks of mind cause to
spring from the nerves, and which
procure for the human machine a force
and an influence of which future ages
will render, according to all
probability, a more arithmetical account
than we can possibly do at present. He
was again, as in times past, on that
same road of adventures which had led
him to Boulogne, and which he was now
traveling for the fourth time. It
appeared to him that he could almost
recognize the trace of his own steps
upon the road, and that of his first
upon the doors of the hostelries; -- his
memory, always active and present,
brought back that youth which neither
thirty years later his great heart nor
his wrist of steel would have belied.
What a rich nature was that of this man!
He had all the passions, all the
defects, all the weaknesses, and the
spirit of contradiction familiar to his
understanding changed all these
imperfections into corresponding
qualities. D'Artagnan, thanks to his
ever active imagination, was afraid of a
shadow; and ashamed of being afraid, he
marched straight up to that shadow, and
then became extravagant in his bravery
if the danger proved to be real. Thus
everything in him was emotion, and
therefore enjoyment. He loved the
society of others, but never became
tired of his own; and more than once, if
he could have been heard when he was
alone, he might have been seen laughing
at the jokes he related to himself or
the tricks his imagination created just
five minutes before ennui might have
been looked for. D'Artagnan was not
perhaps so gay this time as he would
have been with the prospect of finding
some good friends at Calais, instead of
joining the ten scamps there;
melancholy, however, did not visit him
more than once a day, and it was about
five visits that he received from that
somber deity before he got sight of the
sea at Boulogne, and then these visits
were indeed but short. But when once
D'Artagnan found himself near the field
of action, all other feelings but that
of confidence disappeared never to
return. From Boulogne he followed the
coast to Calais. Calais was the place of
general rendezvous, and at Calais he had
named to each of his recruits the
hostelry of "Le Grand Monarque," where
living was not extravagant, where
sailors messed, and where men of the
sword, with sheath of leather, be it
understood, found lodging, table, food,
and all the comforts of life, for thirty
sous per diem. D'Artagnan proposed to
himself to take them by surprise in
flagrante delicto of wandering life, and
to judge by the first appearance if he
could count on them as trusty
companions.

He arrived at Calais at half past four
in the afternoon.




CHAPTER 22

D'Artagnan travels for the House of
Planchet and Company



The hostelry of "Le Grand Monarque" was
situated in a little street parallel to
the port without looking out upon the
port itself. Some lanes cut -- as steps
cut the two parallels of the ladder --
the two great straight lines of the port
and the street. By these lanes
passengers came suddenly from the port
into the street, or from the street on
to the port. D'Artagnan, arrived at the
port, took one of these lanes, and came
out in front of the hostelry of "Le
Grand Monarque." The moment was well
chosen and might remind D'Artagnan of
his start in life at the hostelry of the
"Franc-Meunier" at Meung. Some sailors
who had been playing at dice had started
a quarrel, and were threatening each
other furiously. The host, hostess, and
two lads were watching with anxiety the
circle of these angry gamblers, from the
midst of which war seemed ready to break
forth, bristling with knives and
hatchets. The play, nevertheless, was
continued. A stone bench was occupied by
two men, who appeared thence to watch
the door; four tables, placed at the
back of the common chamber, were
occupied by eight other individuals.
Neither the men at the door, nor those
at the tables, took any part in the play
or the quarrel. D'Artagnan recognized
his ten men in these cold, indifferent
spectators. The quarrel went on
increasing. Every passion has, like the
sea, its tide which ascends and
descends. Reaching the climax of
passion, one sailor overturned the table
and the money which was upon it. The
table fell, and the money rolled about.
In an instant all belonging to the
hostelry threw themselves upon the
stakes, and many a piece of silver was
picked up by people who stole away
whilst the sailors were scuffling with
each other.

The two men on the bench and the eight
at the tables, although they seemed
perfect strangers to each other, these
ten men alone, we say, appeared to have
agreed to remain impassible amidst the
cries of fury and the chinking of money.
Two only contented themselves with
pushing with their feet combatants who
came under their table. Two others,
rather than take part in this
disturbance, buried their hands in their
pockets; and another two jumped upon the
table they occupied, as people do to
avoid being submerged by overflowing
water.

"Come, come," said D'Artagnan to
himself, not having lost one of the
details we have related, "this is a very
fair gathering -- circumspect, calm,
accustomed to disturbance, acquainted
with blows! Peste! I have been lucky."

All at once his attention was called to
a particular part of the room. The two
men who had pushed the strugglers with
their feet were assailed with abuse by
the sailors, who had become reconciled.
One of them, half drunk with passion,
and quite drunk with beer, came, in a
menacing manner, to demand of the
shorter of these two sages by what right
he had touched with his foot creatures
of the good God, who were not dogs. And
whilst putting this question, in order
to make it more direct, he applied his
great fist to the nose of D'Artagnan's
recruit.

This man became pale, without its being
to be discerned whether his pallor arose
from anger or from fear; seeing which,
the sailor concluded it was from fear,
and raised his fist with the manifest
intention of letting it fall upon the
head of the stranger. But though the
threatened man did not appear to move,
he dealt the sailor such a severe blow
in the stomach that he sent him rolling
and howling to the other side of the
room. At the same instant, rallied by
the esprit de corps, all the comrades of
the conquered man fell upon the
conqueror.

The latter, with the same coolness of
which he had given proof, without
committing the imprudence of touching
his weapons, took up a beer-pot with a
pewter-lid, and knocked down two or
three of his assailants; then, as he was
about to yield to numbers, the seven
other silent men at the tables, who had
not stirred, perceived that their cause
was at stake, and came to the rescue. At
the same time, the two indifferent
spectators at the door turned round with
frowning brows, indicating their evident
intention of taking the enemy in the
rear, if the enemy did not cease their
aggressions.

The host, his helpers, and two watchmen
who were passing, and who from curiosity
had penetrated too far into the room,
were mixed up in the tumult and showered
with blows. The Parisians hit like
Cyclops, with an ensemble and a tactic
delightful to behold. At length, obliged
to beat a retreat before superior
numbers, they formed an intrenchment
behind the large table, which they
raised by main force; whilst the two
others, arming themselves each with a
trestle, and using it like a great
sledge-hammer, knocked down at a blow
eight sailors upon whose heads they had
brought their monstrous catapult in
play. The floor was already strewn with
wounded, and the room filled with cries
and dust, when D'Artagnan, satisfied
with the test, advanced, sword in hand,
and striking with the pommel every head
that came in his way, he uttered a
vigorous hola! which put an
instantaneous end to the conflict. A
great backflood directly took place from
the center to the sides of the room, so
that D'Artagnan found himself isolated
and dominator.

"What is all this about?" then demanded
he of the assembly, with the majestic
tone of Neptune pronouncing the Quos
ego.

At the very instant, at the first sound
of his voice, to carry on the Virgilian
metaphor, D'Artagnan's recruits,
recognizing each his sovereign lord,
discontinued their plank-fighting and
trestle blows. On their side, the
sailors, seeing that long naked sword,
that martial air, and the agile arm
which came to the rescue of their
enemies, in the person of a man who
seemed accustomed to command, the
sailors picked up their wounded and
their pitchers. The Parisians wiped
their brows, and viewed their leader
with respect. D'Artagnan was loaded with
thanks by the host of "Le Grand
Monarque." He received them like a man
who knows that nothing is being offered
that does not belong to him, and then
said he would go and walk upon the port
till supper was ready. Immediately each
of the recruits, who understood the
summons, took his hat, brushed the dust
off his clothes, and followed
D'Artagnan. But D'Artagnan whilst
walking and observing, took care not to
stop; he directed his course towards the
downs, and the ten men -- surprised at
finding themselves going in the track of
each other, uneasy at seeing on their
right, on their left, and behind them,
companions upon whom they had not
reckoned -- followed him, casting
furtive glances at each other. It was
not till he had arrived at the hollow
part of the deepest down that
D'Artagnan, smiling to see them outdone,
turned towards them, making a friendly
sign with his hand.

"Eh! come, come, gentlemen," said he,
"let us not devour each other; you are
made to live together, to understand
each other in all respects, and not to
devour one another."

Instantly all hesitation ceased; the men
breathed as if they had been taken out
of a coffin, and examined each other
complacently. After this examination
they turned their eyes towards their
leader, who had long been acquainted
with the art of speaking to men of that
class, and who improvised the following
little speech, pronounced with an energy
truly Gascon:

"Gentlemen, you all know who I am. I
have engaged you from knowing you to be
brave, and willing to associate you with
me in a glorious enterprise. Imagine
that in laboring for me you labor for
the king. I only warn you that if you
allow anything of this supposition to
appear, I shall be forced to crack your
skulls immediately, in the manner most
convenient to me. You are not ignorant,
gentlemen, that state secrets are like a
mortal poison: as long as that poison is
in its box and the box is closed, it is
not injurious; out of the box, it kills.
Now draw near and you shall know as much
of this secret as I am able to tell
you." All drew close to him with an
expression of curiosity. "Approach,"
continued D'Artagnan, "and let not the
bird which passes over our heads, the
rabbit which sports on the downs, the
fish which bounds from the waters, hear
us. Our business is to learn and to
report to monsieur le surintendant of
the finances to what extent English
smuggling is injurious to the French
merchants. I shall enter every place,
and see everything. We are poor Picard
fishermen, thrown upon the coast by a
storm. It is certain that we must sell
fish, neither more nor less, like true
fishermen. Only people might guess who
we are, and might molest us; it is
therefore necessary that we should be in
a condition to defend ourselves. And
this is why I have selected men of
spirit and courage. We shall lead a
steady life, and not incur much danger;
seeing that we have behind us a powerful
protector, thanks to whom no
embarrassment is possible. One thing
alone puzzles me; but I hope that after
a short explanation, you will relieve me
from that difficulty. The thing which
puzzles me is taking with me a crew of
stupid fishermen, which crew will annoy
me immensely, whilst if, by chance,
there were among you any who have seen
the sea ---- "

"Oh! don't let that trouble you," said
one of the recruits; "I was a prisoner
among the pirates of Tunis three years,
and can maneuver a boat like an
admiral."

"See," said D'Artagnan, "what an
admirable thing chance is!" D'Artagnan
pronounced these words with an
indefinable tone of feigned bonhomie,
for he knew very well that the victim of
pirates was an old corsair, and had
engaged him in consequence of that
knowledge. But D'Artagnan never said
more than there was need to say, in
order to leave people in doubt. He paid
himself with the explanation, and
welcomed the effect, without appearing
to be preoccupied with the cause.

"And I," said a second, "I, by chance,
had an uncle who directed the works of
the port of La Rochelle. When quite a
child, I played about the boats, and I
know how to handle an oar or a sail as
well as the best Ponantais sailor." The
latter did not lie much more than the
first, for he had rowed on board his
majesty's galleys six years, at Ciotat.
Two others were more frank: they
confessed honestly that they had served
on board a vessel as soldiers on
punishment, and did not blush for it.
D'Artagnan found himself, then, the
leader of ten men of war and four
sailors, having at once a land army and
a sea force, which would have earned the
pride of Planchet to its height, if
Planchet had known the details.

Nothing was now left but arranging the
general orders, and D'Artagnan gave them
with precision. He enjoined his men to
be ready to set out for the Hague, some
following the coast which leads to
Breskens, others the road to Antwerp.
The rendezvous was given, by calculating
each day's march, a fortnight from that
time upon the chief place at the Hague.
D'Artagnan recommended his men to go in
couples, as they liked best, from
sympathy. He himself selected from among
those with the least disreputable look,
two guards whom he had formerly known,
and whose only faults were being
drunkards and gamblers. These men had
not entirely lost all ideas of
civilization, and under proper garments
their hearts would beat again.
D'Artagnan, not to create any jealousy
with the others, made the rest go
forward. He kept his two selected ones,
clothed them from his own wardrobe, and
set out with them.

It was to these two, whom he seemed to
honor with an absolute confidence, that
D'Artagnan imparted a false secret,
destined to secure the success of the
expedition. He confessed to them that
the object was not to learn to what
extent the French merchants were injured
by English smuggling, but to learn how
far French smuggling could annoy English
trade. These men appeared convinced;
they were effectively so. D'Artagnan was
quite sure that at the first debauch
when thoroughly drunk, one of the two
would divulge the secret to the whole
band. His game appeared infallible.

A fortnight after all we have said had
taken place at Calais, the whole troop
assembled at the Hague.

Then D'Artagnan perceived that all his
men, with remarkable intelligence, had
already travestied themselves into
sailors, more or less ill-treated by the
sea. D'Artagnan left them to sleep in a
den in Newkerke street, whilst he lodged
comfortably upon the Grand Canal. He
learned that the king of England had
come back to his old ally, William II.
of Nassau, stadtholder of Holland. He
learned also that the refusal of Louis
XIV. had a little cooled the protection
afforded him up to that time, and in
consequence he had gone to reside in a
little village house at Scheveningen,
situated in the downs, on the sea-shore,
about a league from the Hague.

There, it was said, the unfortunate
banished king consoled himself in his
exile, by looking, with the melancholy
peculiar to the princes of his race, at
that immense North Sea, which separated
him from his England, as it had formerly
separated Mary Stuart from France. There
behind the trees of the beautiful wood
of Scheveningen on the fine sand upon
which grows the golden broom of the
down, Charles II. vegetated as it did,
more unfortunate, for he had life and
thought, and he hoped and despaired by
turns.

D'Artagnan went once as far as
Scheveningen, in order to be certain
that all was true that was said of the
king. He beheld Charles II., pensive and
alone, coming out of a little door
opening into the wood, and walking on
the beach in the setting sun, without
even attracting the attention of the
fishermen, who, on their return in the
evening, drew, like the ancient mariners
of the Archipelago, their barks up upon
the sand of the shore.

D'Artagnan recognized the king; he saw
him fix his melancholy look upon the
immense extent of the waters, and absorb
upon his pale countenance the red rays
of the sun already cut by the black line
of the horizon. Then Charles returned to
his isolated abode, always alone, slow
and sad, amusing himself with making the
friable and moving sand creak beneath
his feet.

That very evening D'Artagnan hired for a
thousand livres a fishing-boat worth
four thousand. He paid a thousand livres
down, and deposited the three thousand
with a Burgomaster, after which he
brought on board without their being
seen, the ten men who formed his land
army; and with the rising tide, at three
o'clock in the morning, he got into the
open sea, maneuvering ostensibly with
the four others, and depending upon the
science of his galley slave as upon that
of the first pilot of the port.




CHAPTER 23

In which the Author, very unwillingly,
is forced to write a Little History



While kings and men were thus occupied
with England, which governed itself
quite alone, and which, it must be said
in its praise, had never been so badly
governed, a man upon whom God had fixed
his eye, and placed his finger, a man
predestined to write his name in
brilliant letters upon the page of
history, was pursuing in the face of the
world a work full of mystery and
audacity. He went on, and no one knew
whither he meant to go, although not
only England, but France, and Europe,
watched him marching with a firm step
and head held high. All that was known
of this man we are about to tell.

Monk had just declared himself in favor
of the liberty of the Rump Parliament, a
parliament which General Lambert,
imitating Cromwell, whose lieutenant he
had been, had just blocked up so
closely, in order to bring it to his
will, that no member, during all the
blockade, was able to go out, and only
one, Peter Wentworth, had been able to
get in.

Lambert and Monk -- everything was
summed up in these two men; the first
representing military despotism, the
second pure republicanism. These men
were the two sole political
representatives of that revolution in
which Charles I. had first lost his
crown, and afterwards his head. As
regarded Lambert, he did not dissemble
his views; he sought to establish a
military government, and to be himself
the head of that government.

Monk, a rigid republican, some said,
wished to maintain the Rump Parliament,
that visible though degenerated
representative of the republic. Monk,
artful and ambitious, said others,
wished simply to make of this
parliament, which he affected to
protect, a solid step by which to mount
the throne which Cromwell had left
empty, but upon which he had never dared
to take his seat.

Thus Lambert by persecuting the
parliament, and Monk by declaring for
it, had mutually proclaimed themselves
enemies of each other. Monk and Lambert,
therefore, had at first thought of
creating an army each for himself: Monk
in Scotland, where were the
Presbyterians and the royalists, that is
to say, the malcontents; Lambert in
London, where was found, as is always
the case, the strongest opposition to
the existing power which it had beneath
its eyes.

Monk had pacified Scotland, he had there
formed for himself an army, and found an
asylum. The one watched the other. Monk
knew that the day was not yet come, the
day marked by the Lord for a great
change; his sword, therefore, appeared
glued to the sheath. Inexpugnable, in
his wild and mountainous Scotland, an
absolute general, king of an army of
eleven thousand old soldiers, whom he
had more than once led on to victory; as
well informed, nay, even better, of the
affairs of London, than Lambert, who
held garrison in the city, -- such was
the position of Monk, when, at a hundred
leagues from London, he declared himself
for the parliament. Lambert, on the
contrary, as we have said, lived in the
capital. That was the center of all his
operations, and he there collected
around him all his friends, and all the
people of the lower class, eternally
inclined to cherish the enemies of
constituted power.

It was then in London that Lambert
learnt the support that, from the
frontiers of Scotland, Monk lent to the
parliament. He judged there was no time
to be lost, and that the Tweed was not
so far distant from the Thames that an
army could not march from one river to
the other, particularly when it was well
commanded. He knew, besides, that as
fast as the soldiers of Monk penetrated
into England, they would form on their
route that ball of snow, the emblem of
the globe of fortune, which is for the
ambitious nothing but a step growing
unceasingly higher to conduct him to his
object. He got together, therefore, his
army, formidable at the same time for
its composition and its numbers, and
hastened to meet Monk, who, on his part,
like a prudent navigator sailing amidst
rocks, advanced by very short marches,
listening to the reports and scenting
the air which came from London.

The two armies came in sight of each
other near Newcastle, Lambert, arriving
first, encamped in the city itself.
Monk, always circumspect, stopped where
he was, and placed his general quarters
at Coldstream, on the Tweed. The sight
of Lambert spread joy through Monk's
army, whilst, on the contrary, the sight
of Monk threw disorder into Lambert's
army. It might have been thought that
these intrepid warriors, who had made
such a noise in the streets of London,
had set out with the hopes of meeting no
one, and that now seeing that they had
met an army, and that that army hoisted
before them not only a standard, but
still further, a cause and a
principle, -- it might have been
believed, we say, that these intrepid
warriors had begun to reflect, that they
were less good republicans than the
soldiers of Monk, since the latter
supported the parliament; whilst Lambert
supported nothing, not even himself.

As to Monk, if he had had to reflect, or
if he did reflect, it must have been
after a sad fashion, for history
relates -- and that modest dame, it is
well known, never lies -- history
relates, that the day of his arrival at
Coldstream search was made in vain
throughout the place for a single sheep.

If Monk had commanded an English army,
that was enough to have brought about a
general desertion. But it is not with
the Scotch as it is with the English, to
whom that fluid flesh which is called
blood is a paramount necessity; the
Scotch, a poor and sober race, live upon
a little barley crushed between two
stones, diluted with the water of the
fountain, and cooked upon another stone,
heated.

The Scotch, their distribution of barley
being made, cared very little whether
there was or was not any meat in
Coldstream. Monk, little accustomed to
barley-cakes, was hungry, and his staff,
at least as hungry as himself, looked
with anxiety right and left, to know
what was being prepared for supper.

Monk ordered search to be made; his
scouts had on arriving in the place
found it deserted and the cupboards
empty; upon butchers and bakers it was
of no use depending in Coldstream. The
smallest morsel of bread, then, could
not be found for the general's table.

As accounts succeeded each other, all
equally unsatisfactory, Monk, seeing
terror and discouragement upon every
face, declared that he was not hungry;
besides they should eat on the morrow,
since Lambert was there probably with
the intention of giving battle, and
consequently would give up his
provisions, if he were forced from
Newcastle, or forever to relieve Monk's
soldiers from hunger if he conquered.

This consolation was only efficacious
upon a very small number; but of what
importance was it to Monk? for Monk was
very absolute, under the appearance of
the most perfect mildness. Every one,
therefore, was obliged to be satisfied,
or at least to appear so. Monk quite as
hungry as his people, but affecting
perfect indifference for the absent
mutton, cut a fragment of tobacco, half
an inch long, from the carotte of a
sergeant who formed part of his suite,
and began to masticate the said
fragment, assuring his lieutenants that
hunger was a chimera, and that, besides,
people were never hungry when they had
anything to chew.

This joke satisfied some of those who
had resisted Monk's first deduction
drawn from the neighborhood of Lambert's
army; the number of the dissentients
diminished greatly; the guard took their
posts, the patrols began, and the
general continued his frugal repast
beneath his open tent.

Between his camp and that of the enemy
stood an old abbey, of which, at the
present day, there only remain some
ruins, but which then was in existence,
and was called Newcastle Abbey. It was
built upon a vast site, independent at
once of the plain and of the river,
because it was almost a marsh fed by
springs and kept up by rains.
Nevertheless, in the midst of these
pools of water, covered with long grass,
rushes, and reeds, were seen solid spots
of ground, formerly used as the
kitchen-garden, the park, the
pleasure-gardens, and other dependencies
of the abbey, looking like one of those
great sea-spiders, whose body is round,
whilst the claws go diverging round from
this circumference.

The kitchen-garden, one of the longest
claws of the abbey, extended to Monk's
camp. Unfortunately it was, as we have
said, early in June, and the
kitchen-garden, being abandoned, offered
no resources.

Monk had ordered this spot to be
guarded, as most subject to surprises.
The fires of the enemy's general were
plainly to be perceived on the other
side of the abbey. But between these
fires and the abbey extended the Tweed,
unfolding its luminous scales beneath
the thick shade of tall green oaks. Monk
was perfectly well acquainted with this
position, Newcastle and its environs
having already more than once been his
headquarters. He knew that by day his
enemy might without doubt throw a few
scouts into these ruins and promote a
skirmish, but that by night he would
take care to abstain from such a risk.
He felt himself, therefore, in security.

Thus his soldiers saw him, after what he
boastingly called his supper -- that is
to say, after the exercise of
mastication reported by us at the
commencement of this chapter -- like
Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz,
seated asleep in his rush chair, half
beneath the light of his lamp, half
beneath the reflection of the moon,
commencing its ascent in the heavens,
which denoted that it was nearly half
past nine in the evening. All at once
Monk was roused from his half sleep,
fictitious perhaps, by a troop of
soldiers, who came with joyous cries,
and kicked the poles of his tent with a
humming noise as if on purpose to wake
him. There was no need of so much noise;
the general opened his eyes quickly.

"Well, my children, what is going on
now?" asked the general.

"General!" replied several voices at
once, "General! you shall have some
supper."

"I have had my supper, gentlemen,"
replied he, quietly, "and was
comfortably digesting it, as you see.
But come in, and tell me what brings you
hither."

"Good news, general."

"Bah! Has Lambert sent us word that he
will fight to-morrow?"

"No, but we have just captured a
fishing-boat conveying fish to
Newcastle."

"And you have done very wrong, my
friends. These gentlemen from London are
delicate, must have their first course;
you will put them sadly out of humor
this evening, and to-morrow they will be
pitiless. It would really be in good
taste to send back to Lambert both his
fish and his fishermen, unless ---- "
and the general reflected an instant.

"Tell me," continued he, "what are these
fishermen, if you please?"

"Some Picard seamen who were fishing on
the coasts of France or Holland, and who
have been thrown upon ours by a gale of
wind."

"Do any among them speak our language?"

"The leader spoke some few words of
English."

The mistrust of the general was awakened
in proportion as fresh information
reached him. "That is well," said he. "I
wish to see these men, bring them to
me."

An officer immediately went to fetch
them.

"How many are there of them?" continued
Monk; "and what is their vessel?"

"There are ten or twelve of them,
general, and they were aboard of a kind
of chasse-maree, as it is called --
Dutch-built, apparently."

"And you say they were carrying fish to
Lambert's camp?"

"Yes, general, and they seem to have had
good luck in their fishing."

"Humph! we shall see that," said Monk.

At this moment the officer returned,
bringing the leader of the fishermen
with him. He was a man from fifty to
fifty-five years old, but good-looking
for his age. He was of middle height,
and wore a justaucorps of coarse wool, a
cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass
hung from his belt, and he walked with
the hesitation peculiar to sailors, who,
never knowing, thanks to the movement of
the vessel, whether their foot will be
placed upon the plank or upon nothing,
give to every one of their steps a fall
as firm as if they were driving a pile.
Monk, with an acute and penetrating
look, examined the fisherman for some
time, while the latter smiled, with that
smile half cunning, half silly, peculiar
to French peasants.

"Do you speak English?" asked Monk, in
excellent French.

"Ah! but badly, my lord," replied the
fisherman.

This reply was made much more with the
lively and sharp accentuation of the
people beyond the Loire, than with the
slightly-drawling accent of the
countries of the west and north of
France.

"But you do speak it?" persisted Monk,
in order to examine his accent once
more.

"Eh! we men of the sea," replied the
fisherman, "speak a little of all
languages."

"Then you are a sea fisherman?"

"I am at present, my lord -- a
fisherman, and a famous fisherman too. I
have taken a barbel that weighs at least
thirty pounds, and more than fifty
mullets; I have also some little
whitings that will fry beautifully."

"You appear to me to have fished more
frequently in the Gulf of Gascony than
in the Channel," said Monk, smiling.

"Well, I am from the south; but does
that prevent me from being a good
fisherman, my lord?"

"Oh! not at all; I shall buy your fish.
And now speak frankly; for whom did you
destine them?"

"My lord, I will conceal nothing from
you. I was going to Newcastle, following
the coast, when a party of horsemen who
were passing along in an opposite
direction made a sign to my bark to turn
back to your honor's camp, under penalty
of a discharge of musketry. As I was not
armed for fighting," added the
fisherman, smiling, "I was forced to
submit."

"And why did you go to Lambert's camp in
preference to mine?"

"My lord, I will be frank; will your
lordship permit me?"

"Yes, and even if need be shall command
you to be so."

"Well, my lord, I was going to M.
Lambert's camp because those gentlemen
from the city pay well -- whilst your
Scotchmen, Puritans, Presbyterians,
Covenanters, or whatever you choose to
call them, eat but little, and pay for
nothing."

Monk shrugged his shoulders, without,
however, being able to refrain from
smiling at the same time. "How is it
that, being from the south, you come to
fish on our coasts?"

"Because I have been fool enough to
marry in Picardy."

"Yes; but even Picardy is not England."

"My lord, man shoves his boat into the
sea, but God and the wind do the rest,
and drive the boat where they please."

"You had, then, no intention of landing
on our coasts?"

"Never."

"And what route were you steering?"

"We were returning from Ostend, where
some mackerel had already been seen,
when a sharp wind from the south drove
us from our course; then, seeing that it
was useless to struggle against it, we
let it drive us. It then became
necessary, not to lose our fish, which
were good, to go and sell them at the
nearest English port, and that was
Newcastle. We were told the opportunity
was good, as there was an increase of
population in the camp, an increase of
population in the city; both, we were
told, were full of gentlemen, very rich
and very hungry. So we steered our
course towards Newcastle."

"And your companions, where are they?"

"Oh, my companions have remained on
board; they are sailors without the
least instruction."

"Whilst you ---- " said Monk.

"Who, I?" said the patron, laughing; "I
have sailed about with my father, and I
know what is called a sou, a crown, a
pistole, a louis, and a double louis, in
all the languages of Europe; my crew,
therefore, listen to me as they would to
an oracle, and obey me as if I were an
admiral."

"Then it was you who preferred M.
Lambert as the best customer?"

"Yes, certainly. And, to be frank, my
lord, was I wrong?"

"You will see that by and by."

"At all events, my lord, if there is a
fault, the fault is mine; and my
comrades should not be dealt hardly with
on that account."

"This is decidedly an intelligent, sharp
fellow," thought Monk. Then, after a few
minutes, silence employed in
scrutinizing the fisherman, -- "You come
from Ostend, did you not say?" asked the
general.

"Yes, my lord, in a straight line."

"You have then heard of the affairs of
the day; for I have no doubt that both
in France and Holland they excite
interest. What is he doing who calls
himself king of England?"

"Oh, my lord!" cried the fisherman, with
loud and expansive frankness, "that is a
lucky question, and you could not put it
to anybody better than to me, for in
truth I can make you a famous reply.
Imagine, my lord, that when putting into
Ostend to sell the few mackerel we had
caught, I saw the ex-king walking on the
downs waiting for his horses, which were
to take him to the Hague. He is a rather
tall, pale man, with black hair, and
somewhat hard-featured. He looks ill,
and I don't think the air of Holland
agrees with him."

Monk followed with the greatest
attention the rapid, heightened, and
diffuse conversation of the fisherman,
in a language which was not his own, but
which, as we have said, he spoke with
great facility. The fisherman on his
part, employed sometimes a French word,
sometimes an English word, and sometimes
a word which appeared not to belong to
any language, but was, in truth, pure
Gascon. Fortunately his eyes spoke for
him, and that so eloquently, that it was
possible to lose a word from his mouth,
but not a single intention from his
eyes. The general appeared more and more
satisfied with his examination. "You
must have heard that this ex-king, as
you call him, was going to the Hague for
some purpose?"

"Oh, yes," said the fisherman, "I heard
that."

"And what was his purpose?"

"Always the same," said the fisherman.
"Must he not always entertain the fixed
idea of returning to England?"

"That is true," said Monk, pensively.

"Without reckoning," added the
fisherman, "that the stadtholder -- you
know, my lord, William II.?"

"Well?"

"He will assist him with all his power."

"Ah! did you hear that said?"

"No, but I think so."

"You are quite a politician,
apparently," said Monk.

"Why, we sailors, my lord, who are
accustomed to study the water and the
air -- that is to say, the two most
changeable things in the world -- are
seldom deceived as to the rest."

"Now, then," said Monk, changing the
conversation, "I am told you are going
to provision us."

"I shall do my best, my lord."

"How much do you ask for your fish in
the first place?"

"Not such a fool as to name a price, my
lord."

"Why not?"

"Because my fish is yours."

"By what right?"

"By that of the strongest."

"But my intention is to pay you for it."

"That is very generous of you, my lord."

"And the worth of it ---- "

"My lord, I fix no price."

"What do you ask, then?"

"I only ask to be permitted to go away."

"Where? -- to General Lambert's camp?"

"I!" cried the fisherman; "what should I
go to Newcastle for, now I have no
longer any fish?"

"At all events, listen to me."

"I do, my lord."

"I shall give you some advice."

"How, my lord! -- pay me and give me
good advice likewise! You overwhelm me,
my lord."

Monk looked more earnestly than ever at
the fisherman, about whom he still
appeared to entertain some suspicion.
"Yes, I shall pay you, and give you a
piece of advice, for the two things are
connected. If you return, then, to
General Lambert ---- "

The fisherman made a movement of his
head and shoulders, which signified, "If
he persists in it, I won't contradict
him."

"Do not cross the marsh," continued
Monk: "you will have money in your
pocket, and there are in the marsh some
Scotch ambuscaders I have placed there.
Those people are very intractable; they
understand but very little of the
language which you speak, although it
appears to me to be composed of three
languages. They might take from you what
I had given you, and, on your return to
your country, you would not fail to say
that General Monk has two hands, the one
Scotch, and the other English; and that
he takes back with the Scotch hand what
he has given with the English hand."

"Oh! general, I shall go where you like,
be sure of that," said the fisherman,
with a fear too expressive not to be
exaggerated. "I only wish to remain
here, if you will allow me to remain."

"I readily believe you," said Monk, with
an imperceptible smile, "but I cannot,
nevertheless, keep you in my tent."

"I have no such wish, my lord, and
desire only that your lordship should
point out where you will have me posted.
Do not trouble yourself about us -- with
us a night soon passes away."

"You shall be conducted to your bark."

"As your lordship pleases. Only, if your
lordship would allow me to be taken back
by a carpenter, I should be extremely
grateful."

"Why so?"

"Because the gentlemen of your army, in
dragging my boat up the river with a
cable pulled by their horses, have
battered it a little upon the rocks of
the shore, so that I have at least two
feet of water in my hold, my lord."

"The greater reason why you should watch
your boat, I think."

"My lord, I am quite at your orders,"
said the fisherman; "I shall empty my
baskets where you wish; then you will
pay me, if you please to do so; and you
will send me away, if it appears right
to you. You see I am very easily managed
and pleased, my lord."

"Come, come, you are a very good sort of
a fellow," said Monk, whose scrutinizing
glance had not been able to find a
single shade in the clear eye of the
fisherman. "Holloa, Digby!" An
aide-de-camp appeared. "You will conduct
this good fellow and his companions to
the little tents of the canteens, in
front of the marshes, so that they will
be near their bark, and yet will not
sleep on board to-night. What is the
matter, Spithead?"

Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk
had borrowed a piece of tobacco for his
supper. Spithead, having entered the
general's tent without being sent for,
had drawn this question from Monk.

"My lord," said he, "a French gentleman
has just presented himself at the
outposts and wishes to speak to your
honor."

All this was said, be it understood, in
English; but notwithstanding, it
produced a slight emotion in the
fisherman, which Monk, occupied with his
sergeant, did not remark.

"Who is the gentleman?" asked Monk.

"My lord," replied Spithead, "he told it
me, but those devils of French names are
so difficult to pronounce for a Scotch
throat, that I could not retain it. I
believe, however, from what the guards
say, that it is the same gentleman who
presented himself yesterday at the halt,
and whom your honor would not receive."

"That is true; I was holding a council
of officers."

"Will your honor give any orders
respecting this gentleman?"

"Yes, let him be brought here."

"Must we take any precautions?"

"Such as what?"

"Binding his eyes, for instance."

"To what purpose? He can only see what I
desire should be seen; that is to say,
that I have around me eleven thousand
brave men, who ask no better than to
have their throats cut in honor of the
parliament of Scotland and England."

"And this man, my lord?" said Spithead,
pointing to the fisherman, who, during
this conversation, had remained standing
and motionless, like a man who sees but
does not understand.

"Ah, that is true," said Monk. Then
turning towards the fisherman, -- "I
shall see you again, my brave fellow,"
said he; "I have selected a lodging for
you. Digby, take him to it. Fear
nothing: your money shall be sent to you
presently."

"Thank you, my lord," said the
fisherman, and after having bowed, he
left the tent, accompanied by Digby.
Before he had gone a hundred paces he
found his companions, who were
whispering with a volubility which did
not appear exempt from uneasiness, but
he made them a sign which seemed to
reassure them. "Hola, you fellows!" said
the patron, "come this way. His
lordship, General Monk, has the
generosity to pay us for our fish, and
the goodness to give us hospitality for
to-night."

The fishermen gathered round their
leader, and, conducted by Digby, the
little troop proceeded towards the
canteens, the post, as may be
remembered, which had been assigned
them. As they went along in the dark,
the fishermen passed close to the guards
who were conducting the French gentleman
to General Monk. This gentleman was on
horseback, and enveloped in a large
cloak, which prevented the patron from
seeing him, however great his curiosity
might be. As to the gentleman, ignorant
that he was elbowing compatriots, he did
not pay any attention to the little
troop.

The aid-de-camp settled his guests in a
tolerably comfortable tent, from which
was dislodged an Irish canteen woman,
who went, with her six children, to
sleep where she could. A large fire was
burning in front of this tent, and threw
its purple light over the grassy pools
of the marsh, rippled by a fresh breeze.
The arrangements made, the aid-de-camp
wished the fishermen good-night, calling
to their notice that they might see from
the door of the tent the masts of their
bark, which was tossing gently on the
Tweed, a proof that it had not yet sunk.
The sight of this appeared to delight
the leader of the fishermen infinitely.




CHAPTER 24

The Treasure



The French gentleman whom Spithead had
announced to Monk, and who, closely
wrapped in his cloak, had passed by the
fishermen who left the general's tent
five minutes before he entered it, --
the French gentleman went through the
various posts without even casting his
eyes around him, for fear of appearing
indiscreet. As the order had been given,
he was conducted to the tent of the
general. The gentleman was left alone in
the sort of ante-chamber in front of the
principal body of the tent, where he
awaited Monk, who only delayed till he
had heard the report of his people, and
observed through the opening of the
canvas the countenance of the person who
solicited an audience.

Without doubt, the report of those who
had accompanied the French gentleman
established the discretion with which he
had behaved, for the first impression
the stranger received of the welcome
made him by the general was more
favorable than he could have expected at
such a moment, and on the part of so
suspicious a man. Nevertheless,
according to his custom, when Monk found
himself in the presence of a stranger,
he fixed upon him his penetrating eyes,
which scrutiny, the stranger, on his
part, sustained without embarrassment or
notice. At the end of a few seconds, the
general made a gesture with his hand and
head in sign of attention.

"My lord," said the gentleman, in
excellent English. "I have requested an
interview with your honor, for an affair
of importance."

"Monsieur," replied Monk, in French,
"you speak our language well for a son
of the continent. I ask your pardon --
for doubtless the question is
indiscreet -- do you speak French with
the same purity?"

"There is nothing surprising, my lord,
in my speaking English tolerably; I
resided for some time in England in my
youth, and since then I have made two
voyages to this country." These words
were spoken in French, and with a purity
of accent that bespoke not only a
Frenchman, but a Frenchman from the
vicinity of Tours.

"And what part of England have you
resided in, monsieur?"

"In my youth, London, my lord, then,
about 1635, I made a pleasure trip to
Scotland; and lastly, in 1648, I lived
for some time at Newcastle, particularly
in the convent, the gardens of which are
now occupied by your army."

"Excuse me, monsieur, but you must
comprehend that these questions are
necessary on my part -- do you not?"

"It would astonish me, my lord, if they
were not asked."

"Now, then, monsieur, what can I do to
serve you? What do you wish?"

"This, my lord; -- but, in the first
place, are we alone?"

"Perfectly so, monsieur, except, of
course, the post which guards us." So
saying, Monk pulled open the canvas with
his hand, and pointed to the soldier
placed at ten paces from the tent, and
who, at the first call could have
rendered assistance in a second.

"In that case my lord," said the
gentleman, in as calm a tone as if he
had been for a length of time in habits
of intimacy with his interlocutor, I
have made up my mind to address myself
to you, because I believe you to be an
honest man. Indeed, the communication I
am about to make to you will prove to
you the esteem in which I hold you."

Monk, astonished at this language, which
established between him and the French
gentleman equality at least, raised his
piercing eye to the stranger's face, and
with a sensible irony conveyed by the
inflection of his voice alone, for not a
muscle of his face moved, -- "I thank
you, monsieur," said he; "but, in the
first place, to whom have I the honor of
speaking?"

"I sent you my name by your sergeant, my
lord."

"Excuse him, monsieur, he is a
Scotchman, -- he could not retain it."

"I am called the Comte de la Fere,
monsieur," said Athos, bowing.

"The Comte de la Fere?" said Monk,
endeavoring to recollect the name.
"Pardon me, monsieur, but this appears
to be the first time I have ever heard
that name. Do you fill any post at the
court of France?"

"None; I am a simple gentleman."

"What dignity?"

"King Charles I. made me a knight of the
Garter, and Queen Anne of Austria has
given me the cordon of the Holy Ghost.
These are my only dignities."

"The Garter! the Holy Ghost! Are you a
knight of those two orders, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"And on what occasions have such favors
been bestowed upon you?"

"For services rendered to their
majesties."

Monk looked with astonishment at this
man, who appeared to him so simple and
so great at the same time. Then, as if
he had renounced endeavoring to
penetrate this mystery of a simplicity
and grandeur upon which the stranger did
not seem disposed to give him any other
information than that which he had
already received, -- "Did you present
yourself yesterday at our advanced
posts?"

"And was sent back? Yes, my lord."

"Many officers, monsieur, would permit
no one to enter their camp, particularly
on the eve of a probable battle. But I
differ from my colleagues, and like to
leave nothing behind me. Every advice is
good to me; all danger is sent to me by
God, and I weigh it in my hand with the
energy He has given me. So, yesterday,
you were only sent back on account of
the council I was holding. To-day I am
at liberty, -- speak."

"My lord, you have done much better in
receiving me, for what I have to say has
nothing to do with the battle you are
about to fight with General Lambert, or
with your camp; and the proof is, that I
turned away my head that I might not see
your men, and closed my eyes that I
might not count your tents. No, I come
to speak to you, my lord, on my own
account."

"Speak, then, monsieur," said Monk.

"Just now " continued Athos, "I had the
honor of telling your lordship that for
a long time I lived in Newcastle; it was
in the time of Charles I., and when the
king was given up to Cromwell by the
Scots."

"I know," said Monk, coldly.

"I had at that time a large sum in gold,
and on the eve of the battle, from a
presentiment perhaps of the turn which
things would take on the morrow, I
concealed it in the principal vault of
the convent of Newcastle, in the tower
whose summit you now see silvered by the
moonbeams. My treasure has then remained
interred there, and I have come to
entreat your honor to permit me to
withdraw it before, perhaps, the battle
turning that way, a mine or some other
war engine has destroyed the building
and scattered my gold, or rendered it so
apparent that the soldiers will take
possession of it."

Monk was well acquainted with mankind,
he saw in the physiognomy of this
gentleman all the energy, all the
reason, all the circumspection possible,
he could therefore only attribute to a
magnanimous confidence the revelation
the Frenchman had made him, and he
showed himself profoundly touched by it.

"Monsieur," said he, "you have augured
well of me. But is the sum worth the
trouble to which you expose yourself? Do
you even believe that it can be in the
place where you left it?"

"It is there, monsieur, I do not doubt."

"That is a reply to one question; but to
the other. I asked you if the sum was so
large as to warrant your exposing
yourself thus."

"It is really large; yes, my lord, for
it is a million I inclosed in two
barrels."

"A million!" cried Monk, at whom this
time, in turn, Athos looked earnestly
and long. Monk perceived this, and his
mistrust returned.

"Here is a man," said he, "who is laying
a snare for me. So you wish to withdraw
this money, monsieur," replied he, "as I
understand?"

"If you please, my lord."

"To-day?"

"This very evening, and that on account
of the circumstances I have named."

"But, monsieur," objected Monk, "General
Lambert is as near the abbey where you
have to act as I am. Why, then, have you
not addressed yourself to him?"

"Because, my lord, when one acts in
important matters, it is best to consult
one's instinct before everything. Well,
General Lambert does not inspire me with
so much confidence as you do."

"Be it so, monsieur. I shall assist you
in recovering your money, if, however,
it can still be there; for that is far
from likely. Since 1648 twelve years
have rolled away, and many events have
taken place." Monk dwelt upon this point
to see if the French gentleman would
seize the evasions that were open to
him, but Athos did not hesitate.

"I assure you, my lord," he said firmly,
"that my conviction is, that the two
barrels have neither changed place nor
master." This reply had removed one
suspicion from the mind of Monk, but it
had suggested another. Without doubt
this Frenchman was some emissary sent to
entice into error the protector of the
parliament; the gold was nothing but a
lure; and by the help of this lure they
thought to excite the cupidity of the
general. This gold might not exist. It
was Monk's business, then, to seize the
Frenchman in the act of falsehood and
trick, and to draw from the false step
itself in which his enemies wished to
entrap him, a triumph for his renown.
When Monk was determined how to act, --

"Monsieur," said he to Athos, "without
doubt you will do me the honor to share
my supper this evening?"

"Yes, my lord," replied Athos, bowing,
"for you do me an honor of which I feel
myself worthy, by the inclination which
drew me towards you."

"It is so much the more gracious on your
part to accept my invitation with such
frankness, as my cooks are but few and
inexperienced, and my providers have
returned this evening empty-handed; so
that if it had not been for a fisherman
of your nation who strayed into our
camp, General Monk would have gone to
bed without his supper to-day; I have,
then, some fresh fish to offer you, as
the vendor assures me."

"My lord, it is principally for the sake
of having the honor to pass another hour
with you."

After this exchange of civilities,
during which Monk had lost nothing of
his circumspection, the supper, or what
was to serve for one, had been laid upon
a deal table. Monk invited the Comte de
la Fere to be seated at this table, and
took his place opposite to him. A single
dish of boiled fish, set before the two
illustrious guests, was more tempting to
hungry stomachs than to delicate
palates.

Whilst supping, that is, while eating
the fish, washed down with bad ale, Monk
got Athos to relate to him the last
events of the Fronde, the reconciliation
of M. de Conde with the king, and the
probable marriage of the infanta of
Spain; but he avoided, as Athos himself
avoided it, all allusion to the
political interests which united, or
rather which disunited at this time,
England, France and Holland.

Monk, in this conversation, convinced
himself of one thing, which he must have
remarked after the first words
exchanged: that was, that he had to deal
with a man of high distinction. He could
not be an assassin, and it was repugnant
to Monk to believe him to be a spy, but
there was sufficient finesse and at the
same time firmness in Athos to lead Monk
to fancy he was a conspirator. When they
had quitted table, "You still believe in
your treasure, then, monsieur?" asked
Monk.

"Yes, my lord."

"Quite seriously?"

"Seriously."

"And you think you can find the place
again where it was buried?"

"At the first inspection."

"Well, monsieur, from curiosity I shall
accompany you. And it is so much the
more necessary that I should accompany
you, that you would find great
difficulties in passing through the camp
without me or one of my lieutenants."

"General, I would not suffer you to
inconvenience yourself if I did not, in
fact, stand in need of your company; but
as I recognize that this company is not
only honorable, but necessary, I accept
it."

"Do you desire we should take any people
with us?" asked Monk.

"General, I believe that would be
useless, if you yourself do not see the
necessity for it. Two men and a horse
will suffice to transport the two casks
on board the felucca which brought me
hither."

"But it will be necessary to pick, dig
and remove the earth, and split stones;
you don't intend doing this work
yourself, monsieur, do you?"

"General, there is no picking or digging
required. The treasure is buried in the
sepulchral vault of the convent, under a
stone in which is fixed a large iron
ring and under which are four steps
leading down. The two casks are there,
placed end to end, covered with a coat
of plaster in the form of a bier. There
is, besides, an inscription, which will
enable me to recognize the stone; and as
I am not willing, in an affair of
delicacy and confidence, to keep the
secret from your honor, here is the
inscription: -- `Hic jacet venerabilis,
Petrus Gulielmus Scott, Canon Honorab.
Conventus Novi Castelli. Obiit quarta et
decima. Feb. ann. Dom. MCCVIII.
Requiescat in pace.'"

Monk did not lose a single word.- He was
astonished either at the marvelous
duplicity of this man and the superior
style in which he played his part, or at
the good loyal faith with which he
presented his request, in a situation in
which concerning a million of money,
risked against the blow from a dagger,
amidst an army that would have looked
upon the theft as a restitution.

"Very well," said he; "I shall accompany
you; and the adventure appears to me so
wonderful, that I shall carry the torch
myself." And saying these words, he
girded on a short sword, placed a pistol
in his belt, disclosing in this
movement, which opened his doublet a
little, the fine rings of a coat of
mail, destined to protect him from the
first dagger-thrust of an assassin.
After which he took a Scotch dirk in his
left hand, and then turning to Athos,
"Are you ready, monsieur?" said he.

"I am."

Athos, as if in opposition to what Monk
had done, unfastened his poniard, which
he placed upon the table; unhooked his
sword-belt, which he laid close to his
poniard; and, without affectation,
opening his doublet as if to look for
his handkerchief, showed beneath his
fine cambric shirt his naked breast,
without weapons either offensive or
defensive.

"This is truly a singular man," said
Monk; "he is without any arms; he has an
ambuscade placed somewhere yonder."

"General," said he, as if he had divined
Monk's thought, "you wish we should be
alone; that is very right, but a great
captain ought never to expose himself
with temerity. It is night, the passage
of the marsh may present dangers; be
accompanied."

"You are right," replied he, calling
Digby. The aid-de-camp appeared. "Fifty
men with swords and muskets," said he,
looking at Athos.

"That is too few if there is danger, too
many if there is not."

"I will go alone," said Monk; "I want
nobody. Come, monsieur."




CHAPTER 25

The March



Athos and Monk passed over, in going
from the camp towards the Tweed, that
part of the ground which Digby had
traversed with the fishermen coming from
the Tweed to the camp. The aspect of
this place, the aspect of the changes
man had wrought in it, was of a nature
to produce a great effect upon a lively
and delicate imagination like that of
Athos. Athos looked at nothing but these
desolate spots; Monk looked at nothing
but Athos -- at Athos, who, with his
eyes sometimes directed towards heaven,
and sometimes towards the earth, sought,
thought, and sighed.

Digby, whom the last orders of the
general, and particularly the accent
with which he had given them, had at
first a little excited, followed the
pair at about twenty paces, but the
general having turned round as if
astonished to find his orders had not
been obeyed, the aid-de-camp perceived
his indiscretion and returned to his
tent.

He supposed that the general wished to
make, incognito, one of those reviews of
vigilance which every experienced
captain never fails to make on the eve
of a decisive engagement: he explained
to himself the presence of Athos in this
case as an inferior explains all that is
mysterious on the part of his leader.
Athos might be, and, indeed, in the eyes
of Digby, must be, a spy, whose
information was to enlighten the
general.

At the end of a walk of about ten
minutes among the tents and posts, which
were closer together near the
headquarters, Monk entered upon a little
causeway which diverged into three
branches. That on the left led to the
river, that in the middle to Newcastle
Abbey on the marsh, that on the right
crossed the first lines of Monk's camp,
that is to say, the lines nearest to
Lambert's army. Beyond the river was an
advanced post belonging to Monk's army,
which watched the enemy; it was composed
of one hundred and fifty Scots. They had
swum across the Tweed, and, in case of
attack, were to recross it in the same
manner, giving the alarm; but as there
was no post at that spot, and as
Lambert's soldiers were not so prompt at
taking to the water as Monk's were, the
latter appeared not to have much
uneasiness on that side. On this side of
the river, at about five hundred paces
from the old abbey, the fishermen had
taken up their abode amidst a crowd of
small tents raised by the soldiers of
the neighboring clans, who had with them
their wives and children. All this
confusion, seen by the moon's light,
presented a striking coup d'oeil; the
half shadow enlarged every detail, and
the light, that flatterer which only
attaches itself to the polished side of
things, courted upon each rusty musket
the point still left intact, and upon
every rag of canvas the whitest and
least sullied part.

Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing
this spot, illumined with a double
light, the silver splendor of the moon,
and the red blaze of the fires at the
meeting of the three causeways; there he
stopped, and addressing his
companion, -- "Monsieur," said he, "do
you know your road?"

"General, if I am not mistaken, the
middle causeway leads straight to the
abbey."

"That is right; but we shall want lights
to guide us in the vaults." Monk turned
round.

"Ah! I thought Digby was following us!"
said he. "So much the better; he will
procure us what we want."

"Yes, general, there is a man yonder who
has been walking behind us for some
time."

"Digby!" cried Monk. "Digby! come here,
if you please."

But, instead of obeying, the shadow made
a motion of surprise, and, retreating
instead of advancing, it bent down and
disappeared along the jetty on the left,
directing its course towards the lodging
of the fishermen.

"It appears not to be Digby," said Monk.

Both had followed the shadow which had
vanished. But it was not so rare a thing
for a man to be wandering about at
eleven o'clock at night, in a camp in
which are reposing ten or eleven
thousand men, as to give Monk and Athos
any alarm at his disappearance.

"As it is so," said Monk, "and we must
have a light, a lantern, a torch, or
something by which we may see where to
set our feet, let us seek this light."

"General, the first soldier we meet will
light us."

"No," said Monk, in order to discover if
there were not any connivance between
the Comte de la Fere and the fisherman.
"No, I should prefer one of these French
sailors who came this evening to sell me
their fish. They leave to-morrow, and
the secret will be better kept by them;
whereas, if a report should be spread in
the Scotch army, that treasures are to
be found in the abbey of Newcastle, my
Highlanders will believe there is a
million concealed beneath every slab,
and they will not leave stone upon stone
in the building."

"Do as you think best, general," replied
Athos in a natural tone of voice, making
evident that soldier or fisherman was
the same to him, and that he had no
preference.

Monk approached the causeway behind
which had disappeared the person he had
taken for Digby, and met a patrol who,
making the tour of the tents, was going
towards headquarters; he was stopped
with his companion, gave the password,
and went on. A soldier, roused by the
noise, unrolled his plaid, and looked up
to see what was going forward. "Ask
him," said Monk to Athos, "where the
fishermen are; if I were to speak to
him, he would know me."

Athos went up to the soldier, who
pointed out the tent to him; immediately
Monk and Athos turned towards it. It
appeared to the general that at the
moment they came up, a shadow like that
they had already seen glided into this
tent; but on drawing nearer he perceived
he must have been mistaken, for all of
them were asleep pele mele, and nothing
was seen but arms and legs joined,
crossed, and mixed. Athos, fearing lest
he should be suspected of connivance
with some of his compatriots, remained
outside the tent.

"Hola!" said Monk, in French, "wake up
here." Two or three of the sleepers got
up.

"I want a man to light me," continued
Monk.

"Your honor may depend upon us," said a
voice which made Athos start. "Where do
you wish us to go?"

"You shall see. A light! come, quickly!"

"Yes, your honor. Does it please your
honor that I should accompany you?"

"You or another, it is of very little
consequence, provided I have a light."

"It is strange!" thought Athos, "what a
singular voice that man has!"

"Some fire, you fellows!" cried the
fisherman; "come, make haste!"

Then addressing his companion nearest to
him in a low voice: -- "Get a light,
Menneville," said he, "and hold yourself
ready for anything."

One of the fishermen struck light from a
stone, set fire to some tinder, and by
the aid of a match lit a lantern. The
light immediately spread all over the
tent.

"Are you ready, monsieur?" said Monk to
Athos, who had turned away, not to
expose his face to the light.

"Yes, general," replied he.

"Ah! the French gentleman!" said the
leader of the fishermen to himself.
"Peste! I have a great mind to charge
you with the commission, Menneville; he
may know me. Light! light!" This
dialogue was pronounced at the back of
the tent, and in so low a voice that
Monk could not hear a syllable of it; he
was, besides, talking with Athos.
Menneville got himself ready in the
meantime, or rather received the orders
of his leader.

"Well?" said Monk.

"I am ready, general," said the
fisherman.

Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the
tent.

"It is impossible!" thought Athos. "What
dream could put that into my head?"

"Go forward; follow the middle causeway,
and stretch out your legs," said Monk to
the fisherman.

They were not twenty paces on their way
when the same shadow that had appeared
to enter the tent came out of it again,
crawled along as far as the piles, and,
protected by that sort of parapet placed
along the causeway, carefully observed
the march of the general. All three
disappeared in the night haze. They were
walking towards Newcastle, the white
stones of which appeared to them like
sepulchres. After standing for a few
seconds under the porch, they penetrated
into the interior. The door had been
broken open by hatchets. A post of four
men slept in safety in a corner, so
certain were they that the attack would
not take place on that side.

"Will not these men be in your way?"
said Monk to Athos.

"On the contrary, monsieur, they will
assist in rolling out the barrels, if
your honor will permit them."

"You are right."

The post, though fast asleep, roused up
at the first steps of the three visitors
amongst the briars and grass that
invaded the porch. Monk gave the
password, and penetrated into the
interior of the convent, preceded by the
light. He walked last, watching the
least movement of Athos, his naked dirk
in his sleeve, and ready to plunge it
into the back of the gentleman at the
first suspicious gesture he should see
him make. But Athos, with a firm and
sure step, crossed the chambers and
courts.

Not a door, not a window was left in
this building. The doors had been burnt,
some on the spot, and the charcoal of
them was still jagged with the action of
the fire, which had gone out of itself,
powerless, no doubt, to get to the heart
of those massive joints of oak fastened
together with iron nails. As to the
windows, all the panes having been
broken, night birds, alarmed by the
torch, flew away through their holes. At
the same time, gigantic bats began to
trace their vast, silent circles around
the intruders, whilst the light of the
torch made their shadows tremble on the
high stone walls. Monk concluded there
could be no man in the convent, since
wild beasts and birds were there still,
and fled away at his approach.

After having passed the rubbish, and
torn away more than one branch of ivy
that had made itself a guardian of the
solitude, Athos arrived at the vaults
situated beneath the great hall, but the
entrance of which was from the chapel.
There he stopped. "Here we are,
general," said he.

"This, then, is the slab?"

"Yes."

"Ay, and here is the ring -- but the
ring is sealed into the stone."

"We must have a lever."

"That's a thing very easy to find."

Whilst looking round them, Athos and
Monk perceived a little ash of about
three inches in diameter, which had shot
up in an angle of the wall, reaching a
window, concealed by its branches.

"Have you a knife?" said Monk to the
fisherman.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Cut down this tree; then."

The fisherman obeyed, but not without
notching his cutlass. When the ash was
cut and fashioned into the shape of a
lever, the three men penetrated into the
vault.

"Stop where you are," said Monk to the
fisherman. "We are going to dig up some
powder; your light may be dangerous."

The man drew back in a sort of terror,
and faithfully kept to the post assigned
him, whilst Monk and Athos turned behind
a column at the foot of which,
penetrating through a crack, was a
moonbeam, reflected exactly on the stone
which the Comte de la Fere had come so
far in search.

"This is it," said Athos, pointing out
to the general the Latin inscription.

"Yes," said Monk.

Then, as if still willing to leave the
Frenchman one means of evasion, --

"Do you not observe that this vault has
already been broken into," continued he,
"and that several statues have been
knocked down?"

"My lord, you have, without doubt, heard
that the religious respect of your Scots
loves to confide to the statues of the
dead the valuable objects they have
possessed during their lives. Therefore,
the soldiers had reason to think that
under the pedestals of the statues which
ornament most of these tombs, a treasure
was hidden. They have consequently
broken down pedestal and statue: but the
tomb of the venerable canon, with which
we have to do, is not distinguished by
any monument. It is simple, therefore it
has been protected by the superstitious
fear which your Puritans have always had
of sacrilege. Not a morsel of the
masonry of this tomb has been chipped
off."

"That is true," said Monk.

Athos seized the lever.

"Shall I help you?" said Monk.

"Thank you, my lord; but I am not
willing that your honor should lend your
hand to a work of which, perhaps, you
would not take the responsibility if you
knew the probable consequences of it."

Monk raised his head.

"What do you mean by that, monsieur?"

"I mean -- but that man ---- "

"Stop," said Monk; "I perceive what you
are afraid of. I shall make a trial."
Monk turned towards the fisherman, the
whole of whose profile was thrown upon
the wall.

"Come here, friend!" said he in English,
and in a tone of command.

The fisherman did not stir.

"That is well," continued he: "he does
not know English. Speak to me, then, in
English, if you please, monsieur."

"My lord," replied Athos, "I have
frequently seen men in certain
circumstances have sufficient command
over themselves not to reply to a
question put to them in a language they
understood. The fisherman is perhaps
more learned than we believe him to be.
Send him away, my lord, I beg you."

"Decidedly," said Monk, "he wishes to
have me alone in this vault. Never mind,
we shall go through with it; one man is
as good as another man; and we are
alone. My friend," said Monk to the
fisherman, "go back up the stairs we
have just descended, and watch that
nobody comes to disturb us." The
fisherman made a sign of obedience.
"Leave your torch," said Monk; "it would
betray your presence, and might procure
you a musket-ball."

The fisherman appeared to appreciate the
counsel; he laid down the light, and
disappeared under the vault of the
stairs. Monk took up the torch, and
brought it to the foot of the column.

"Ah, ah!" said he; "money, then, is
concealed under this tomb?"

"Yes, my lord; and in five minutes you
will no longer doubt it."

At the same time Athos struck a violent
blow upon the plaster, which split,
presenting a chink for the point of the
lever. Athos introduced the bar into
this crack, and soon large pieces of
plaster yielded, rising up like rounded
slabs. Then the Comte de la Fere seized
the stones and threw them away with a
force that hands so delicate as his
might not have been supposed capable of
having.

"My lord," said Athos, "this is plainly
the masonry of which I told your honor."

"Yes; but I do not yet see the casks,"
said Monk.

"If I had a dagger," said Athos, looking
round him, "you should soon see them,
monsieur. Unfortunately, I left mine in
your tent."

"I would willingly offer you mine," said
Monk, "but the blade is too thin for
such work."

Athos appeared to look around him for a
thing of some kind that might serve as a
substitute for the weapon he desired.
Monk did not lose one of the movements
of his hands, or one of the expressions
of his eyes. "Why do you not ask the
fisherman for his cutlass?" said Monk;
"he has a cutlass."

"Ah! that is true," said Athos, "for he
cut the tree down with it." And he
advanced towards the stairs.

"Friend," said he to the fisherman,
"throw me down your cutlass, if you
please; I want it."

The noise of the falling weapon sounded
on the steps.

"Take it," said Monk; "it is a solid
instrument, as I have seen, and a strong
hand might make good use of it."

Athos only appeared to give to the words
of Monk the natural and simple sense
under which they were to be heard and
understood. Nor did he remark, or at
least appear to remark, that when he
returned with the weapon, Monk drew
back, placing his left hand on the stock
of his pistol; in the right he already
held his dirk. He went to work then,
turning his back to Monk, placing his
life in his hands, without possible
defense. He then struck, during several
seconds, so skillfully and sharply upon
the intermediary plaster, that it
separated into two parts, and Monk was
able to discern two barrels placed end
to end, and which their weight
maintained motionless in their chalky
envelope.

"My lord," said Athos, "you see that my
presentiments have not been
disappointed."

"Yes, monsieur," said Monk, "and I have
good reason to believe you are
satisfied; are you not?"

"Doubtless, I am; the loss of this money
would have been inexpressibly great to
me: but I was certain that God, who
protects the good cause, would not have
permitted this gold, which should
procure its triumph, to be diverted to
baser purposes."

"You are, upon my honor, as mysterious
in your words as in your actions,
monsieur," said Monk. "Just now I did
not perfectly understand you when you
said that you were not willing to throw
upon me the responsibility of the work
we were accomplishing."

"I had reason to say so, my lord."

"And now you speak to me of the good
cause. What do you mean by the words
`the good cause'? We are defending at
this moment, in England, five or six
causes, which does not prevent every one
from considering his own not only as the
good cause, but as the best. What is
yours, monsieur? Speak boldly, that we
may see if, upon this point, to which
you appear to attach a great importance,
we are of the same opinion."

Athos fixed upon Monk one of those
penetrating looks which seem to convey
to him to whom they are directed a
challenge to conceal a single one of his
thoughts; then, taking off his hat, he
began in a solemn voice, while his
interlocutor, with one hand upon his
visage, allowed that long and nervous
hand to compress his mustache and beard,
while his vague and melancholy eye
wandered about the recesses of the
vaults.




CHAPTER 26

Heart and Mind



"My lord," said the Comte de la Fere,
"you are a noble Englishman, you are a
loyal man; you are speaking to a noble
Frenchman, to a man of heart. The gold
contained in these two casks before us,
I have told you was mine. I was wrong --
it is the first lie I have pronounced in
my life, a temporary lie, it is true.
This gold is the property of King
Charles II., exiled from his country,
driven from his palaces, the orphan at
once of his father and his throne, and
deprived of everything, even of the
melancholy happiness of kissing on his
knees the stone upon which the hands of
his murderers have written that simple
epitaph which will eternally cry out for
vengeance upon them: -- `Here lies
Charles I.'"

Monk grew slightly pale, and an
imperceptible shudder crept over his
skin and raised his gray mustache.

"I," continued Athos, "I, Comte de la
Fere, the last, only faithful friend the
poor abandoned prince has left, I have
offered him to come hither to find the
man upon whom now depends the fate of
royalty and of England; and I have come,
and placed myself under the eye of this
man, and have placed myself naked and
unarmed in his hands, saying: -- `My
lord, here are the last resources of a
prince whom God made your master, whom
his birth made your king; upon you, and
you alone, depend his life and his
future. Will you employ this money in
consoling England for the evils it must
have suffered from anarchy; that is to
say, will you aid, and if not aid, will
you allow King Charles II. to act? You
are master, you are king, all-powerful
master and king, for chance sometimes
defeats the work of time and God. I am
here alone with you, my lord: if divided
success alarms you, if my complicity
annoys you, you are armed, my lord, and
here is a grave ready dug; if, on the
contrary, the enthusiasm of your cause
carries you away, if you are what you
appear to be, if your hand in what it
undertakes obeys your mind, .and your
mind your heart, here are the means of
ruining forever the cause of your enemy,
Charles Stuart. Kill, then, the man you
have before you, for that man will never
return to him who has sent him without
bearing with him the deposit which
Charles I., his father, confided to him,
and keep the gold which may assist in
carrying on the civil war. Alas! my
lord, it is the fate of this unfortunate
prince. He must either corrupt or kill,
for everything resists him, everything
repulses him, everything is hostile to
him; and yet he is marked with the
divine seal, and he must, not to belie
his blood, reascend the throne, or die
upon the sacred soil of his country.'

"My lord, you have heard me. To any
other but the illustrious man who
listens to me, I would have said: `My
lord, you are poor; my lord, the king
offers you this million as an earnest of
an immense bargain; take it, and serve
Charles II. as I served Charles I., and
I feel assured that God, who listens to
us, who sees us, who alone reads in your
heart, shut from all human eyes, -- I am
assured God will give you a happy
eternal life after a happy death.' But
to General Monk, to the illustrious man
of whose standard I believe I have taken
measure, I say: `My lord, there is for
you in the history of peoples and kings
a brilliant place, an immortal,
imperishable glory, if alone, without
any other interest but the good of your
country and the interests of justice,
you become the supporter of your king.
Many others have been conquerors and
glorious usurpers; you, my lord, you
will be content with being the most
virtuous, the most honest, and the most
incorruptible of men: you will have held
a crown in your hand, and instead of
placing it upon your own brow, you will
have deposited it upon the head of him
for whom it was made. Oh, my lord, act
thus, and you will leave to posterity
the most enviable of names, in which no
human creature can rival you.'"

Athos stopped. During the whole time
that the noble gentleman was speaking,
Monk had not given one sign of either
approbation or disapprobation; scarcely
even, during this vehement appeal, had
his eyes been animated with that fire
which bespeaks intelligence. The Comte
de la Fere looked at him sorrowfully,
and on seeing that melancholy
countenance, felt discouragement
penetrate to his very heart. At length
Monk appeared to recover, and broke the
silence.

"Monsieur," said he, in a mild, calm
tone, "in reply to you, I will make use
of your own words. To any other but
yourself I would reply by expulsion,
imprisonment, or still worse, for, in
fact, you tempt me and you force me at
the same time. But you are one of those
men, monsieur, to whom it is impossible
to refuse the attention and respect they
merit; you are a brave gentleman,
monsieur -- I say so, and I am a judge.
You just now spoke of a deposit which
the late king transmitted through you to
his son -- are you, then, one of those
Frenchmen who, as I have heard,
endeavored to carry off Charles I. from
Whitehall?"

"Yes, my lord, it was I who was beneath
the scaffold during the execution; I,
who had not been able to redeem it,
received upon my brow the blood of the
martyred king. I received, at the same
time, the last word of Charles I., it
was to me he said, `Remember!' and in
saying, `Remember!' he alluded to the
money at your feet, my lord."

"I have heard much of you, monsieur,"
said Monk, "but I am happy to have, in
the first place, appreciated you by my
own observations, and not by my
remembrances. I will give you, then,
explanations that I have given to no
other, and you will appreciate what a
distinction I make between you and the
persons who have hitherto been sent to
me."

Athos bowed, and prepared to absorb
greedily the words which fell, one by
one, from the mouth of Monk, -- those
words rare and precious as the dew in
the desert.

"You spoke to me," said Monk, "of
Charles II.; but pray, monsieur, of what
consequence to me is that phantom of a
king? I have grown old in a war and in a
policy which are nowadays so closely
linked together, that every man of the
sword must fight in virtue of his rights
or his ambition with a personal
interest, and not blindly behind an
officer, as in ordinary wars. For
myself, I perhaps desire nothing, but I
fear much. In the war of to-day rests
the liberty of England, and, perhaps,
that of every Englishman. How can you
expect that I, free in the position I
have made for myself, should go
willingly and hold out my hands to the
shackles of a stranger? That is all
Charles is to me. He has fought battles
here which he has lost, he is therefore
a bad captain; he has succeeded in no
negotiation, he is therefore a bad
diplomatist; he has paraded his wants
and his miseries in all the courts of
Europe, he has therefore a weak and
pusillanimous heart. Nothing noble,
nothing great, nothing strong has
hitherto emanated from that genius which
aspires to govern one of the greatest
kingdoms of the earth. I know this
Charles, then, under none but bad
aspects, and you would wish me, a man of
good sense, to go and make myself
gratuitously the slave of a creature who
is inferior to me in military capacity,
in politics, and in dignity! No,
monsieur. When some great and noble
action shall have taught me to value
Charles, I shall perhaps recognize his
rights to a throne from which we have
cast the father because he wanted the
virtues which his son has hitherto
lacked, but, in fact of rights, I only
recognize my own; the revolution made me
a general, my sword will make me
protector, if I wish it. Let Charles
show himself, let him present himself,
let him enter the competition open to
genius, and, above all, let him remember
that he is of a race from whom more will
be expected than from any other.
Therefore, monsieur, say no more about
him. I neither refuse nor accept: I
reserve myself -- I wait."

Athos knew Monk to be too well informed
of all concerning Charles to venture to
urge the discussion further; it was
neither the time nor the place. "My
lord," then said he, "I have nothing to
do but to thank you."

"And why, monsieur? Because you have
formed a correct opinion of me, or
because I have acted according to your
judgment? Is that, in truth, worthy of
thanks? This gold which you are about to
carry to Charles will serve me as a test
for him, by seeing the use he will make
of it. I shall have an opinion which now
I have not."

"And yet does not your honor fear to
compromise yourself by allowing such a
sum to be carried away for the service
of your enemy?"

"My enemy, say you? Eh, monsieur, I have
no enemies. I am in the service of the
parliament, which orders me to fight
General Lambert and Charles Stuart --
its enemies, and not mine. I fight them.
If the parliament, on the contrary,
ordered me to unfurl my standards on the
port of London, and to assemble my
soldiers on the banks to receive Charles
II. ---- "

"You would obey?" cried Athos, joyfully.

"Pardon me," said Monk, smiling, "I was
going -- I, a gray-headed man -- in
truth, how could I forget myself? was
going to speak like a foolish young
man."

"Then you would not obey?" said Athos.

"I do not say that either, monsieur. The
welfare of my country before everything.
God, who has given me the power, has, no
doubt, willed that I should have that
power for the good of all, and He has
given me, at the same time, discernment.
If the parliament were to order such a
thing, I should reflect."

The brow of Athos became clouded. "Then
I may positively say that your honor is
not inclined to favor King Charles II.?"

"You continue to question me, monsieur
le comte; allow me to do so in turn, if
you please."

"Do, monsieur; and may God inspire you
with the idea of replying to me as
frankly as I shall reply to you."

"When you shall have taken this money
back to your prince, what advice will
you give him?"

Athos fixed upon Monk a proud and
resolute look.

"My lord," said he, "with this million,
which others would perhaps employ in
negotiating, I would advise the king to
raise two regiments, to enter Scotland,
which you have just pacified: to give to
the people the franchises which the
revolution promised them, and in which
it has not, in all cases, kept its word.
I should advise him to command in person
this little army, which would, believe
me, increase, and to die, standard in
hand, and sword in its sheath, saying,
`Englishmen! I am the third king of my
race you have killed; beware of the
justice of God!'"

Monk hung down his head, and mused for
an instant. "If he succeeded," said he,
"which is very improbable, but not
impossible -- for everything is possible
in this world -- what would you advise
him to do?"

"To think that by the will of God he
lost his crown but by the good will of
men he recovered it."

An ironical smile passed over the lips
of Monk.

"Unfortunately, monsieur," said he,
"kings do not know how to follow good
advice."

"Ah, my lord, Charles II. is not a
king," replied Athos, smiling in his
turn, but with a very different
expression from Monk.

"Let us terminate this, monsieur le
comte, -- that is your desire, is it
not?"

Athos bowed.

"I shall give orders to have these two
casks transported whither you please.
Where are you lodging, monsieur?"

"In a little hamlet at the mouth of the
river, your honor."

"Oh, I know the hamlet; it consists of
five or six houses, does it not?"

"Exactly. Well, I inhabit the first, --
two net-makers occupy it with me; it is
their bark which brought me ashore."

"But your own vessel, monsieur?"

"My vessel is at anchor, a quarter of a
mile at sea, and waits for me."

"You do not think, however, of setting
out immediately?"

"My lord, I shall try once more to
convince your honor."

"You will not succeed," replied Monk;
"but it is of consequence that you
should depart from Newcastle without
leaving of your passage the least
suspicion that might prove injurious to
me or you. To-morrow my officers think
Lambert will attack me. I, on the
contrary, am convinced that he will not
stir; it is in my opinion impossible.
Lambert leads an army devoid of
homogeneous principles, and there is no
possible army with such elements. I have
taught my soldiers to consider my
authority subordinate to another,
therefore after me, round me, and
beneath me they still look for
something. It would result that if I
were dead, whatever might happen, my
army would not be demoralized all at
once; it results, that if I choose to
absent myself, for instance, as it does
please me to do sometimes, there would
not be in the camp the shadow of
uneasiness or disorder. I am the
magnet -- the sympathetic and natural
strength of the English. All those
scattered irons that will be sent
against me I shall attract to myself.
Lambert, at this moment, commands
eighteen thousand deserters, but I have
never mentioned that to my officers, you
may easily suppose. Nothing is more
useful to an army than the expectation
of a coming battle; everybody is
awake -- everybody is on guard. I tell
you this that you may live in perfect
security. Do not be in a hurry, then, to
cross the seas; within a week there will
be something fresh, either a battle or
an accomodation. Then, as you have
judged me to be a honorable man, and
confided your secret to me, I have to
thank you for this confidence, and I
shall come and pay you a visit or send
for you. Do not go before I send you
word. I repeat the request."

"I promise you, general," cried Athos,
with a joy so great, that in spite of
all his circumspection, he could not
prevent its sparkling in his eyes.

Monk surprised this flash, and
immediately extinguished it by one of
those silent smiles which always caused
his interlocutors to know they had made
no inroad on his mind.

"Then, my lord, it is a week that you
desire me to wait?"

"A week? yes, monsieur."

"And during these days what shall I do?"

"If there should be a battle, keep at a
distance from it, I beseech you. I know
the French delight in such
amusements, -- you might take a fancy to
see how we fight, and you might receive
some chance shot. Our Scotchmen are very
bad marksmen, and I do not wish that a
worthy gentleman like you should return
to France wounded. Nor should I like to
be obliged myself, to send to your
prince his million left here by you, for
then it would be said, and with some
reason, that I paid the Pretender to
enable him to make war against the
parliament. Go, then, monsieur, and let
it be done as has been agreed upon."

"Ah, my lord," said Athos, "what joy it
would give me to be the first that
penetrated to the noble heart which
beats beneath that cloak!"

"You think, then, that I have secrets,"
said Monk, without changing the half
cheerful expression of his countenance.
"Why, monsieur, what secret can you
expect to find in the hollow head of a
soldier? But it is getting late, and our
torch is almost out; let us call our
man."

"Hola!" cried Monk in French,
approaching the stairs; "hola!
fisherman!"

The fisherman, benumbed by the cold
night air, replied in a hoarse voice,
asking what they wanted of him.

"Go to the post," said Monk, "and order
a sergeant, in the name of General Monk,
to come here immediately."

This was a commission easily performed;
for the sergeant, uneasy at the
general's being in that desolate abbey,
had drawn nearer by degrees, and was not
much further off than the fisherman. The
general's order was therefore heard by
him, and he hastened to obey it.

"Get a horse and two men," said Monk.

"A horse and two men?" repeated the
sergeant.

"Yes," replied Monk. "Have you any means
of getting a horse with a pack-saddle or
two paniers?"

"No doubt, at a hundred paces off, in
the Scotch camp."

"Very well."

"What shall I do with the horse,
general?"

"Look here."

The sergeant descended the three steps
which separated him from Monk, and came
into the vault.

"You see," said Monk, "that gentleman
yonder?"

"Yes, general."

"And you see these two casks?"

"Perfectly."

"They are two casks, one containing
powder, and the other balls; I wish
these casks to be transported to the
little hamlet at the mouth of the river,
and which I intend to occupy to-morrow
with two hundred muskets. You understand
that the commission is a secret one, for
it is a movement that may decide the
fate of the battle."

"Oh, general!" murmured the sergeant.

"Mind, then! Let these casks be fastened
on to the horse, and let them be
escorted by two men and you to the
residence of this gentleman, who is my
friend. But take care that nobody knows
it."

"I would go by the marsh if I knew the
road," said the sergeant.

"I know one myself," said Athos; "it is
not wide, but it is solid, having been
made upon piles; and with care we shall
get over safely enough."

"Do everything this gentleman shall
order you to do."

"Oh! oh! the casks are heavy," said the
sergeant, trying to lift one.

"They weigh four hundred pounds each, if
they contain what they ought to contain,
do they not, monsieur?"

"Thereabouts," said Athos.

The sergeant went in search of the two
men and the horse. Monk, left alone with
Athos, affected to speak to him on
nothing but indifferent subjects while
examining the vault in a cursory manner.
Then, hearing the horse's steps, --

"I leave you with your men, monsieur,"
said he, "and return to the camp. You
are perfectly safe."

"I shall see you again, then, my lord?"
asked Athos.

"That is agreed upon, monsieur, and with
much pleasure."

Monk held out his hand to Athos.

"Ah! my lord, if you would!" murmured
Athos.

"Hush! monsieur, it is agreed that we
shall speak no more of that." And bowing
to Athos, he went up the stairs, meeting
about half-way his men, who were coming
down. He had not gone twenty paces, when
a faint but prolonged whistle was heard
at a distance. Monk listened, but seeing
nothing and hearing nothing, he
continued his route, Then he remembered
the fisherman, and looked about for him;
but the fisherman had disappeared. If he
had, however, looked with more
attention, he might have seen that man,
bent double, gliding like a serpent
along the stones and losing himself in
the mist that floated over the surface
of the marsh. He might have equally
seen, had he attempted to pierce that
mist, a spectacle that might have
attracted his attention; and that was
the rigging of the vessel, which had
changed place, and was now nearer the
shore. But Monk saw nothing; and
thinking he had nothing to fear, he
entered the deserted causeway which led
to his camp. It was then that the
disappearance of the fisherman appeared
strange, and that a real suspicion began
to take possession of his mind. He had
just placed at the orders of Athos the
only post that could protect him. He had
a mile of causeway to traverse before he
could regain his camp. The fog increased
with such intensity that he could
scarcely distinguish objects at ten
paces' distance. Monk then thought he
heard the sound of an oar over the marsh
on the right. "Who goes there?" said he.

But nobody answered; then he cocked his
pistol, took his sword in his hand, and
quickened his pace without, however,
being willing to call anybody. Such a
summons, for which there was no absolute
necessity, appeared unworthy of him.




CHAPTER 27

The Next Day



It was seven o'clock in the morning, the
first rays of day lightened the pools of
the marsh, in which the sun was
reflected like a red ball, when Athos,
awaking and opening the window of his
bed-chamber, which looked out upon the
banks of the river, perceived, at
fifteen paces' distance from him, the
sergeant and the men who had accompanied
him the evening before, and who, after
having deposited the casks at his house,
had returned to the camp by the causeway
on the right.

Why had these men come back after having
returned to the camp? That was the
question which first presented itself to
Athos. The sergeant, with his head
raised, appeared to be watching the
moment when the gentleman should appear,
to address him. Athos, surprised to see
these men, whom he had seen depart the
night before, could not refrain from
expressing his astonishment to them.

"There is nothing surprising in that,
monsieur," said the sergeant; "for
yesterday the general commanded me to
watch over your safety, and I thought it
right to obey that order."

"Is the general at the camp?" asked
Athos.

"No doubt he is, monsieur; as when he
left you he was going back."

"Well, wait for me a moment; I am going
thither to render an account of the
fidelity with which you fulfilled your
duty, and to get my sword, which I left
upon the table in the tent."

"That happens very well," said the
sergeant, "for we were about to request
you to do so."

Athos fancied he could detect an air of
equivocal bonhomie upon the countenance
of the sergeant; but the adventure of
the vault might have excited the
curiosity of the man, and it was not
surprising that he allowed some of the
feelings which agitated his mind to
appear in his face. Athos closed the
doors carefully, confiding the keys to
Grimaud, who had chosen his domicile
beneath the shed itself, which led to
the cellar where the casks had been
deposited. The sergeant escorted the
Comte de la Fere to the camp. There a
fresh guard awaited him, and relieved
the four men who had conducted Athos.

This fresh guard was commanded by the
aid-de-camp Digby, who, on their way,
fixed upon Athos looks so little
encouraging, that the Frenchman asked
himself whence arose, with regard to
him, this vigilance and this severity,
when the evening before he had been left
perfectly free. He nevertheless
continued his way to the headquarters,
keeping to himself the observations
which men and things forced him to make.
He found in the general's tent, to which
he had been introduced the evening
before, three superior officers: these
were Monk's lieutenant and two colonels.
Athos perceived his sword; it was still
on the table where he left it. Neither
of the officers had seen Athos,
consequently neither of them knew him.
Monk's lieutenant asked, at the
appearance of Athos, if that were the
same gentleman with whom the General had
left the tent.

"Yes, your honor," said the sergeant;
"it is the same."

"But," said Athos haughtily, "I do not
deny it, I think; and now, gentlemen, in
turn, permit me to ask you to what
purpose these questions are asked, and
particularly some explanation upon the
tone in which you ask them?"

"Monsieur," said the lieutenant, "if we
address these questions to you, it is
because we have a right to do so, and if
we make them in a particular tone, it is
because that tone, believe me, agrees
with the circumstances."

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "you do not
know who I am; but I must tell you I
acknowledge no one here but General Monk
as my equal. Where is he? Let me be
conducted to him, and if he has any
questions to put to me, I will answer
him and to his satisfaction, I hope. I
repeat, gentlemen, where is the
general?"

"Eh! good God! you know better than we
do where he is," said the lieutenant.

"I?"

"Yes, you."

"Monsieur," said Athos, "I do not
understand you."

"You will understand me -- and, in the
first place, do not speak so loud."

Athos smiled disdainfully.

"We don't ask you to smile," said one of
the colonels warmly; "we require you to
answer."

"And I, gentlemen, declare to you that I
will not reply until I am in the
presence of the general."

"But," replied the same colonel who had
already spoken, "you know very well that
is impossible."

"This is the second time I have received
this strange reply to the wish I
express," said Athos. "Is the general
absent?"

This question was made with such
apparent good faith, and the gentleman
wore an air of such natural surprise,
that the three officers exchanged a
meaning look. The lieutenant, by a tacit
convention with the other two, was
spokesman."

"Monsieur, the general left you last
night on the borders of the monastery."

"Yes, monsieur."

"And you went ---- "

"It is not for me to answer you, but for
those who have accompanied me. They were
your soldiers, ask them."

"But if we please to question you?"

"Then it will please me to reply,
monsieur, that I do not recognize any
one here, that I know no one here but
the general, and that it is to him alone
I will reply."

"So be it, monsieur; but as we are the
masters, we constitute ourselves a
council of war, and when you are before
judges you must reply."

The countenance of Athos expressed
nothing but astonishment and disdain,
instead of the terror the officers
expected to read in it at this threat.

"Scotch or English judges upon me, a
subject of the king of France; upon me,
placed under the safeguard of British
honor! You are mad, gentlemen!" said
Athos, shrugging his shoulders.

The officers looked at each other.
"Then, monsieur," said one of them, "do
you pretend not to know where the
general is?"

"To that, monsieur, I have already
replied."

"Yes, but you have already replied an
incredible thing."

"It is true, nevertheless, gentlemen.
Men of my rank are not generally liars.
I am a gentleman, I have told you, and
when I have at my side the sword which,
by an excess of delicacy, I left last
night upon the table whereon it still
lies, believe me, no man says that to me
which I am unwilling to hear. I am at
this moment disarmed; if you pretend to
be my judges, try me; if you are but my
executioners, kill me."

"But, monsieur ---- " asked the
lieutenant, in a more courteous voice,
struck with the lofty coolness of Athos.

"Sir, I came to speak confidentially
with your general about affairs of
importance. It was not an ordinary
welcome that he gave me. The accounts
your soldiers can give you may convince
you of that. If, then, the general
received me in that manner, he knew my
titles to his esteem. Now, you do not
suspect, I should think that I should
reveal my secrets to you, and still less
his."

"But these casks, what do they contain?"

"Have you not put that question to your
soldiers? What was their reply?"

"That they contained powder and ball."

"From whom had they that information?
They must have told you that."

"From the general; but we are not
dupes."

"Beware, gentlemen, it is not to me you
are now giving the lie, it is to your
leader."

The officers again looked at each other.
Athos continued: "Before your soldiers
the general told me to wait a week, and
at the expiration of that week he would
give me the answer he had to make me.
Have I fled away? No, I wait."

"He told you to wait a week!" cried the
lieutenant.

"He told me that so clearly, sir, that I
have a sloop at the mouth of the river,
which I could with ease have joined
yesterday, and embarked. Now, if I have
remained, it was only in compliance with
the desire of your general, his honor
having requested me not to depart
without a last audience, which fixed at
a week hence. I repeat to you, then, I
am waiting."

The lieutenant turned towards the other
officers, and said, in a low voice: "If
this gentleman speaks truth, there may
still be some hope. The general may be
carrying out some negotiations so
secret, that he thought it imprudent to
inform even us. Then the time limited
for his absence would be a week." Then,
turning towards Athos: "Monsieur," said
he, "your declaration is of the most
serious importance; are you willing to
repeat it under the seal of an oath?"

"Sir," replied Athos, "I have always
lived in a world where my simple word
was regarded as the most sacred of
oaths."

"This time, however, monsieur, the
circumstance is more grave than any you
may have been placed in. The safety of
the whole army is at stake. Reflect, the
general has disappeared, and our search
for him has been vain. Is this
disappearance natural? Has a crime been
committed? Are we not bound to carry our
investigations to extremity? Have we any
right to wait with patience? At this
moment, everything, monsieur, depends
upon the words you are about to
pronounce."

"Thus questioned, gentlemen, I no longer
hesitate," said Athos. "Yes, I came
hither to converse confidentially with
General Monk, and ask him for an answer
regarding certain interests; yes, the
general being, doubtless, unable to
pronounce before the expected battle,
begged me to remain a week in the house
I inhabit, promising me that in a week I
should see him again. Yes, all this is
true, and I swear it by the God who is
the absolute master of my life and
yours." Athos pronounced these words
with so much grandeur and solemnity,
that the three officers were almost
convinced. Nevertheless, one of the
colonels made a last attempt.

"Monsieur," said he, "although we may be
now persuaded of the truth of what you
say, there is yet a strange mystery in
all this. The general is too prudent a
man to have thus abandoned his army on
the eve of a battle without having at
least given notice of it to one of us.
As for myself, I cannot believe but that
some strange event has been the cause of
this disappearance. Yesterday some
foreign fishermen came to sell their
fish here; they were lodged yonder among
the Scots; that is to say, on the road
the general took with this gentleman, to
go to the abbey, and to return from it.
It was one of those fishermen that
accompanied the general with a light.
And this morning, bark and fishermen
have all disappeared, carried away by
the night's tide."

"For my part," said the lieutenant, "I
see nothing in that that is not quite
natural, for these people were not
prisoners."

"No, but I repeat it was one of them who
lighted the general and this gentleman
to the abbey, and Digby assures us that
the general had strong suspicions
concerning those people. Now, who can
say whether these people were not
connected with this gentleman; and that,
the blow being struck, the gentleman,
who is evidently brave, did not remain
to reassure us by his presence, and to
prevent our researches being made in a
right direction?"

This speech made an impression upon the
other two officers.

"Sir," said Athos, "permit me to tell
you, that your reasoning, though
specious in appearance, nevertheless
wants consistency, as regards me. I have
remained, you say, to divert suspicion.
Well! on the contrary, suspicions arise
in me as well as in you; and I say, it
is impossible, gentlemen, that the
general, on the eve of a battle, should
leave his army without saying anything
to at least one of his officers. Yes,
there is some strange event connected
with this; instead of being idle and
waiting, you must display all the
activity and all the vigilance possible.
I am your prisoner, gentlemen, upon
parole or otherwise. My honor is
concerned in ascertaining what has
become of General Monk, and to such a
point, that if you were to say to me,
`Depart!' I should reply `No, I will
remain!' And if you were to ask my
opinion, I should add: `Yes, the general
is the victim of some conspiracy, for,
if he had intended to leave the camp he
would have told me so.' Seek then,
search the land, search the sea; the
general has not gone of his own good
will."

The lieutenant made a sign to the other
two officers.

"No, monsieur," said he, "no; in your
turn you go too far. The general has
nothing to suffer from these events,
and, no doubt, has directed them. What
Monk is now doing he has often done
before. We are wrong in alarming
ourselves; his absence will, doubtless,
be of short duration; therefore, let us
beware, lest by a pusillanimity which
the general would consider a crime, of
making his absence public, and by that
means demoralize the army. The general
gives a striking proof of his confidence
in us; let us show ourselves worthy of
it. Gentlemen, let the most profound
silence cover all this with an
impenetrable veil; we will detain this
gentleman, not from mistrust of him with
regard to the crime, but to assure more
effectively the secret of the general's
absence by keeping among ourselves;
therefore, until fresh orders, the
gentleman will remain at headquarters."

"Gentlemen," said Athos, "you forget
that last night the general confided to
me a deposit over which I am bound to
watch. Give me whatever guard you like,
chain me if you like, but leave me the
house I inhabit for my prison. The
general, on his return, would reproach
you, I swear on the honor of a
gentleman, for having displeased him in
this."

"So be it, monsieur," said the
lieutenant; "return to your abode."

Then they placed over Athos a guard of
fifty men, who surrounded his house,
without losing sight of him for a
minute.

The secret remained secure, but hours,
days passed away without the general's
returning, or without anything being
heard of him.




CHAPTER 28

Smuggling



Two days after the events we have just
related, and while General Monk was
expected every minute in the camp to
which he did not return, a little Dutch
felucca, manned by eleven men, cast
anchor upon the coast of Scheveningen,
nearly within cannon-shot of the port.
It was night, the darkness was great,
the tide rose in the darkness; it was a
capital time to land passengers and
merchandise.

The road of Scheveningen forms a vast
crescent; it is not very deep and not
very safe; therefore, nothing is seen
stationed there but large Flemish hoys,
or some of those Dutch barks which
fishermen draw up on the sand on
rollers, as the ancients did, according
to Virgil. When the tide is rising, and
advancing on land, it is not prudent to
bring the vessels too close inshore,
for, if the wind is fresh, the prows are
buried in the sand; and the sand of that
coast is spongy; it receives easily, but
does not yield so well. It was on this
account, no doubt, that a boat was
detached from the bark as soon as the
latter had cast anchor, and came with
eight sailors, amidst whom was to be
seen an object of an oblong form, a sort
of large pannier or bale.

The shore was deserted; the few
fishermen inhabiting the down were gone
to bed. The only sentinel that guarded
the coast (a coast very badly guarded,
seeing that a landing from large ships
was impossible), without having been
able to follow the example of the
fishermen, who were gone to bed,
imitated them so far, that he slept at
the back of his watch-box as soundly as
they slept in their beds. The only noise
to be heard, then, was the whistling of
the night breeze among the bushes and
the brambles of the downs. But the
people who were approaching were
doubtless mistrustful people, for this
real silence and apparent solitude did
not satisfy them. Their boat, therefore,
scarcely as visible as a dark speck upon
the ocean, glided along noiselessly,
avoiding the use of their oars for fear
of being heard, and gained the nearest
land.

Scarcely had it touched the ground when
a single man jumped out of the boat,
after having given a brief order, in a
manner which denoted the habit of
commanding. In consequence of this
order, several muskets immediately
glittered in the feeble light reflected
from that mirror of the heavens, the
sea; and the oblong bale of which we
spoke, containing no doubt some
contraband object, was transported to
land, with infinite precautions.
Immediately after that, the man who had
landed first set off at a rapid pace
diagonally towards the village of
Scheveningen, directing his course to
the nearest point of the wood. When
there, he sought for that house already
described as the temporary residence --
and a very humble residence -- of him
who was styled by courtesy king of
England.

All were asleep there, as everywhere
else, only a large dog, of the race of
those which the fishermen of
Scheveningen harness to little carts to
carry fish to the Hague, began to bark
formidably as soon as the stranger's
steps were audible beneath the windows.
But the watchfulness, instead of
alarming the newly-landed man, appeared,
on the contrary, to give him great joy,
for his voice might perhaps have proved
insufficient to rouse the people of the
house, whilst, with an auxiliary of that
sort, his voice became almost useless.
The stranger waited, then, till these
reiterated and sonorous barkings should,
according to all probability, have
produced their effect, and then he
ventured a summons. On hearing his
voice, the dog began to roar with such
violence that another voice was soon
heard from the interior, quieting the
dog. With that the dog was quieted.

"What do you want?" asked that voice, at
the same time weak, broken, and civil.

"I want his majesty King Charles II.,
king of England," said the stranger.

"What do you want with him?"

"I want to speak to him."

"Who are you?"

"Ah! Mordioux! you ask too much; I don't
like talking through doors."

"Only tell me your name."

"I don't like to declare my name in the
open air, either; besides, you may be
sure I shall not eat your dog, and I
hope to God he will be as reserved with
respect to me."

"You bring news, perhaps, monsieur, do
you not?" replied the voice, patient and
querulous as that of an old man.

"I will answer for it, I bring you news
you little expect. Open the door, then,
if you please, hein!"

"Monsieur," persisted the old man, "do
you believe, upon your soul and
conscience, that your news is worth
waking the king?"

"For God's sake, my dear monsieur, draw
your bolts; you will not be sorry, I
swear, for the trouble it will give you.
I am worth my weight in gold, parole
d'honneur!"

"Monsieur, I cannot open the door till
you have told me your name."

"Must I, then?"

"It is by the order of my master,
monsieur."

"Well, my name is -- but, I warn you, my
name will tell you absolutely nothing."

"Never mind, tell it, notwithstanding."

"Well, I am the Chevalier d'Artagnan."

The voice uttered an exclamation.

"Oh! good heavens!" said a voice on the
other side of the door. "Monsieur
d'Artagnan. What happiness! I could not
help thinking I knew that voice."

"Humph!" said D'Artagnan. "My voice is
known here! That's flattering."

"Oh! yes, we know it," said the old man,
drawing the bolts; "and here is the
proof." And at these words he let in
D'Artagnan, who, by the light of the
lantern he carried in his hand,
recognized his obstinate interlocutor.

"Ah! Mordioux!" cried he: "why, it is
Parry! I ought to have known that."

"Parry, yes, my dear Monsieur
d'Artagnan, it is I. What joy to see you
once again!"

"You are right there, what joy!" said
D'Artagnan, pressing the old man's hand.
"There, now you'll go and inform the
king, will you not?"

"But the king is asleep, my dear
monsieur."

"Mordioux! then wake him. He won't scold
you for having disturbed him, I will
promise you."

"You come on the part of the count, do
you not?"

"The Comte de la Fere?"

"From Athos?"

"Ma foi! no; I come on my own part.
Come, Parry, quick! The king -- I want
the king."

Parry did not think it his duty to
resist any longer; he knew D'Artagnan of
old; he knew that, although a Gascon,
his words never promised more than they
could stand to. He crossed a court and a
little garden, appeased the dog, that
seemed most anxious to taste of the
musketeer's flesh, and went to knock at
the window of a chamber forming the
ground-floor of a little pavilion.
Immediately a little dog inhabiting that
chamber replied to the great dog
inhabiting the court.

"Poor king!" said D'Artagnan to himself,
"these are his body-guards. It is true
he is not the worse guarded on that
account."

"What is wanted with me?" asked the
king, from the back of the chamber.

"Sire, it is M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan,
who brings you some news."

A noise was immediately heard in the
chamber, a door was opened, and a flood
of light inundated the corridor and the
garden. The king was working by the
light of a lamp. Papers were lying about
upon his desk, and he had commenced the
foul copy of a letter which showed, by
the numerous erasures, the trouble he
had had in writing it.

"Come in, monsieur le chevalier," said
he, turning around. Then perceiving the
fisherman, "What do you mean, Parry?
Where is M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan?"
asked Charles.

"He is before you, sire," said M.
d'Artagnan.

"What, in that costume?"

"Yes; look at me, sire; do you not
remember having seen me at Blois, in the
ante-chambers of King Louis XIV.?"

"Yes, monsieur, and I remember I was
much pleased with you."

D'Artagnan bowed. "It was my duty to
behave as I did, the moment I knew that
I had the honor of being near your
majesty."

"You bring me news, do you say?"

"Yes, sire."

"From the king of France?"

"Ma foi! no, sire," replied D'Artagnan.
"Your majesty must have seen yonder that
the king of France is only occupied with
his own majesty."

Charles raised his eyes towards heaven.

"No, sire, no," continued D'Artagnan. "I
bring news entirely composed of personal
facts. Nevertheless, I hope your majesty
will listen to the facts and news with
some favor."

"Speak, monsieur."

"If I am not mistaken, sire, your
majesty spoke a great deal, at Blois, of
the embarrassed state in which the
affairs of England are."

Charles colored. "Monsieur," said he,
"it was to the king of France I
related ---- "

"Oh! your majesty is mistaken," said the
musketeer, coolly; "I know how to speak
to kings in misfortune. It is only when
they are in misfortune that they speak
to me; once fortunate, they look upon me
no more. I have, then, for your majesty,
not only the greatest respect, but,
still more, the most absolute devotion;
and that, believe me, with me, sire,
means something. Now, hearing your
majesty complain of fate, I found that
you were noble and generous, and bore
misfortune well."

"In truth," said Charles, much
astonished, "I do not know which I ought
to prefer, your freedoms or your
respects."

"You will choose presently, sire," said
D'Artagnan. "Then your majesty
complained to your brother, Louis XIV.,
of the difficulty you experienced in
returning to England and regaining your
throne for want of men and money."

Charles allowed a movement of impatience
to escape him.

"And the principal object your majesty
found in your way," continued
D'Artagnan, "was a certain general
commanding the armies of the parliament,
and who was playing yonder the part of
another Cromwell. Did not your majesty
say so?"

"Yes, but I repeat to you, monsieur,
those words were for the king's ears
alone."

"And you will see, sire, that it is very
fortunate that they fell into those of
his lieutenant of musketeers. That man
so troublesome to your majesty was one
General Monk, I believe; did I not hear
his name correctly, sire?"

"Yes, monsieur, but once more, to what
purpose are all these questions?"

"Oh! I know very well, sire, that
etiquette will not allow kings to be
questioned. I hope, however, presently
you will pardon my want of etiquette.
Your majesty added that,
notwithstanding, if you could see him,
confer with him, and meet him face to
face, you would triumph, either by force
or persuasion, over that obstacle -- the
only serious one, the only
insurmountable one, the only real one
you met with on your road."

"All that is true, monsieur: my destiny,
my future, my obscurity, or my glory
depend upon that man; but what do you
draw from that?"

"One thing alone, that if this General
Monk is troublesome to the point your
majesty describes, it would be expedient
to get rid of him or to make an ally of
him."

"Monsieur, a king who has neither army
nor money, as you have heard my
conversation with my brother Louis, has
no means of acting against a man like
Monk."

"Yes, sire, that was your opinion, I
know very well; but, fortunately, for
you, it was not mine."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That, without an army and without a
million, I have done -- I, myself --
what your majesty thought could alone be
done with an army and a million."

"How! What do you say? What have you
done?"

"What have I done? Eh! well, sire, I
went yonder to take this man who is so
troublesome to your majesty."

"In England?"

"Exactly, sire."

"You went to take Monk in England?"

"Should I by chance have done wrong,
sire?"

"In truth, you are mad, monsieur!"

"Not the least in the world, sire."

"You have taken Monk?"

"Yes, sire."

"Where?"

"In the midst of his camp."

The king trembled with impatience.

"And having taken him on the causeway of
Newcastle, I bring him to your majesty,"
said D'Artagnan, simply.

"You bring him to me!" cried the king,
almost indignant at what he considered a
mystification.

"Yes, sire," replied D'Artagnan, the
same tone, "I bring him to you; he is
down below yonder, in a large chest
pierced with holes, so as to allow him
to breathe."

"Good God!"

"Oh! don't be uneasy, sire, we have
taken the greatest possible care of him.
He comes in good state, and in perfect
condition. Would your majesty please to
see him, to talk with him, or to have
him thrown into the sea?"

"Oh, heavens!" repeated Charles, "oh,
heavens! do you speak the truth,
monsieur? Are you not insulting me with
some unworthy joke? You have
accomplished this unheard-of act of
audacity and genius -- impossible!"

"Will your majesty permit me to open the
window?" said D'Artagnan, opening it.

The king had not time to reply, yes on
no. D'Artagnan gave a shrill and
prolonged whistle, which he repeated
three times through the silence of the
night.

"There!" said he, "he will be brought to
your majesty."




CHAPTER 29

In which D'Artagnan begins to fear he
has placed his Money and that of
Planchet in the Sinking Fund



The king could not overcome his
surprise, and looked sometimes at the
smiling face of the musketeer, and
sometimes at the dark window which
opened into the night. But before he had
fixed his ideas, eight of D'Artagnan's
men, for two had remained to take care
of the bark, brought to the house, where
Parry received him, that object of an
oblong form, which, for the moment
inclosed the destinies of England.
Before he left Calais, D'Artagnan had
had made in that city a sort of coffin,
large and deep enough for a man to turn
in it at his ease. The bottom and sides,
properly upholstered, formed a bed
sufficiently soft to prevent the rolling
of the ship turning this kind of cage
into a rat-trap. The little grating, of
which D'Artagnan had spoken to the king,
like the visor of a helmet, was placed
opposite to the man's face. It was so
constructed that, at the least cry, a
sudden pressure would stifle that cry,
and, if necessary, him who had uttered
that cry.

D'Artagnan was so well acquainted with
his crew and his prisoner, that during
the whole voyage he had been in dread of
two things: either that the general
would prefer death to this sort of
imprisonment, and would smother himself
by endeavoring to speak, or that his
guards would allow themselves to be
tempted by the offers of the prisoner,
and put him, D'Artagnan, into the box
instead of Monk.

D'Artagnan, therefore, had passed the
two days and the two nights of the
voyage close to the coffin, alone with
the general, offering him wine and food,
which the latter had refused, and
constantly endeavoring to reassure him
upon the destiny which awaited him at
the end of this singular captivity. Two
pistols on the table and his naked sword
made D'Artagnan easy with regard to
indiscretions from without.

When once at Scheveningen he had felt
completely reassured. His men greatly
dreaded any conflict with the lords of
the soil. He had, besides, interested in
his cause him who had morally served him
as lieutenant, and whom we have seen
reply to the name of Menneville. The
latter, not being a vulgar spirit, had
more to risk than the others, because he
had more conscience. He believed in a
future in the service of D'Artagnan, and
consequently would have allowed himself
to be cut to pieces, rather than violate
the order given by his leader. Thus it
was that, once landed, it was to him
D'Artagnan had confided the care of the
chest and the general's breathing. It
was he, too, he had ordered to have the
chest brought by the seven men as soon
as he should hear the triple whistle. We
have seen that the lieutenant obeyed.
The coffer once in the house, D'Artagnan
dismissed his men with a gracious smile,
saying, "Messieurs, you have rendered a
great service to King Charles II., who
in less than six weeks will be king of
England. Your gratification will then be
doubled. Return to the boat and wait for
me." Upon which they departed with such
shouts of joy as terrified even the dog
himself.

D'Artagnan had caused the coffer to be
brought as far as the king's
ante-chamber. He then, with great care,
closed the door of this ante-chamber,
after which he opened the coffer, and
said to the general:

"General, I have a thousand excuses to
make to you; my manner of acting has not
been worthy of such a man as you, I know
very well; but I wished you to take me
for the captain of a bark. And then
England is a very inconvenient country
for transports. I hope, therefore, you
will take all that into consideration.
But now, general, you are at liberty to
get up and walk." This said, he cut the
bonds which fastened the arms and hands
of the general. The latter got up, and
then sat down with the countenance of a
man who expects death. D'Artagnan opened
the door of Charles's study, and said,
"Sire, here is your enemy, M. Monk; I
promised myself to perform this service
for your majesty. It is done; now order
as you please. M. Monk," added he,
turning towards the prisoner, "you are
in the presence of his majesty Charles
II., sovereign lord of Great Britain."

Monk raised towards the prince his
coldly stoical look, and replied: "I
know no king of Great Britain; I
recognize even here no one worthy of
bearing the name of gentleman: for it is
in the name of King Charles II. that an
emissary, whom I took for an honest man,
came and laid an infamous snare for me.
I have fallen into that snare; so much
the worse for me. Now, you the tempter,"
said he to the king, "you the executor,"
said he to D'Artagnan; "remember what I
am about to say to you; you have my
body, you may kill it, and I advise you
to do so, for you shall never have my
mind or my will. And now, ask me not a
single word, as from this moment I will
not open my mouth even to cry out. I
have said."

And he pronounced these words with the
savage, invincible resolution of the
most mortified Puritan. D'Artagnan
looked at his prisoner like a man, who
knows the value of every word, and who
fixes that value according to the accent
with which it has been pronounced.

"The fact is," said he, in a whisper to
the king, "the general is an obstinate
man; he would not take a mouthful of
bread, nor swallow a drop of wine,
during the two days of our voyage. But
as from this moment it is your majesty
who must decide his fate, I wash my
hands of him."

Monk, erect, pale, and resigned, waited
with his eyes fixed and his arms folded.
D'Artagnan turned towards him. "You will
please to understand perfectly," said
he, "that your speech, otherwise very
fine, does not suit anybody, not even
yourself. His majesty wished to speak to
you, you refused him an interview; why,
now that you are face to face, that you
are here by a force independent of your
will, why do you confine yourself to
rigors which I consider useless and
absurd? Speak! what the devil! speak, if
only to say `No.'"

Monk did not unclose his lips, Monk did
not turn his eyes; Monk stroked his
mustache with a thoughtful air, which
announced that matters were going on
badly.

During all this time Charles II. had
fallen into a profound reverie. For the
first time he found himself face to face
with Monk; with the man he had so much
desired to see; and, with that peculiar
glance which God has given to eagles and
kings, he had fathomed the abyss of his
heart. He beheld Monk, then, resolved
positively to die rather than speak,
which was not to be wondered at in so
considerable a man, the wound in whose
mind must at the moment have been cruel.
Charles II. formed, on the instant, one
of those resolutions upon which an
ordinary man risks his life, a general
his fortune, and a king his kingdom.
"Monsieur," said he to Monk, "you are
perfectly right upon certain points; I
do not, therefore, ask you to answer me,
but to listen to me."

There was a moment's silence, during
which the king looked at Monk, who
remained impassible.

"You have made me just now a painful
reproach, monsieur," continued the king;
"you said that one of my emissaries had
been to Newcastle to lay a snare for
you, and that, parenthetically, cannot
be understood by M. d'Artagnan, here,
and to whom, before everything, I owe
sincere thanks for his generous, his
heroic devotion."

D'Artagnan bowed with respect; Monk took
no notice.

"For M. d'Artagnan -- and observe, M.
Monk, I do not say this to excuse
myself -- for M. d'Artagnan," continued
the king, "went to England of his free
will, without interest, without orders,
without hope, like a true gentleman as
he is, to render a service to an
unfortunate king, and to add to the
illustrious actions of an existence,
already so well filled, one glorious
deed more."

D'Artagnan colored a little, and coughed
to keep his countenance. Monk did not
stir.

"You do not believe what I tell you, M.
Monk," continued the king. "I can
understand that, -- such proofs of
devotion are so rare, that their reality
may well be put in doubt."

"Monsieur would do wrong not to believe
you, sire," cried D'Artagnan: "for that
which your majesty has said is the exact
truth, and the truth so exact that it
seems, in going to fetch the general, I
have done something which sets
everything wrong. In truth, if it be so,
I am in despair."

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the king,
pressing the hand of the musketeer, "you
have obliged me as much as if you had
promoted the success of my cause, for
you have revealed to me an unknown
friend, to whom I shall ever be
grateful, and whom I shall always love."
And the king pressed his hand cordially.
"And," continued he, bowing to Monk, "an
enemy whom I shall henceforth esteem at
his proper value."

The eyes of the Puritan flashed, but
only once, and his countenance, for an
instant, illuminated by that flash,
resumed its somber impassibility.

"Then, Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued
Charles, "this is what was about to
happen: M. le Comte de la Fere, whom you
know, I believe, has set out for
Newcastle."

"What, Athos!" exclaimed D'Artagnan.

"Yes, that was his nom de guerre, I
believe. The Comte de la Fere had then
set out for Newcastle, and was going,
perhaps, to bring the general to hold a
conference with me or with those of my
party, when you violently, as it
appears, interfered with the
negotiation."

"Mordioux!" replied D'Artagnan, "he
entered the camp the very evening in
which I succeeded in getting into it
with my fishermen ---- "

An almost imperceptible frown on the
brow of Monk told D'Artagnan that he had
surmised rightly.

"Yes, yes," muttered he; "I thought I
knew his person; I even fancied I knew
his voice. Unlucky wretch that I am! Oh!
sire, pardon me! I thought I had so
successfully steered my bark."

"There is nothing ill in it, sir," said
the king, "except that the general
accuses me of having laid a snare for
him, which is not the case. No, general,
those are not the arms which I
contemplated employing with you as you
will soon see. In the meanwhile, when I
give you my word upon the honor of a
gentleman, believe me, sir, believe me!
Now, Monsieur d'Artagnan, a word with
you, if you please."

"I listen on my knees, sire."

"You are truly at my service, are you
not?"

"Your majesty has seen I am, too much
so."

"That is well; from a man like you one
word suffices. In addition to that word
you bring actions. General, have the
goodness to follow me. Come with us, M.
d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan, considerably surprised,
prepared to obey. Charles II. went out,
Monk followed him, D'Artagnan followed
Monk. Charles took the path by which
D'Artagnan had come to his abode; the
fresh sea breezes soon caressed the
faces of the three nocturnal travelers,
and, at fifty paces from the little gate
which Charles opened, they found
themselves upon the down in the face of
the ocean, which, having ceased to rise,
reposed upon the shore like a wearied
monster. Charles II. walked pensively
along, his head hanging down and his
hand beneath his cloak. Monk followed
him, with crossed arms and an uneasy
look. D'Artagnan came last, with his
hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Where is the boat in which you came,
gentlemen?" said Charles to the
musketeer.

"Yonder, sire, I have seven men and an
officer waiting me in that little bark
which is lighted by a fire."

"Yes, I see; the boat is drawn upon the
sand, but you certainly did not come
from Newcastle in that frail bark?"

"No, sire; I freighted a felucca, at my
own expense, which is at anchor within
cannon-shot of the downs. It was in that
felucca we made the voyage."

"Sir," said the king to Monk, "you are
free."

However firm of his will, Monk could not
suppress an exclamation. The king added
an affirmative motion of his head, and
continued: "We shall waken a fisherman
of the village, who will put his boat to
sea immediately, and will take you back
to any place you may command him. M.
d'Artagnan here will escort your honor.
I place M. d'Artagnan under the
safeguard of your loyalty, M. Monk."

Monk allowed a murmur of surprise to
escape him, and D'Artagnan a profound
sigh. The king, without appearing to
notice either, knocked against the deal
trellis which inclosed the cabin of the
principal fisherman inhabiting the down.

"Hey! Keyser!" cried he, "awake!"

"Who calls me?" asked the fisherman.

"I, Charles the king."

"Ah, my lord!" cried Keyser, rising
ready dressed from the sail in which he
slept, as people sleep in a hammock.
"What can I do to serve you?"

"Captain Keyser," said Charles, "you
must set sail immediately. Here is a
traveler who wishes to freight your
bark, and will pay you well; serve him
well." And the king drew back a few
steps to allow Monk to speak to the
fisherman.

"I wish to cross over into England,"
said Monk, who spoke Dutch enough to
make himself understood.

"This minute," said the patron, "this
very minute, if you wish it."

"But will that be long?" said Monk.

"Not half an hour, your honor. My eldest
son is at this moment preparing the
boat, as we were going out fishing at
three o'clock in the morning."

"Well, is all arranged?" asked the king,
drawing near.

"All but the price," said the fisherman;
"yes, sire."

"That is my affair," said Charles, "the
gentleman is my friend."

Monk started and looked at Charles on
hearing this word.

"Very well, my lord," replied Keyser.
And at that moment they heard Keyser's
eldest son, signaling from the shore
with the blast of a bull's horn.

"Now, gentlemen," said the king,
"depart."

"Sire," said D'Artagnan, "will it please
your majesty to grant me a few minutes?
I have engaged men, and I am going
without them; I must give them notice."

"Whistle to them," said Charles,
smiling.

D'Artagnan, accordingly, whistled,
whilst the patron Keyser replied to his
son; and four men, led by Menneville,
attended the first summons.

"Here is some money in account," said
D'Artagnan, putting into their hands a
purse containing two thousand five
hundred livres in gold. "Go and wait for
me at Calais, you know where." And
D'Artagnan heaved a profound sigh, as he
let the purse fall into the hands of
Menneville.

"What, are you leaving us?" cried the
men.

"For a short time," said D'Artagnan, "or
for a long time, who knows? But with
2,500 livres, and the 2,500 you have
already received, you are paid according
to our agreement. We are quits, then, my
friend."

"But the boat?"

"Do not trouble yourself about that."

"Our things are on board the felucca."

"Go and seek them, and then set off
immediately."

"Yes, captain."

D'Artagnan returned to Monk, saying, --
"Monsieur, I await your orders, for I
understand we are to go together, unless
my company be disagreeable to you."

"On the contrary, monsieur," said Monk.

"Come, gentlemen, on board," cried
Keyser's son.

Charles bowed to the general with grace
and dignity, saying, -- "You will pardon
me this unfortunate accident, and the
violence to which you have been
subjected, when you are convinced that I
was not the cause of them."

Monk bowed profoundly without replying.
On his side, Charles affected not to say
a word to D'Artagnan in private, but
aloud, -- "Once more, thanks, monsieur
le chevalier," said he, "thanks for your
services. They will be repaid you by the
Lord God, who, I hope, reserves trials
and troubles for me alone."

Monk followed Keyser, and his son
embarked with them. D'Artagnan came
after, muttering to himself, -- "Poor
Planchet! poor Planchet! I am very much
afraid we have made a bad speculation."




CHAPTER 30

The Shares of Planchet and Company rise
again to Par



During the passage, Monk only spoke to
D'Artagnan in cases of urgent necessity.
Thus, when the Frenchman hesitated to
come and take his meals, poor meals,
composed of salt fish, biscuit, and
Hollands gin, Monk called him,
saying, -- "To table, monsieur, to
table!"

This was all. D'Artagnan, from being
himself on all great occasions extremely
concise, did not draw from the general's
conciseness a favorable augury of the
result of his mission. Now, as
D'Artagnan had plenty of time for
reflection, he battered his brains
during this time in endeavoring to find
out how Athos had seen King Charles, how
he had conspired his departure with him,
and lastly, how he had entered Monk's
camp; and the poor lieutenant of
musketeers plucked a hair from his
mustache every time he reflected that
the horseman who accompanied Monk on the
night of the famous abduction must have
been Athos.

At length, after a passage of two nights
and two days, the patron Keyser touched
at the point where Monk, who had given
all the orders during the voyage, had
commanded they should land. It was
exactly at the mouth of the little
river, near which Athos had chosen his
abode.

Daylight was waning, a splendid sun,
like a red steel buckler, was plunging
the lower extremity of its disc beneath
the blue line of the sea. The felucca
was making fair way up the river,
tolerably wide in that part, but Monk,
in his impatience, desired to be landed,
and Keyser's boat set him and D'Artagnan
upon the muddy bank, amidst the reeds.
D'Artagnan, resigned to obedience,
followed Monk exactly as a chained bear
follows his master; but the position
humiliated him not a little, and he
grumbled to himself that the service of
kings was a bitter one, and that the
best of them was good for nothing. Monk
walked with long and hasty strides; it
might be thought that he did not yet
feel certain of having reached English
land. They had already begun to perceive
distinctly a few of the cottages of the
sailors and fishermen spread over the
little quay of this humble port, when,
all at once, D'Artagnan cried out, --
"God pardon me, there is a house on
fire!"

Monk raised his eyes, and perceived
there was, in fact, a house which the
flames were beginning to devour. It had
begun at a little shed belonging to the
house, the roof of which had caught. The
fresh evening breeze agitated the fire.
The two travelers quickened their steps,
hearing loud cries, and seeing, as they
drew nearer, soldiers with their
glittering arms pointing towards the
house on fire. It was doubtless this
menacing occupation which had made them
neglect to signal the felucca. Monk
stopped short for an instant, and, for
the first time, formulated his thoughts
into words. "Eh! but," said he, "perhaps
they are not my soldiers, but
Lambert's."

These words contained at once a sorrow,
an apprehension, and a reproach
perfectly intelligible to D'Artagnan. In
fact, during the general's absence,
Lambert might have given battle,
conquered, and dispersed the
parliament's army, and taken with his
own the place of Monk's army, deprived
of its strongest support. At this doubt,
which passed from the mind of Monk to
his own, D'Artagnan reasoned in this
manner: "One of two things is going to
happen; either Monk has spoken
correctly, and there are no longer any
but Lambertists in the country -- that
is to say, enemies, who would receive me
wonderfully well, since it is to me they
owe their victory; or nothing is
changed, and Monk, transported with joy
at finding his camp still in the same
place, will not prove too severe in his
settlement with me." Whilst thinking
thus, the two travelers advanced, and
began to mingle with a little knot of
sailors, who looked on with sorrow at
the burning house, but did not dare to
say anything on account of the threats
of the soldiers.

Monk addressed one of these sailors: --
"What is going on here?" asked he.

"Sir," replied the man, not recognizing
Monk as an officer, under the thick
cloak which enveloped him, "that house
was inhabited by a foreigner, and this
foreigner became suspected by the
soldiers. They wanted to get into his
house under pretense of taking him to
the camp; but he, without being
frightened by their number, threatened
death to the first who should cross the
threshold of his door, and as there was
one who did venture, the Frenchman
stretched him on the earth with a
pistol-shot."

"Ah! he is a Frenchman, is he?" said
D'Artagnan, rubbing his hands. "Good!"

"How good?" replied the fisherman.

"No, I don't mean that. -- What then --
my tongue slipped."

"What then, sir -- why, the other men
became as enraged as so many lions: they
fired more than a hundred shots at the
house; but the Frenchman was sheltered
by the wall, and every time they tried
to enter by the door they met with a
shot from his lackey, whose aim is
deadly, d'ye see? Every time they
threatened the window, they met with a
pistol-shot from the master. Look and
count -- there are seven men down.

"Ah! my brave countryman," cried
D'Artagnan, "wait a little, wait a
little. I will be with you, and we will
settle with this rabble."

"One instant, sir," said Monk, "wait."

"Long?"

"No; only the time to ask a question."
Then, turning towards the sailor, "My
friend," asked he with an emotion which,
in spite of all his self-command, he
could not conceal, "whose soldiers are
these, pray tell me?"

"Whose should they be but that madman,
Monk's?"

"There has been no battle, then?"

"A battle, ah, yes! for what purpose?
Lambert's army is melting away like snow
in April. All come to Monk, officers and
soldiers. In a week Lambert won't have
fifty men left."

The fisherman was interrupted by a fresh
discharge directed against the house,
and by another pistol-shot which replied
to the discharge and struck down the
most daring of the aggressors. The rage
of the soldiers was at its height. The
fire still continued to increase, and a
crest of flame and smoke whirled and
spread over the roof of the house.
D'Artagnan could no longer contain
himself. "Mordioux!" said he to Monk,
glancing at him sideways: "you are a
general, and allow your men to burn
houses and assassinate people, while you
look on and warm your hands at the blaze
of the conflagration? Mordioux! you are
not a man."

"Patience, sir, patience!" said Monk,
smiling.

"Patience! yes, until that brave
gentleman is roasted -- is that what you
mean?" And D'Artagnan rushed forward.

"Remain where you are, sir," said Monk,
in a tone of command. And he advanced
towards the house, just as an officer
had approached it, saying to the
besieged: "The house is burning, you
will be roasted within an hour! There is
still time -- come, tell us what you
know of General Monk, and we will spare
your life. Reply, or by Saint
Patrick ---- "

The besieged made no answer; he was no
doubt reloading his pistol.

"A reinforcement is expected," continued
the officer; "in a quarter of an hour
there will be a hundred men around your
house."

"I reply to you," said the Frenchman.
"Let your men be sent away; I will come
out freely and repair to the camp alone,
or else I will be killed here!"

"Mille tonnerres!" shouted D'Artagnan;
"why that's the voice of Athos! Ah,
canailles!" and the sword of D'Artagnan
flashed from its sheath. Monk stopped
him and advanced himself, exclaiming, in
a sonorous voice: "Hola! what is going
on here? Digby, whence this fire? why
these cries?"

"The general!" cried Digby, letting the
point of his sword fall.

"The general!" repeated the soldiers.

"Well, what is there so astonishing in
that?" said Monk, in a calm tone. Then,
silence being re-established -- "Now,"
said he, "who lit this fire?"

The soldiers hung their heads.

"What! do I ask a question, and nobody
answers me?" said Monk. "What! do I find
a fault, and nobody repairs it? The fire
is still burning, I believe."

Immediately the twenty men rushed
forward, seizing pails, buckets, jars,
barrels, and extinguishing the fire with
as much ardor as they had, an instant
before employed in promoting it. But
already, and before all the rest,
D'Artagnan had applied a ladder to the
house crying, "Athos! it is I,
D'Artagnan! Do not kill me my dearest
friend!" And in a moment the count was
clasped in his arms.

In the meantime, Grimaud, preserving his
calmness, dismantled the fortification
of the ground-floor, and after having
opened the door, stood with his arms
folded quietly on the sill. Only, on
hearing the voice of D'Artagnan, he
uttered an exclamation of surprise. The
fire being extinguished, the soldiers
presented themselves, Digby at their
head.

"General," said he, "excuse us; what we
have done was for love of your honor,
whom we thought lost."

"You are mad, gentlemen. Lost! Is a man
like me to be lost? Am I not permitted
to be absent, according to my pleasure,
without giving formal notice? Do you, by
chance, take me for a citizen from the
city? Is a gentleman, my friend, my
guest, to be besieged, entrapped, and
threatened with death, because he is
suspected? What signifies that word,
suspected? Curse me if I don't have
every one of you shot like dogs that the
brave gentleman has left alive!"

"General," said Digby, piteously, "there
were twenty-eight of us, and see, there
are eight on the ground."

"I authorize M. le Comte de la Fere to
send the twenty to join the eight," said
Monk, stretching out his hand to Athos.
"Let them return to camp. Mr. Digby, you
will consider yourself under arrest for
a month."

"General ---- "

"That is to teach you, sir, not to act,
another time, without orders."

"I had those of the lieutenant,
general."

"The lieutenant has no such orders to
give you, and he shall be placed under
arrest, instead of you, if he has really
commanded you to burn this gentleman."

"He did not command that, general; he
commanded us to bring him to the camp;
but the count was not willing to follow
us."

"I was not willing that they should
enter and plunder my house," said Athos
to Monk, with a significant look.

"And you were quite right. To the camp,
I say." The soldiers departed with
dejected looks. "Now we are alone," said
Monk to Athos, "have the goodness to
tell me, monsieur, why you persisted in
remaining here, whilst you had your
felucca ---- "

"I waited for you, general," said Athos.
"Had not your honor appointed to meet me
in a week?"

An eloquent look from D'Artagnan made it
clear to Monk that these two men, so
brave and so loyal, had not acted in
concert for his abduction. He knew
already it could not be so.

"Monsieur," said he to D'Artagnan, "you
were perfectly right. Have the kindness
to allow me a moment's conversation with
M. le Comte de la Fere?"

D'Artagnan took advantage of this to go
and ask Grimaud how he was. Monk
requested Athos to conduct him to the
chamber he lived in.

This chamber was still full of smoke and
rubbish. More than fifty balls had
passed through the windows and mutilated
the walls. They found a table, inkstand,
and materials for writing. Monk took up
a pen, wrote a single line, signed it,
folded the paper, sealed the letter with
the seal of his ring, and handed over
the missive to Athos, saying, "Monsieur,
carry, if you please, this letter to
King Charles II., and set out
immediately, if nothing detains you here
any longer."

"And the casks?" said Athos.

"The fisherman who brought me hither
will assist you in transporting them on
board. Depart, if possible, within an
hour."

"Yes, general," said Athos.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried Monk, from
the window. D'Artagnan ran up
precipitately

"Embrace your friend and bid him adieu,
sir; he is returning to Holland."

"To Holland!" cried D'Artagnan; "and I?"

"You are at liberty to follow him,
monsieur, but I request you to remain,"
said Monk. "Will you refuse me?"

"Oh, no, general; I am at your orders."

D'Artagnan embraced Athos, and only had
time to bid him adieu. Monk watched them
both. Then he took upon himself the
preparations for the departure, the
transportation of the casks on board,
and the embarking of Athos; then, taking
D'Artagnan by the arm, who was quite
amazed and agitated, he led him towards
Newcastle. Whilst going along, the
general leaning on his arm, D'Artagnan
could not help murmuring to himself, --
"Come, come, it seems to me that the
shares of the firm of Planchet and
Company are rising."




CHAPTER 31

Monk reveals himself



D'Artagnan, although he flattered
himself with better success, had,
nevertheless, not too well comprehended
his situation. It was a strange and
grave subject for him to reflect upon --
this voyage of Athos into England; this
league of the king with Athos, and that
extraordinary combination of his design
with that of the Comte de la Fere. The
best way was to let things follow their
own train. An imprudence had been
committed, and, whilst having succeeded,
as he had promised, D'Artagnan found
that he had gained no advantage by his
success. Since everything was lost, he
could risk no more.

D'Artagnan followed Monk through his
camp. The return of the general had
produced a marvelous effect, for his
people had thought him lost. But Monk,
with his austere look and icy demeanor,
appeared to ask of his eager lieutenants
and delighted soldiers the cause of all
this joy. Therefore, to the lieutenants
who had come to meet him, and who
expressed the uneasiness with which they
had learnt his departure, --

"Why is all this?" said he; "am I
obliged to give you an account of
myself?"

"But, your honor, the sheep may well
tremble without the shepherd."

"Tremble!" replied Monk, in his calm and
powerful voice; "ah, monsieur, what a
word! Curse me, if my sheep have not
both teeth and claws; I renounce being
their shepherd. Ah, you tremble,
gentlemen, do you?"

"Yes, general, for you."

"Oh! pray meddle with your own concerns.
If I have not the wit God gave to Oliver
Cromwell, I have that which He has sent
to me: I am satisfied with it, however
little it may be."

The officer made no reply; and Monk,
having imposed silence on his people,
all remained persuaded that he had
accomplished some important work or made
some important trial. This was forming a
very poor conception of his patience and
scrupulous genius. Monk, if he had the
good faith of the Puritans, his allies,
must have returned fervent thanks to the
patron saint who had taken him from the
box of M. d'Artagnan. Whilst these
things were going on, our musketeer
could not help constantly repeating, --

"God grant that M. Monk may not have as
much pride as I have; for I declare if
any one had put me into a coffer with
that grating over my mouth, and carried
me packed up, like a calf, across the
seas, I should cherish such a memory of
my piteous looks in that coffer, and
such an ugly animosity against him who
had inclosed me in it, I should dread so
greatly to see a sarcastic smile
blooming upon the face of the malicious
wretch, or in his attitude any grotesque
imitation of my position in the box,
that, Mordioux! I should plunge a good
dagger into his throat in compensation
for the grating, and would nail him down
in a veritable bier, in remembrance of
the false coffin in which I had been
left to grow moldy for two days."

And D'Artagnan spoke honestly when he
spoke thus; for the skin of our Gascon
was a very thin one. Monk, fortunately,
entertained other ideas. He never opened
his mouth to his timid conqueror
concerning the past; but he admitted him
very near to his person in his labors,
took him with him to several
reconnoiterings, in such a way as to
obtain that which he evidently warmly
desired, -- a rehabilitation in the mind
of D'Artagnan. The latter conducted
himself like a past-master in the art of
flattery: he admired all Monk's tactics,
and the ordering of his camp, he joked
very pleasantly upon the
circumvallations of Lambert's camp, who
had, he said, very uselessly given
himself the trouble to inclose a camp
for twenty thousand men, whilst an acre
of ground would have been quite
sufficient for the corporal and fifty
guards who would perhaps remain faithful
to him.

Monk, immediately after his arrival, had
accepted the proposition made by Lambert
the evening before, for an interview,
and which Monk's lieutenants had refused
under the pretext that the general was
indisposed. This interview was neither
long nor interesting: Lambert demanded a
profession of faith from his rival. The
latter declared he had no other opinion
than that of the majority. Lambert asked
if it would not be more expedient to
terminate the quarrel by an alliance
than by a battle. Monk hereupon demanded
a week for consideration. Now, Lambert
could not refuse this: and Lambert,
nevertheless, had come, saying that he
should devour Monk's army. Therefore, at
the end of the interview, which
Lambert's party watched with impatience,
nothing was decided -- neither treaty
nor battle -- the rebel army, as M.
d'Artagnan had foreseen, began to prefer
the good cause to the bad one, and the
parliament, rumpish as it was, to the
pompous nothings of Lambert's designs.

They remembered, likewise, the good
feasts of London ---the profusion of ale
and sherry with which the citizens of
London paid their friends the
soldiers; -- they looked with terror at
the black war bread, at the troubled
waters of the Tweed, -- too salt for the
glass, not enough so for the pot; and
they said to themselves, "Are not the
roast meats kept warm for Monk in
London?" From that time nothing was
heard of but desertion in Lambert's
army. The soldiers allowed themselves to
be drawn away by the force of
principles, which are, like discipline,
the obligatory tie in everybody
constituted for any purpose. Monk
defended the parliament -- Lambert
attacked it. Monk had no more
inclination to support parliament than
Lambert, but he had it inscribed on his
standards, so that all those of the
contrary party were reduced to write
upon theirs "Rebellion," which sounded
ill to puritan ears. They flocked, then,
from Lambert to Monk, as sinners flock
from Baal to God.

Monk made his calculations, at a
thousand desertions a day Lambert had
men enough to last twenty days; but
there is in sinking things such a growth
of weight and swiftness, which combine
with each other, that a hundred left the
first day, five hundred the second, a
thousand the third. Monk thought he had
obtained his rate. But from one thousand
the deserters increased to two thousand,
then to four thousand, and, a week
after, Lambert, perceiving that he had
no longer the possibility of accepting
battle, if it were offered to him, took
the wise resolution of decamping during
the night, returning to London, and
being beforehand with Monk in
constructing a power with the wreck of
the military party.

But Monk, free and without uneasiness,
marched towards London as a conqueror,
augmenting his army with all the
floating parties on his way. He encamped
at Barnet, that is to say, within four
leagues of the capital, cherished by the
parliament, which thought it beheld in
him a protector, and awaited by the
people, who were anxious to see him
reveal himself, that they might judge
him. D'Artagnan himself had not been
able to fathom his tactics; he
observed -- he admired. Monk could not
enter London with a settled
determination without bringing about
civil war. He temporized for a short
time.

Suddenly, when least expected, Monk
drove the military party out of London,
and installed himself in the city amidst
the citizens, by order of the
parliament; then, at the moment when the
citizens were crying out against Monk --
at the moment when the soldiers
themselves were accusing their leader --
Monk, finding himself certain of a
majority, declared to the Rump
Parliament that it must abdicate -- be
dissolved -- and yield its place to a
government which would not be a joke.
Monk pronounced this declaration,
supported by fifty thousand swords, to
which, that same evening, were united,
with shouts of delirious joy, the five
hundred thousand inhabitants of the good
city of London. At length, at the moment
when the people, after their triumphs
and festive repasts in the open streets,
were looking about for a master, it was
affirmed that a vessel had left the
Hague, bearing Charles II. and his
fortunes.

"Gentlemen," said Monk to his officers,
"I am going to meet the legitimate king.
He who loves me will follow me." A burst
of acclamations welcomed these words,
which D'Artagnan did not hear without
the greatest delight.

"Mordioux!" said he to Monk, "that is
bold, monsieur."

"You will accompany me, will you not?"
said Monk.

"Pardieu! general. But tell me, I beg,
what you wrote by Athos, that is to say,
the Comte de la Fere -- you know -- the
day of our arrival?"

"I have no secrets from you now,"
replied Monk. "I wrote these words:
`Sire, I expect your majesty in six
weeks at Dover.'"

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, "I no longer say
it is bold; I say it is well played; it
is a fine stroke!"

"You are something of a judge in such
matters," replied Monk.

And this was the only time the general
had ever made an allusion to his voyage
to Holland.




CHAPTER 32

Athos and D'Artagnan meet once more at
the Hostelry of the Corne du Cerf



The king of England made his entree into
Dover with great pomp, as he afterwards
did in London. He had sent for his
brothers; he had brought over his mother
and sister. England had been for so long
a time given up to herself -- that is to
say, to tyranny, mediocrity, and
nonsense -- that this return of Charles
II., whom the English only knew as the
son of the man whose head they had cut
off, was a festival for the three
kingdoms. Consequently, all the good
wishes, all the acclamations which
accompanied his return, struck the young
king so forcibly that he stooped and
whispered in the ear of James of York,
his younger brother, "In truth, James,
it seems to have been our own fault that
we were so long absent from a country
where we are so much beloved!" The
pageant was magnificent. Beautiful
weather favored the solemnity. Charles
had regained all his youth, all his good
humor; he appeared to be transfigured;
hearts seemed to smile on him like the
sun. Amongst this noisy crowd of
courtiers and worshippers, who did not
appear to remember they had conducted to
the scaffold at Whitehall the father of
the new king, a man, in the garb of a
lieutenant of musketeers, looked, with a
smile upon his thin, intellectual lips,
sometimes at the people vociferating
their blessings, and sometimes at the
prince, who pretended emotion, and who
bowed most particularly to the women,
whose bouquets fell beneath his horse's
feet.

"What a fine trade is that of king!"
said this man, so completely absorbed in
contemplation that he stopped in the
middle of his road, leaving the cortege
to file past. "Now, there is, in good
truth, a prince all bespangled over with
gold and diamonds, enamelled with
flowers like a spring meadow; he is
about to plunge his empty hands into the
immense coffer in which his now
faithful -- but so lately unfaithful --
subjects have amassed one or two
cartloads of ingots of gold. They cast
bouquets enough upon him to smother him;
and yet, if he had presented himself to
them two months ago, they would have
sent as many bullets and balls at him as
they now throw flowers. Decidedly it is
worth something to be born in a certain
sphere, with due respect to the lowly,
who pretend that it is of very little
advantage to them to be born lowly." The
cortege continued to file on, and, with
the king, the acclamations began to die
away in the direction of the palace
which, however, did not prevent our
officer from being pushed about.

"Mordioux!" continued the reasoner,
"these people tread upon my toes and
look upon me as of very little
consequence, or rather of none at all,
seeing that they are Englishmen and I am
a Frenchman. If all these people were
asked, -- `Who is M. d'Artagnan?' they
would reply, `Nescio vos.' But let any
one say to them, `There is the king
going by,' `There is M. Monk going by,'
they would run away, shouting, -- `Vive
le roi!' `Vive M. Monk!' till their
lungs were exhausted. And yet,"
continued he, surveying, with that look
sometimes so keen and sometimes so
proud, the diminishing crowd, -- "and
yet, reflect a little, my good people,
on what your king has done, on what M.
Monk has done, and then think what has
been done by this poor unknown, who is
called M. d'Artagnan! It is true you do
not know him, since he is here unknown,
and that prevents your thinking about
the matter! But, bah! what matters it!
All that does not prevent Charles II.
from being a great king, although he has
been exiled twelve years, or M. Monk
from being a great captain, although he
did make a voyage to Holland in a box.
Well, then, since it is admitted that
one is a great king and the other a
great captain, -- `Hurrah for King
Charles II.! -- Hurrah for General
Monk!'" And his voice mingled with the
voices of the hundreds of spectators,
over which it sounded for a moment.
Then, the better to play the devoted
man, he took off his hat and waved it in
the air. Some one seized his arm in the
very height of his expansive royalism.
(In 1660 that was so termed which we now
call royalism.)

"Athos!" cried D'Artagnan, "you here!"
And the two friends seized each other's
hands.

"You here! -- and being here," continued
the musketeer, "you are not in the midst
of all these courtiers my dear comte!
What! you, the hero of the fete, you are
not prancing on the left hand of the
king, as M. Monk is prancing on the
right? In truth, I cannot comprehend
your character, nor that of the prince
who owes you so much!"

"Always scornful, my dear D'Artagnan!"
said Athos. "Will you never correct
yourself of that vile habit?"

"But, you do not form part of the
pageant?"

"I do not, because I was not willing to
do so."

"And why were you not willing?"

"Because I am neither envoy nor
ambassador, nor representative of the
king of France; and it does not become
me to exhibit myself thus near the
person of another king than the one God
has given me for a master."

"Mordioux! you came very near to the
person of the king, his father."

"That was another thing, my friend; he
was about to die."

"And yet that which you did for him ----
"

"I did it because it was my duty to do
it. But you know I hate all ostentation.
Let King Charles II., then, who no
longer stands in need of me, leave me to
my rest, and in the shadow; that is all
I claim of him."

D'Artagnan sighed.

"What is the matter with you?" said
Athos. "One would say that this happy
return of the king to London saddens
you, my friend; you who have done at
least as much for his majesty as I
have."

"Have I not," replied D'Artagnan, with
his Gascon laugh, "have I not done much
for his majesty, without any one
suspecting it?"

"Yes, yes, but the king is well aware of
it my friend," cried Athos.

"He is aware of it!" said the musketeer
bitterly. "By my faith! I did not
suspect so, and I was even a moment ago
trying to forget it myself."

"But he, my friend, will not forget it,
I will answer for him."

"You tell me that to console me a
little, Athos."

"For what?"

"Mordioux! for all the expense I
incurred. I have ruined myself, my
friend, ruined myself for the
restoration of this young prince who has
just passed, cantering on his isabelle
colored horse."

"The king does not know you have ruined
yourself, my friend, but he knows he
owes you much."

"And say, Athos, does that advance me in
any respect? for, to do you justice, you
have labored nobly. But I -- I, who in
appearance marred your combinations, it
was I who really made them succeed.
Follow my calculations; closely, you
might not have, by persuasions or
mildness convinced General Monk, whilst
I so roughly treated this dear general,
that I furnished your prince with an
opportunity of showing himself generous:
this generosity was inspired in him by
the fact of my fortunate mistake, and
Charles is paid by the restoration which
Monk has brought about."

"All that, my dear friend, is strikingly
true," replied Athos.

"Well, strikingly true as it may be, it
is not less true, my friend, that I
shall return -- greatly beloved by M.
Monk, who calls me dear captain all day
long, although I am neither dear to him
nor a captain; -- and much appreciated
by the king, who has already forgotten
my name; -- it is not less true, I say,
that I shall return to my beautiful
country, cursed by the soldiers I had
raised with the hopes of large pay,
cursed by the brave Planchet, of whom I
borrowed a part of his fortune."

"How is that? What the devil had
Planchet to do in all this?"

"Ah, yes, my friend, but this king, so
spruce, so smiling, so adored, M. Monk
fancies he has recalled him, you fancy
you have supported him, I fancy I have
brought him back, the people fancy they
have reconquered him, he himself fancies
he has negotiated his restoration; and
yet nothing of all this is true, for
Charles II., king of England, Scotland,
and Ireland, has been replaced upon the
throne by a French grocer, who lives in
the Rue des Lombards, and is named
Planchet. And such is grandeur!
`Vanity!' says the Scripture: `vanity,
all is vanity.'"

Athos could not help laughing at this
whimsical outbreak of his friend.

"My dear D'Artagnan," said he, pressing
his hand affectionately, "should you not
exercise a little more philosophy? Is it
not some further satisfaction to you to
have saved my life as you did by
arriving so fortunately with Monk, when
those damned parliamentarians wanted to
burn me alive?"

"Well, but you, in some degree, deserved
a little burning, my friend."

"How so? What, for having saved King
Charles's million?"

"What million?"

"Ah, that is true! you never knew that,
my friend; but you must not be angry,
for it was not my secret. That word
`Remember' which the king pronounced
upon the scaffold."

"And which means `souviens-toi!'"

"Exactly. That was signified. `Remember
there is a million buried in the vaults
of Newcastle Abbey, and that that
million belongs to my son.'"

"Ah! very well, I understand. But what I
understand likewise, and what is very
frightful, is, that every time his
majesty Charles II. will think of me, he
will say to himself: `There is the man
who came very near making me lose my
crown. Fortunately I was generous,
great, full of presence of mind.' That
will be said by the young gentleman in a
shabby black doublet, who came to the
chateau of Blois, hat in hand, to ask me
if I would give him access to the king
of France."

"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan!" said Athos,
laying his hand on the shoulder of the
musketeer, "you are unjust."

"I have a right to be so."

"No -- for you are ignorant of the
future."

D'Artagnan looked his friend full in the
face, and began to laugh. "In truth, my
dear Athos," said he, "you have some
sayings so superb, that they only belong
to you and M. le Cardinal Mazarin."

Athos frowned slightly.

"I beg your pardon," continued
D'Artagnan, laughing, "I beg your
pardon, if I have offended you. The
future! Nein! what pretty words are
words that promise, and how well they
fill the mouth in default of other
things! Mordioux! After having met with
so many who promised, when shall I find
one who will give? But, let that pass!"
continued D'Artagnan. "What are you
doing here, my dear Athos? Are you the
king's treasurer?"

"How -- why the king's treasurer?"

"Well, since the king possesses a
million, he must want a treasurer. The
king of France, although he is not worth
a sou, has still a superintendent of
finance, M. Fouquet. It is true that, in
exchange, M. Fouquet, they say, has a
good number of millions of his own."

"Oh! our million was spent long ago,"
said Athos, laughing in his turn.

"I understand, it was frittered away in
satin, precious stones, velvet, and
feathers of all sorts and colors. All
these princes and princesses stood in
great need of tailors and dressmakers.
Eh! Athos, do you remember what we
fellows spent in equipping ourselves for
the campaign of La Rochelle, and to make
our appearance on horseback? Two or
three thousand livres, by my faith! But
a king's robe is more ample; it would
require a million to purchase the stuff.
At least, Athos, if you are not
treasurer, you are on a good footing at
court."

"By the faith of a gentleman, I know
nothing about it," said Athos, simply.

"What! you know nothing about it?"

"No! I have not seen the king since we
left Dover."

"Then he has forgotten you, too!
Mordioux! That is shameful!"

"His majesty has had so much business to
transact."

"Oh!" cried D'Artagnan, with one of
those intelligent grimaces which he
alone knew how to make, "that is enough
to make me recover my love for
Monseigneur Giulio Mazarini. What, Athos
the king has not seen you since then?"

"No."

"And you are not furious?"

"I! Why should I be? Do you imagine, my
dear D'Artagnan, that it was on the
king's account I acted as I have done? I
did not know the young man. I defended
the father, who represented a
principle -- sacred in my eyes, and I
allowed myself to be drawn towards the
son from sympathy for this same
principle. Besides, he was a worthy
knight, a noble creature, that father:
do you remember him?"

"Yes; that is true; he was a brave, an
excellent man, who led a sad life, but
made a fine end."

"Well, my dear D'Artagnan, understand
this; to that king, to that man of
heart, to that friend of my thoughts, if
I durst venture to say so, I swore at
the last hour to preserve faithfully the
secret of a deposit which was to be
transmitted to his son, to assist him in
his hour of need. This young man came to
me; he described his destitution; he was
ignorant that he was anything to me save
a living memory of his father. I have
accomplished towards Charles II. what I
promised Charles I.; that is all! Of
what consequence is it to me, then,
whether he be grateful or not? It is to
myself I have rendered a service, by
relieving myself of this responsibility,
and not to him."

"Well, I have always said," replied
D'Artagnan, with a sigh, "that
disinterestedness was the finest thing
in the world."

"Well, and you, my friend," resumed
Athos, "are you not in the same
situation as myself? If I have properly
understood your words, you allowed
yourself to be affected by the
misfortunes of this young man; that, on
your part, was much greater than it was
upon mine, for I had a duty to fulfill,
whilst you were under no obligation to
the son of the martyr. You had not, on
your part, to pay him the price of that
precious drop of blood which he let fall
upon my brow, through the floor of his
scaffold. That which made you act was
heart alone -- the noble and good heart
which you possess beneath your apparent
skepticism and sarcastic irony; you have
engaged the fortune of a servitor, and
your own, I suspect, my benevolent
miser! and your sacrifice is not
acknowledged! Of what consequence is it?
You wish to repay Planchet his money. I
can comprehend that, my friend: for it
is not becoming in a gentleman to borrow
from his inferior, without returning to
him principal and interest. Well, I will
sell La Fere if necessary, and if not,
some little farm. You shall pay
Planchet, and there will be enough,
believe me, of corn left in my granaries
for us two and Raoul. In this way, my
friend, you will be under obligations to
nobody but yourself, and, if I know you
well, it will not be a small
satisfaction to your mind to be able to
say, `I have made a king!' Am I right?"

"Athos! Athos!" murmured D'Artagnan,
thoughtfully, "I have told you more than
once that the day on which you will
preach I shall attend the sermon; the
day on which you will tell me there is a
hell -- Mordioux! I shall be afraid of
the gridiron and the pitchforks. You are
better than I, or rather, better than
anybody, and I only acknowledge the
possession of one quality, and that is,
of not being jealous. Except that
defect, damme, as the English say, if I
have not all the rest."

"I know no one equal to D'Artagnan,"
replied Athos; "but here we are, having
quietly reached the house I inhabit.
Will you come in, my friend?"

"Eh! why, this is the tavern of the
Corne du Cerf, I think," said
D'Artagnan.

"I confess I chose it on purpose. I like
old acquaintances; I like to sit down on
that place, whereon I sank, overcome by
fatigue, overwhelmed with despair, when
you returned on the 31st of January."

"After having discovered the abode of
the masked executioner? Yes, that was a
terrible day!"

"Come in, then," said Athos,
interrupting him.

They entered the large apartment,
formerly the common one. The tavern, in
general, and this room in particular,
had undergone great changes; the ancient
host of the musketeers, having become
tolerably rich for an innkeeper, had
closed his shop, and made of this room
of which we were speaking, a store-room
for colonial provisions. As for the rest
of the house, he let it ready furnished
to strangers. It was with unspeakable
emotion D'Artagnan recognized all the
furniture of the chamber of the first
story; the wainscoting, the tapestries,
and even that geographical chart which
Porthos had so fondly studied in his
moments of leisure.

"It is eleven years ago," cried
D'Artagnan. "Mordioux! it appears to me
a century!"

"And to me but a day," said Athos.
"Imagine the joy I experience, my
friend, in seeing you there, in pressing
your hand, in casting from me sword and
dagger, and tasting without mistrust
this glass of sherry. And, oh! what
still further joy it would be, if our
two friends were there, at the two
corners of the tables, and Raoul, my
beloved Raoul, on the threshold, looking
at us with his large eyes, at once so
brilliant and so soft!"

"Yes, yes," said D'Artagnan, much
affected, "that is true. I approve
particularly of the first part of your
thought; it is very pleasant to smile
there where we have so legitimately
shuddered in thinking that from one
moment to another M. Mordaunt might
appear upon the landing."

At this moment the door opened, and
D'Artagnan, brave as he was, could not
restrain a slight movement of fright.
Athos understood him, and, smiling, --

"It is our host," said he, "bringing me
a letter."

"Yes, my lord," said the good man; "here
is a letter for your honor."

"Thank you," said Athos, taking the
letter without looking at it. "Tell me,
my dear host, if you do not remember
this gentleman?"

The old man raised his head, and looked
attentively at D'Artagnan.

"No," said he.

"It is," said Athos, "one of those
friends of whom I have spoken to you,
and who lodged here with me eleven years
ago."

"Oh! but," said the old man, "so many
strangers have lodged here!"

"But we lodged here on the 30th of
January, 1649," added Athos, believing
he should stimulate the lazy memory of
the host by this remark.

"That is very possible," replied he,
smiling; "but it is so long ago!" and he
bowed, and went out.

"Thank you," said D'Artagnan -- "perform
exploits, accomplish revolutions,
endeavor to engrave your name in stone
or bronze with strong swords! there is
something more rebellious, more hard,
more forgetful than iron, bronze, or
stone, and that is, the brain of a
lodging-house keeper who has grown rich
in the trade, -- he does not know me!
Well, I should have known him, though."

Athos, smiling at his friend's
philosophy, unsealed his letter.

"Ah!" said he, "a letter from Parry."

"Oh! oh!" said D'Artagnan; "read it, my
friend, read it! No doubt it contains
news."

Athos shook his head, and read:



Monsieur le Comte. -- The king has
experienced much regret at not seeing
you to-day beside him, at his entrance.
His majesty commands me to say so, and
to recall him to your memory. His
majesty will expect you this evening, at
the palace of St. James, between nine
and ten o'clock.

"I am, respectfully, monsieur le comte,
your honor's very humble and very
obedient servant, -- Parry."



"You see, my dear D'Artagnan," said
Athos, "we must not despair of the
hearts of kings."

"Not despair! you are right to say so!"
replied D'Artagnan.

"Oh! my dear, very dear friend," resumed
Athos, whom the almost imperceptible
bitterness of D'Artagnan had not
escaped. "Pardon me! can I have
unintentionally wounded my best
comrade?"

"You are mad, Athos, and to prove it, I
shall conduct you to the palace; to the
very gate, I mean; the walk will do me
good."

"You shall go in with me, my friend; I
will speak to his majesty."

"No, no!" replied D'Artagnan, with true
pride, free from all mixture; "if there
is anything worse than begging yourself,
it is making others beg for you. Come,
let us go, my friend, the walk will be
charming; on the way I shall show you
the house of M. Monk, who has detained
me with him. A beautiful house, by my
faith. Being a general in England is
better than being a marechal in France,
please to know."

Athos allowed himself to be led along,
quite saddened by D'Artagnan's forced
attempts at gayety. The whole city was
in a state of joy; the two friends were
jostled at every moment by enthusiasts
who required them, in their
intoxication, to cry out, "Long live
good King Charles!" D'Artagnan replied
by a grunt, and Athos by a smile. They
arrived thus in front of Monk's house,
before which, as we have said, they had
to pass on their way to St. James's.

Athos and D'Artagnan said but little on
the road, for the simple reason that
they would have had so many things to
talk about if they had spoken. Athos
thought that by speaking he should
evince satisfaction, and that might
wound D'Artagnan. The latter feared that
in speaking he should allow some little
bitterness to steal into his words which
would render his company unpleasant to
his friend. It was a singular emulation
of silence between contentment and
ill-humor. D'Artagnan gave way first to
that itching at the tip of his tongue
which he so habitually experienced.

"Do you remember, Athos," said he, "the
passage of the `Memoires de D'Aubigny,'
in which that devoted servant, a Gascon
like myself, poor as myself, and, I was
going to add, brave as myself, relates
instances of the meanness of Henry IV.?
My father always told me, I remember,
that D'Aubigny was a liar. But,
nevertheless, examine how all the
princes, the issue of the great Henry,
keep up the character of the race."

"Nonsense!" said Athos, "the kings of
France misers? You are mad, my friend."

"Oh! you are so perfect yourself, you
never agree to the faults of others.
But, in reality, Henry IV. was covetous,
Louis XIII., his son, was so likewise;
we know something of that, don't we?
Gaston carried this vice to
exaggeration, and has made himself, in
this respect, hated by all who surround
him. Henriette, poor woman, might well
be avaricious, she who did not eat every
day, and could not warm herself every
winter; and that is an example she has
given to her son Charles II., grandson
of the great Henry IV., who is as
covetous as his mother and his
grandfather. See if I have well traced
the genealogy of the misers?"

"D'Artagnan, my friend," cried Athos,
"you are very rude towards that eagle
race called the Bourbons."

"Eh! and I have forgotten the best
instance of all -- the other grandson of
the Bearnais, Louis XIV., my ex-master.
Well, I hope he is miserly enough, he
who would not lend a million to his
brother Charles! Good! I see you are
beginning to be angry. Here we are, by
good luck, close to my house, or rather
to that of my friend, M. Monk."

"My dear D'Artagnan, you do not make me
angry, you make me sad; it is cruel, in
fact, to see a man of your deserts out
of the position his services ought to
have acquired; it appears to me, my dear
friend, that your name is as radiant as
the greatest names in war and diplomacy.
Tell me if the Luynes, the Ballegardes,
and the Bassompierres have merited, as
we have, fortunes and honors? You are
right, my friend, a hundred times
right."

D'Artagnan sighed, and preceded his
friend under the porch of the mansion
Monk inhabited, at the extremity of the
city. "Permit me," said he, "to leave my
purse at home; for if in the crowd those
clever pickpockets of London, who are
much boasted of, even in Paris, were to
steal from me the remainder of my poor
crowns, I should not be able to return
to France. Now, content I left France,
and wild with joy I should return to it,
seeing that all my prejudices of former
days against England have returned,
accompanied by many others."

Athos made no reply.

"So then, my dear friend, one second,
and I will follow you," said D'Artagnan.
"I know you are in a hurry to go yonder
to receive your reward, but, believe me,
I am not less eager to partake of your
joy, although from a distance. Wait for
me." And D'Artagnan was already passing
through the vestibule, when a man, half
servant, half soldier, who filled in
Monk's establishment the double
functions of porter and guard, stopped
our musketeer, saying to him in English:

"I beg your pardon, my Lord d'Artagnan!"

"Well," replied the latter: "what is it?
Is the general going to dismiss me? I
only needed to be expelled by him."

These words, spoken in French, made no
impression upon the person to whom they
were addressed and who himself only
spoke an English mixed with the rudest
Scotch. But Athos was grieved at them,
for he began to think D'Artagnan was not
wrong.

The Englishman showed D'Artagnan a
letter: "From the general," said he.

"Aye! that's it, my dismissal!" replied
the Gascon. "Must I read it, Athos?"

"You must be deceived," said Athos, "or
I know no more honest people in the
world but you and myself."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and
unsealed the letter, while the
impassible Englishman held for him a
large lantern, by the light of which he
was enabled to read it.

"Well, what is the matter?" said Athos,
seeing the countenance of the reader
change.

"Read it yourself," said the musketeer.

Athos took the paper and read:



Monsieur d'Artagnan. -- The king regrets
very much you did not come to St. Paul's
with his cortege. He missed you, as I
also have missed you, my dear captain.
There is but one means of repairing all
this. His majesty expects me at nine
o'clock at the palace of St. James's:
will you be there at the same time with
me? His gracious majesty appoints that
hour for an audience he grants you."



This letter was from Monk.




CHAPTER 33

The Audience.



"Well?" cried Athos with a mild look of
reproach when D'Artagnan had read the
letter addressed to him by Monk.

"Well!" said D'Artagnan, red with
pleasure, and a little with shame, at
having so hastily accused the king and
Monk. "This is a politeness, -- which
leads to nothing, it is true, but yet it
is a politeness."

"I had great difficulty in believing the
young prince ungrateful," said Athos.

"The fact is, that his present is still
too near his past," replied D'Artagnan;
"after all, everything to the present
moment proved me right."

"I acknowledge it, my dear friend, I
acknowledge it. Ah! there is your
cheerful look returned. You cannot think
how delighted I am."

"Thus you see," said D'Artagnan,
"Charles II. receives M. Monk at nine
o'clock; he will receive me at ten; it
is a grand audience, of the sort which
at the Louvre are called `distributions
of court holy water.' Come, let us go
and place ourselves under the spout, my
dear friend! Come along."

Athos replied nothing; and both directed
their steps, at a quick pace, towards
the palace of St. James's, which the
crowd still surrounded, to catch,
through the windows, the shadows of the
courtiers, and the reflection of the
royal person. Eight o'clock was striking
when the two friends took their places
in the gallery filled with courtiers and
politicians. Every one looked at these
simply-dressed men in foreign costumes,
at these two noble heads so full of
character and meaning. On their side,
Athos and D'Artagnan, having with two
glances taken the measure of the whole
assembly, resumed their chat.

A great noise was suddenly heard at the
extremity of the gallery, -- it was
General Monk, who entered, followed by
more than twenty officers, all eager for
a smile, as only the evening before he
was master of all England, and a
glorious morrow was looked to, for the
restorer of the Stuart family.

"Gentlemen," said Monk, turning round,
"henceforward I beg you to remember that
I am no longer anything. Lately I
commanded the principal army of the
republic; now that army is the king's,
into whose hands I am about to
surrender, at his command, my power of
yesterday."

Great surprise was painted on all the
countenances, and the circle of
adulators and suppliants which
surrounded Monk an instant before, was
enlarged by degrees, and ended by being
lost in the large undulations of the
crowd. Monk was going into the
ante-chamber as others did. D'Artagnan
could not help remarking this to the
Comte de la Fere, who frowned on
beholding it. Suddenly the door of the
royal apartment opened, and the young
king appeared, preceded by two officers
of his household.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said he. "Is
General Monk here?"

"I am here, sire," replied the old
general.

Charles stepped hastily towards him, and
seized his hand with the warmest
demonstration of friendship. "General,"
said the king, aloud, "I have just
signed your patent, -- you are Duke of
Albemarle; and my intention is that no
one shall equal you in power and fortune
in this kingdom, where -- the noble
Montrose excepted -- no one has equaled
you in loyalty, courage, and talent.
Gentlemen, the duke is commander of our
armies of land and sea; pay him your
respects, if you please, in that
character."

Whilst every one was pressing round the
general, who received all this homage
without losing his impassibility for an
instant, D'Artagnan said to Athos: "When
one thinks that this duchy, this
commander of the land and sea forces,
all these grandeurs, in a word, have
been shut up in a box six feet long and
three feet wide ---- "

"My friend," replied Athos, "much more
imposing grandeurs are confined in boxes
still smaller, -- and remain there
forever."

All at once Monk perceived the two
gentlemen, who held themselves aside
until the crowd had diminished; he made
himself a passage towards them, so that
he surprised them in the midst of their
philosophical reflections. "Were you
speaking of me?" said he, with a smile.

"My lord," replied Athos, "we were
speaking likewise of God."

Monk reflected for a moment, and then
replied gayly: "Gentlemen, let us speak
a little of the king likewise, if you
please; for you have, I believe, an
audience of his majesty."

"At nine o'clock," said Athos.

"At ten o'clock," said D'Artagnan.

"Let us go into this closet at once,"
replied Monk, making a sign to his two
companions to precede him; but to that
neither would consent.

The king, during this discussion so
characteristic of the French, had
returned to the center of the gallery.

"Oh! my Frenchmen!" said he, in that
tone of careless gayety which, in spite
of so much grief and so many crosses, he
had never lost. "My Frenchmen! my
consolation!" Athos and D'Artagnan
bowed.

"Duke, conduct these gentlemen into my
study. I am at your service, messieurs,"
added he in French. And he promptly
expedited his court, to return to his
Frenchmen, as he called them. "Monsieur
d'Artagnan," said he, as he entered his
closet, "I am glad to see you again."

"Sire, my joy is at its height, at
having the honor to salute your majesty
in your own palace of St. James's."

"Monsieur, you have been willing to
render me a great service, and I owe you
my gratitude for it. If I did not fear
to intrude upon the rights of our
commanding general, I would offer you
some post worthy of you near our
person."

"Sire," replied D'Artagnan, "I have
quitted the service of the king of
France, making a promise to my prince
not to serve any other king."

"Humph!" said Charles, "I am sorry to
hear that; I should like to do much for
you; I like you very much."

"Sire ---- "

"But let us see," said Charles with a
smile, "if we cannot make you break your
word. Duke, assist me. If you were
offered, that is to say, if I offered
you the chief command of my musketeers?"
D'Artagnan bowed lower than before.

"I should have the regret to refuse what
your gracious majesty would offer me,"
said he; "a gentleman has but his word,
and that word, as I have had the honor
to tell your majesty, is engaged to the
king of France."

"We shall say no more about it, then,"
said the king, turning towards Athos,
and leaving D'Artagnan plunged in the
deepest pangs of disappointment.

"Ah! I said so!" muttered the musketeer.
"Words! words! Court holy water! Kings
have always a marvellous talent for
offering us that which they know we will
not accept, and in appearing generous
without risk. So be it! -- triple fool
that I was to have hoped for a moment!"

During this time Charles took the hand
of Athos. "Comte," said he, "you have
been to me a second father; the services
you have rendered me are above all
price. I have, nevertheless, thought of
a recompense. You were created by my
father a Knight of the Garter ---that is
an order which all the kings of Europe
cannot bear; by the queen regent, Knight
of the Holy Ghost -- which is an order
not less illustrious; I join to it that
of the Golden Fleece sent me by the king
of France, to whom the king of Spain,
his father-in-law, gave two on the
occasion of his marriage; but in return,
I have a service to ask of you."

"Sire," said Athos. with confusion, "the
Golden Fleece for me! when the king of
France is the only person in my country
who enjoys that distinction?"

I wish you to be in your country and all
others the equal of all those whom
sovereigns have honored with their
favor," said Charles, drawing the chain
from his neck; "and I am sure, comte, my
father smiles on me from his grave."

"It is unaccountably strange," said
D'Artagnan to himself, whilst his
friend, on his knees, received the
eminent order which the king conferred
on him -- "it is almost incredible that
I have always seen showers of prosperity
fall upon all who surrounded me, and
that not a drop ever reached me! If I
were a jealous man it would be enough to
make one tear one's hair, parole
d'honneur!"

Athos rose from his knees, and Charles
embraced him tenderly. "General!" said
he to Monk -- then stopping with a
smile, "pardon me, duke, I mean. No
wonder if I make a mistake; the word
duke is too short for me, I always seek
some title to lengthen it. I should wish
to see you so near my throne, that I
might say to you as to Louis XIV., my
brother! Oh! I have it, and you will be
almost my brother, for I make you
viceroy of Ireland and of Scotland. my
dear duke. So, after that fashion,
henceforward I shall not make a
mistake."

The duke seized the hand of the king,
but without enthusiasm, without joy, as
he did everything. His heart, however,
had been moved by this last favor.
Charles, by skillfully husbanding his
generosity, had given the duke time to
wish, although he might not have wished
for so much as was given him.

"Mordioux!" grumbled D'Artagnan, "there
is the shower beginning again! Oh! it is
enough to turn one's brain!" and he
turned away with an air so sorrowful and
so comically piteous, that the king, who
caught it, could not restrain a smile.
Monk was preparing to leave the room, to
take leave of Charles.

"What! my trusty and well-beloved!" said
the king to the duke, "are you going?"

"With your majesty's permission, for in
truth I am weary. The emotions of the
day have worn me out; I stand in need of
rest."

"But," said the king, "you are not going
without M. d'Artagnan, I hope."

"Why not, sire?" said the old warrior.

"Well! you know very well why," said the
king.

Monk looked at Charles with
astonishment.

"Oh! it may be possible; but if you
forget, you, M. d'Artagnan, do not."

Astonishment was painted on the face of
the musketeer.

"Well, then, duke," said the king, "do
you not lodge with M. d'Artagnan?"

"I had the honor of offering M.
d'Artagnan a lodging; yes, sire."

"That idea is your own, and yours
solely?"

"Mine and mine only; yes, sire."

"Well! but it could not be otherwise --
the prisoner always lodges with his
conqueror."

Monk colored in his turn. "Ah! that is
true," said he, "I am M. d'Artagnan's
prisoner."

"Without doubt, duke, since you are not
yet ransomed, but have no care of that;
it was I who took you out of M.
d'Artagnan's hands, and it is I who will
pay your ransom."

The eyes of D'Artagnan regained their
gayety and their brilliancy. The Gascon
began to understand. Charles advanced
towards him.

"The general," said he, "is not rich,
and cannot pay you what he is worth. I
am richer, certainly, but now that he is
a duke, and if not a king, almost a
king, he is worth a sum I could not
perhaps pay. Come, M. d'Artagnan, be
moderate with me; how much do I owe
you?"

D'Artagnan, delighted at the turn things
were taking, but not for a moment losing
his self-possession, replied, -- "Sire,
your majesty has no occasion to be
alarmed. When I had the good fortune to
take his grace, M. Monk was only a
general; it is therefore only a
general's ransom that is due to me. But
if the general will have the kindness to
deliver me his sword, I shall consider
myself paid; for there is nothing in the
world but the general's sword which is
worth so much as himself."

"Odds fish! as my father said," cried
Charles. "That is a gallant proposal,
and a gallant man, is he not, duke?"

"Upon my honor, yes, sire," and he drew
his sword. "Monsieur," said he to
D'Artagnan, "here is what you demand.
Many may have handled a better blade;
but however modest mine may be, I have
never surrendered it to any one."

D'Artagnan received with pride the sword
which had just made a king.

"Oh! oh!" cried Charles II.; "what, a
sword that has restored me to my
throne -- to go out of the kingdom --
and not, one day, to figure among the
crown jewels. No, on my soul! that shall
not be! Captain d'Artagnan, I will give
you two hundred thousand crowns for your
sword! If that is too little, say so."

"It is too little, sire," replied
D'Artagnan, with inimitable seriousness.
"In the first place, I do not at all
wish to sell it; but your majesty
desires me to do so, and that is an
order. I obey, then, but the respect I
owe to the illustrious warrior who hears
me commands me to estimate at a third
more the reward of my victory. I ask
then three hundred thousand crowns for
the sword, or I shall give it to your
majesty for nothing." And taking it by
the point he presented it to the king.
Charles broke into hilarious laughter.

"A gallant man, and a merry companion!
Odds fish! is he not, duke? is he not,
comte? He pleases me! I like him! Here,
Chevalier d'Artagnan, take this." And
going to the table, he took a pen and
wrote an order upon his treasurer for
three hundred thousand crowns.

D'Artagnan took it, and turning gravely
towards Monk: "I have still asked too
little, I know," said he, "but believe
me, your grace, I would rather have died
than allow myself to be governed by
avarice."

The king began to laugh again, like the
happiest cockney of his kingdom.

"You will come and see me again before
you go, chevalier?" said he; "I shall
want to lay in a stock of gayety now my
Frenchmen are leaving me."

"Ah! sire, it will not be with the
gayety as with the duke's sword; I will
give it to your majesty gratis," replied
D'Artagnan, whose feet scarcely seemed
to touch the ground.

"And you, comte," added Charles, turning
towards Athos, "come again, also, I have
an important message to confide to you.
Your hand, duke." Monk pressed the hand
of the king.

"Adieu! gentlemen," said Charles,
holding out each of his hands to the two
Frenchmen, who carried them to their
lips.

"Well," said Athos, when they were out
of the palace, "are you satisfied?"

"Hush!" said D'Artagnan, wild with joy,
"I have not yet returned from the
treasurer's -- a shutter may fall upon
my head."




CHAPTER 34

Of the Embarrassment of Riches



D'Artagnan lost no time, and as soon as
the thing was suitable and opportune, he
paid a visit to the lord treasurer of
his majesty. He had then the
satisfaction to exchange a piece of
paper, covered with very ugly writing,
for a prodigious number of crowns,
recently stamped with the effigies of
his very gracious majesty Charles II.

D'Artagnan easily controlled himself:
and yet, on this occasion, he could not
help evincing a joy which the reader
will perhaps comprehend, if he deigns to
have some indulgence for a man who,
since his birth, had never seen so many
pieces and rolls of pieces juxtaplaced
in an order truly agreeable to the eye.
The treasurer placed all the rolls in
bags, and closed each bag with a stamp
sealed with the arms of England, a favor
which treasurers do not grant to
everybody. Then impassible, and just as
polite as he ought to be towards a man
honored with the friendship of the king,
he said to D'Artagnan:

"Take away your money, sir." Your money!
These words made a thousand chords
vibrate in the heart of D'Artagnan,
which he had never felt before. He had
the bags packed in a small cart, and
returned home meditating deeply. A man
who possesses three hundred thousand
crowns can no longer expect to wear a
smooth brow; a wrinkle for every hundred
thousand livres is not too much.

D'Artagnan shut himself up, ate no
dinner, closed his door to everybody,
and, with a lighted lamp, and a loaded
pistol on the table, he watched all
night, ruminating upon the means of
preventing these lovely crowns, which
from the coffers of the king had passed
into his coffers, from passing from his
coffers into the pockets of any thief
whatever. The best means discovered by
the Gascon was to inclose his treasure,
for the present, under locks so solid
that no wrist could break them, and so
complicated that no master-key could
open them. D'Artagnan remembered that
the English are masters in mechanics and
conservative industry; and he determined
to go in the morning in search of a
mechanic who would sell him a strong
box. He did not go far; Master Will
Jobson, dwelling in Piccadilly, listened
to his propositions, comprehended his
wishes, and promised to make him a
safety lock that should relieve him from
all future fear.

"I will give you," said he, "a piece of
mechanism entirely new. At the first
serious attempt upon your lock, an
invisible plate will open of itself and
vomit forth a pretty copper bullet of
the weight of a mark -- which will knock
down the intruder, and not without a
loud report. What do you think of it?"

"I think it very ingenious," cried
D'Artagnan, "the little copper bullet
pleases me mightily. So now, sir
mechanic, the terms?"

"A fortnight for the execution, and
fifteen hundred crowns payable on
delivery," replied the artisan.

D'Artagnan's brow darkened. A fortnight
was delay enough to allow the thieves of
London time to remove all occasion for
the strong box. As to the fifteen
hundred crowns -- that would be paying
too dear for what a little vigilance
would procure him for nothing.

"I will think of it," said he, "thank
you, sir." And he returned home at full
speed; nobody had yet touched his
treasure. That same day Athos paid a
visit to his friend and found him so
thoughtful that he could not help
expressing his surprise.

"How is this?" said he, "you are rich
and not gay -- you, who were so anxious
for wealth!"

"My friend, the pleasures to which we
are not accustomed oppress us more than
the griefs with which we are familiar.
Give me your opinion, if you please. I
can ask you, who have always had money:
when we have money, what do we do with
it?"

"That depends."

"What have you done with yours, seeing
that it has not made you a miser or a
prodigal? For avarice dries up the
heart, and prodigality drowns it -- is
not that so?"

"Fabricius could not have spoken more
justly. But in truth, my money has never
been a burden to me."

"How so? Do you place it out at
interest?"

"No; you know I have a tolerably
handsome house; and that house composes
the better part of my property."

"I know it does."

"So that you can be as rich as I am,
and, indeed more rich, whenever you
like, by the same means."

"But your rents, -- do you lay them by?"

"What do you think of a chest concealed
in a wall?"

"I never made use of such a thing."

"Then you must have some confidant, some
safe man of business who pays you
interest at a fair rate."

"Not at all."

"Good heavens! what do you do with it,
then?"

"I spend all I have, and I only have
what I spend, my dear D'Artagnan."

"Ah that may be. But you are something
of a prince, fifteen or sixteen thousand
livres melt away between your fingers;
and then you have expenses and
appearances ---- "

"Well, I don't see why you should be
less of a noble than I am, my friend;
your money would be quite sufficient."

"Three hundred thousand crowns!
Two-thirds too much!"

"I beg your pardon -- did you not tell
me? -- I thought I heard you say -- I
fancied you had a partner ---- "

"Ah! Mordioux! that's true," cried
D'Artagnan, coloring; "there is
Planchet. I had forgotten Planchet, upon
my life! Well! there are my three
hundred thousand crowns broken into.
That's a pity! it was a round sum, and
sounded well. That is true, Athos; I am
no longer rich. What a memory you have!"

"Tolerably good; yes, thank God!"

"The worthy Planchet!" grumbled
D'Artagnan; "his was not a bad dream!
What a speculation! Peste! Well! what is
said is said."

"How much are you to give him?"

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "he is not a bad
fellow; I shall arrange matters with
him. I have had a great deal of trouble,
you see, and expenses; all that must be
taken into account."

"My dear friend, I can depend upon you,
and have no fear for the worthy
Planchet; his interests are better in
your hands than in his own. But now that
you have nothing more to do here, we
shall depart, if you please. You can go
and thank his majesty, ask if he has any
commands, and in six days we may be able
to get sight of the towers of Notre
Dame."

"My friend, I am most anxious to be off,
and will go at once and pay my respects
to the king."

"I," said Athos, "am going to call upon
some friends in the city, and shall then
be at your service."

"Will you lend me Grimaud?"

"With all my heart. What do you want to
do with him?"

"Something very simple, and which will
not fatigue him; I shall only beg him to
take charge of my pistols, which lie
there on the table near that coffer."

"Very well!" replied Athos,
imperturbably.

"And he will not stir, will he?"

"Not more than the pistols themselves."

"Then I shall go and take leave of his
majesty. Au revoir!"

D'Artagnan arrived at St. James's, where
Charles II. who was busy writing, kept
him in the ante-chamber a full hour.
Whilst walking about in the gallery,
from the door to the window, from the
window to the door, he thought he saw a
cloak like Athos's cross the vestibule;
but at the moment he was going to
ascertain if it were he, the usher
summoned him to his majesty's presence.
Charles II. rubbed his hands while
receiving the thanks of our friend.

"Chevalier," said he, "you are wrong to
express gratitude to me; I have not paid
you a quarter of the value of the
history of the box into which you put
the brave general -- the excellent Duke
of Albemarle, I mean." And the king
laughed heartily.

D'Artagnan did not think it proper to
interrupt his majesty, and bowed with
much modesty.

"A propos," continued Charles, "do you
think my dear Monk has really pardoned
you?"

"Pardoned me! yes, I hope so, sire!"

"Eh! -- but it was a cruel trick! Odds
fish! to pack up the first personage of
the English revolution like a herring.
In your place I would not trust him,
chevalier."

"But, sire ---- "

"Yes, I know very well that Monk calls
you his friend, but he has too
penetrating an eye not to have a memory,
and too lofty a brow not to be very
proud, you know grande supercilium."

"I shall certainly learn Latin," said
D'Artagnan to himself.

"But stop," cried the merry monarch, "I
must manage your reconciliation; I know
how to set about it; so ---- "

D'Artagnan bit his mustache. "Will your
majesty permit me to tell you the
truth?"

"Speak, chevalier, speak."

"Well, sire, you alarm me greatly. If
your majesty undertakes the affair, as
you seem inclined to do, I am a lost
man; the duke will have me
assassinated."

The king burst into a fresh roar of
laughter, which changed D'Artagnan's
alarm into downright terror.

"Sire, I beg you to allow me to settle
this matter myself, and if your majesty
has no further need of my services ----
"

"No, chevalier. What, do you want to
leave us?" replied Charles, with a
hilarity that grew more and more
alarming.

"If your majesty has no more commands
for me."

Charles became more serious.

"One single thing. See my sister, the
Lady Henrietta. Do you know her?"

"No, sire, but -- an old soldier like me
is not an agreeable spectacle for a
young and gay princess."

"Ah! but my sister must know you; she
must in case of need have you to depend
upon."

"Sire, every one that is dear to your
majesty will be sacred to me."

"Very well! -- Parry! Come here, Parry!"

The side door opened and Parry entered,
his face beaming with pleasure as soon
as he saw D'Artagnan.

"What is Rochester doing?" said the
king.

"He is on the canal with the ladies,"
replied Parry.

"And Buckingham?"

"He is there also."

"That is well. You will conduct the
chevalier to Villiers; that is the Duke
of Buckingham, chevalier; and beg the
duke to introduce M. d'Artagnan to the
Princess Henrietta."

Parry bowed and smiled to D'Artagnan.

"Chevalier," continued the king, "this
is your parting audience; you can
afterwards set out as soon as you
please."

"Sire, I thank you."

"But be sure you make your peace with
Monk!"

"Oh, sire ---- "

"You know there is one of my vessels at
your disposal?"

"Sire, you overpower me; I cannot think
of putting your majesty's officers to
inconvenience on my account."

The king slapped D'Artagnan upon the
shoulder.

"Nobody will be inconvenienced on your
account, chevalier, but for that of an
ambassador I am about sending to France,
and to whom you will willingly serve as
a companion, I fancy, for you know him."

D'Artagnan appeared astonished.

"He is a certain Comte de la Fere, --
whom you call Athos," added the king,
terminating the conversation, as he had
begun it, by a joyous burst of laughter.
"Adieu, chevalier, adieu. Love me as I
love you." And thereupon making a sign
to Parry to ask if there were any one
waiting for him in the adjoining closet,
the king disappeared into that closet,
leaving the chevalier perfectly
astonished by this singular audience.
The old man took his arm in a friendly
way, and led him towards the garden.




CHAPTER 35

On the Canal



Upon the green waters of the canal
bordered with marble, upon which time
had already scattered black spots and
tufts of mossy grass, there glided
majestically a long, flat bark adorned
with the arms of England, surmounted by
a dais, and carpeted with long damasked
stuffs, which trailed their fringes in
the water. Eight rowers, leaning lazily
to their oars, made it move upon the
canal with the graceful slowness of the
swans, which, disturbed in their ancient
possessions by the approach of the bark,
looked from a distance at this splendid
and noisy pageant. We say noisy -- for
the bark contained four guitar and lute
players, two singers, and several
courtiers, all sparkling with gold and
precious stones, and showing their white
teeth in emulation of each other, to
please the Lady Henrietta Stuart,
grand-daughter of Henry IV., daughter of
Charles I., and sister of Charles II.,
who occupied the seat of honor under the
dais of the bark. We know this young
princess, we have seen her at the Louvre
with her mother, wanting wood, wanting
bread, and fed by the coadjuteur and the
parliament. She had, therefore, like her
brothers, passed through an uneasy
youth; then, all at once, she had just
awakened from a long and horrible dream,
seated on the steps of a throne,
surrounded by courtiers and flatterers.
Like Mary Stuart on leaving prison, she
aspired not only to life and liberty,
but to power and wealth.

The Lady Henrietta, in growing, had
attained remarkable beauty, which the
recent restoration had rendered
celebrated. Misfortune had taken from
her the luster of pride, but prosperity
had restored it to her. She was
resplendent, then, in her joy and her
happiness, -- like those hot-house
flowers which, forgotten during a frosty
autumn night, have hung their heads, but
which on the morrow, warmed once more by
the atmosphere in which they were born,
rise again with greater splendor than
ever. Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, son
of him who played so conspicuous a part
in the early chapters of this
history, -- Villiers of Buckingham, a
handsome cavalier, melancholy with
women, a jester with men, -- and Wilmot,
Lord Rochester, a jester with both
sexes, were standing at this moment
before the Lady Henrietta, disputing the
privilege of making her smile. As to
that young and beautiful princess,
reclining upon a cushion of velvet
bordered with gold, her hands hanging
listlessly so as to dip in the water,
she listened carelessly to the musicians
without hearing them, and heard the two
courtiers without appearing to listen to
them.

This Lady Henrietta -- this charming
creature -- this woman who joined the
graces of France to the beauties of
England, not having yet loved, was cruel
in her coquetry. The smile, then, --
that innocent favor of young girls, --
did not even lighten her countenance;
and if, at times, she did raise her
eyes, it was to fasten them upon one or
other of the cavaliers with such a
fixity, that their gallantry, bold as it
generally was, took the alarm, and
became timid.

In the meanwhile the boat continued its
course, the musicians made a great
noise, and the courtiers began, like
them, to be out of breath. Besides, the
excursion became doubtless monotonous to
the princess, for all at once, shaking
her head with an air of impatience, --
"Come, gentlemen, -- enough of this; --
let us land."

"Ah, madam," said Buckingham, "we are
very unfortunate! We have not succeeded
in making the excursion agreeable to
your royal highness."

"My mother expects me," replied the
princess; "and I must frankly admit,
gentlemen, I am bored." And whilst
uttering this cruel word, Henrietta
endeavored to console by a look each of
the two young men, who appeared
terrified at such frankness. The look
produced its effect -- the two faces
brightened; but immediately, as if the
royal coquette thought she had done too
much for simple mortals, she made a
movement, turned her back on both her
adorers, and appeared plunged in a
reverie in which it was evident they had
no part.

Buckingham bit his lips with anger, for
he was truly in love with Lady
Henrietta, and, in that case, took
everything in a serious light. Rochester
bit his lips likewise; but his wit
always dominated over his heart, it was
purely and simply to repress a malicious
smile. The princess was then allowing
the eyes she turned from the young
nobles to wander over the green and
flowery turf of the park, when she
perceived Parry and D'Artagnan at a
distance.

"Who is coming yonder?" said she.

The two young men turned round with the
rapidity of lightning.

"Parry," replied Buckingham, "nobody but
Parry."

"I beg your pardon," said Rochester,
"but I think he has a companion."

"Yes," said the princess, at first with
languor, but then, -- "What mean those
words, `Nobody but Parry;' say, my
lord?"

"Because, madam," replied Buckingham,
piqued, "because the faithful Parry, the
wandering Parry, the eternal Parry, is
not, I believe, of much consequence."

"You are mistaken, duke. Parry -- the
wandering Parry, as you call him -- has
always wandered in the service of my
family, and the sight of that old man
always gives me satisfaction."

The Lady Henrietta followed the usual
progress of pretty women, particularly
coquettish women; she passed from
caprice to contradiction; -- the gallant
had undergone the caprice, the courtier
must bend beneath the contradictory
humor. Buckingham bowed, but made no
reply.

"It is true, madam," said Rochester,
bowing in his turn, "that Parry is the
model of servants; but, madam, he is no
longer young, and we laugh only when we
see cheerful objects. Is an old man a
gay object?"

"Enough, my lord," said the princess,
coolly; "the subject of conversation is
unpleasant to me."

Then, as if speaking to herself, "It is
really unaccountable," said she, "how
little regard my brother's friends have
for his servants."

"Ah, madam," cried Buckingham, "your
royal highness pierces my heart with a
dagger forged by your own hands."

"What is the meaning of that speech,
which is turned so like a French
madrigal, duke? I do not understand it."

"It means, madam, that you yourself, so
good, so charming, so sensible, you have
laughed sometimes -- smiled, I should
say -- at the idle prattle of that good
Parry, for whom your royal highness
to-day entertains such a marvelous
susceptibility."

"Well, my lord, if I have forgotten
myself so far," said Henrietta, "you do
wrong to remind me of it." And she made
a sign of impatience. "The good Parry
wants to speak to me, I believe: please
order them to row to the shore, my Lord
Rochester."

Rochester hastened to repeat the
princess's command; and a moment later
the boat touched the bank.

"Let us land, gentlemen," said
Henrietta, taking the arm which
Rochester offered her, although
Buckingham was nearer to her, and had
presented his. Then Rochester, with an
ill-dissembled pride, which pierced the
heart of the unhappy Buckingham through
and through, led the princess across the
little bridge which the rowers had cast
from the royal boat to the shore.

"Which way will your royal highness go?"
asked Rochester.

"You see, my lord, towards that good
Parry, who is wandering, as my lord of
Buckingham says, and seeking me with
eyes weakened by the tears he has shed
over our misfortunes."

"Good heavens!" said Rochester, "how sad
your royal highness is to-day; in truth
we seem ridiculous fools to you, madam."

"Speak for yourself, my lord,"
interrupted Buckingham with vexation;
"for my part, I displease her royal
highness to such a degree, that I appear
absolutely nothing to her."

Neither Rochester nor the princess made
any reply; Henrietta only urged her
companion more quickly on. Buckingham
remained behind, and took advantage of
this isolation to give himself up to his
anger; he bit his handkerchief so
furiously that it was soon in shreds.

"Parry my good Parry," said the
princess, with her gentle voice, "come
hither. I see you are seeking me, and I
am waiting for you."

"Ah, madam," said Rochester, coming
charitably to the help of his companion,
who had remained, as we have said,
behind, "if Parry cannot see your royal
highness, the man who follows him is a
sufficient guide, even for a blind man,
for he has eyes of flame. That man is a
double-lamped lantern."

"Lighting a very handsome martial
countenance," said the princess,
determined to be as ill-natured as
possible. Rochester bowed. "One of those
vigorous soldiers' heads seen nowhere
but in France," added the princess, with
the perseverance of a woman sure of
impunity.

Rochester and Buckingham looked at each
other, as much as to say, -- "What can
be the matter with her?"

"See, my lord of Buckingham, what Parry
wants," said Henrietta. "Go!"

The young man, who considered this order
as a favor, resumed his courage, and
hastened to meet Parry, who, followed by
D'Artagnan, advanced slowly on account
of his age. D'Artagnan walked slowly but
nobly, as D'Artagnan, doubled by the
third of a million, ought to walk, that
is to say, without conceit or swagger,
but without timidity. When Buckingham,
very eager to comply with the desire of
the princess, who had seated herself on
a marble bench, as if fatigued with the
few steps she had gone, -- when
Buckingham, we say, was at a distance of
only a few paces from Parry, the latter
recognized him.

"Ah I my lord!" cried he, quite out of
breath, "will your grace obey the king?"

"In what, Mr. Parry?" said the young
man, with a kind of coolness tempered by
a desire to make himself agreeable to
the princess.

"Well, his majesty begs your grace to
present this gentleman to her royal
highness the Princess Henrietta."

"In the first place, what is the
gentleman's name?" said the duke,
haughtily.

D'Artagnan, as we know, was easily
affronted, and the Duke of Buckingham's
tone displeased him. He surveyed the
courtier from head to foot, and two
flashes beamed from beneath his bent
brows. But, after a struggle, --
"Monsieur le Chevalier d'Artagnan, my
lord," replied he, quietly.

"Pardon me, sir, that name teaches me
your name but nothing more."

"You mean ---- "

"I mean I do not know you."

"I am more fortunate than you, sir,"
replied D'Artagnan, "for I have had the
honor of knowing your family, and
particularly my lord Duke of Buckingham,
your illustrious father."

"My father?" said Buckingham. "Well, I
think I now remember. Monsieur le
Chevalier d'Artagnan, do you say?"

D'Artagnan bowed. "In person," said he.

"Pardon me, but are you one of those
Frenchmen who had secret relations with
my father?"

"Exactly, my lord duke, I am one of
those Frenchmen."

"Then, sir, permit me to say that it was
strange my father never heard of you
during his lifetime."

"No, monsieur, but he heard of me at the
moment of his death: it was I who sent
to him, through the hands of the valet
de chambre of Anne of Austria, notice of
the dangers which threatened him;
unfortunately, it came too late."

"Never mind, monsieur," said Buckingham.
"I understand now, that, having had the
intention of rendering a service to the
father, you have come to claim the
protection of the son."

"In the first place, my lord," replied
D'Artagnan, phlegmatically, "I claim the
protection of no man. His majesty
Charles II., to whom I have had the
honor of rendering some services -- I
may tell you, my lord, my life has been
passed in such occupations -- King
Charles II., then, who wishes to honor
me with some kindness, desires me to be
presented to her royal highness the
Princess Henrietta, his sister, to whom
I shall, perhaps, have the good fortune
to be of service hereafter. Now, the
king knew that you at this moment were
with her royal highness, and sent me to
you. There is no other mystery, I ask
absolutely nothing of you; and if you
will not present me to her royal
highness, I shall be compelled to do
without you, and present myself."

"At least, sir," said Buckingham,
determined to have the last word, "you
will not refuse me an explanation
provoked by yourself."

"I never refuse, my lord," said
D'Artagnan.

"As you have had relations with my
father, you must be acquainted with some
private details?"

"These relations are already far removed
from us, my lord -- for you were not
then born -- and for some unfortunate
diamond studs, which I received from his
hands and carried back to France, it is
really not worth while awakening so many
remembrances."

"Ah! sir," said Buckingham, warmly,
going up to D'Artagnan, and holding out
his hand to him, "it is you, then -- you
whom my father sought everywhere and who
had a right to expect so much from us."

"To expect, my lord, in truth, that is
my forte; all my life I have expected."

At this moment, the princess, who was
tired of not seeing the stranger
approach her, arose and came towards
them.

"At least, sir," said Buckingham, "you
shall not wait for the presentation you
claim of me."

Then turning toward the princess and
bowing: "Madam," said the young man,
"the king, your brother, desires me to
have the honor of presenting to your
royal highness, Monsieur le Chevalier
d'Artagnan."

"In order that your royal highness may
have, in case of need, a firm support
and a sure friend," added Parry.
D'Artagnan bowed.

"You have still something to say,
Parry," replied Henrietta, smiling upon
D'Artagnan, while addressing the old
servant.

"Yes, madam, the king desires you to
preserve religiously in your memory the
name and merit of M. d'Artagnan, to whom
his majesty owes, he says, the recovery
of his kingdom." Buckingham, the
princess, and Rochester looked at each
other.

"That," said D'Artagnan, "is another
little secret, of which, in all
probability, I shall not boast to his
majesty's son, as I have done to you
with respect to the diamond studs."

"Madam," said Buckingham, "monsieur has
just, for the second time, recalled to
my memory an event which excites my
curiosity to such a degree, that I shall
venture to ask your permission to take
him to one side for a moment, to
converse in private."

"Do, my lord," said the princess, "but
restore to the sister, as quickly as
possible, this friend so devoted to the
brother." And she took the arm of
Rochester whilst Buckingham took that of
D'Artagnan.

"Oh! tell me, chevalier," said
Buckingham, "all that affair of the
diamonds, which nobody knows in England,
not even the son of him who was the hero
of it."

"My lord, one person alone had a right
to relate all that affair, as you call
it, and that was your father; he thought
proper to be silent. I must beg you to
allow me to be so likewise." And
D'Artagnan bowed like a man upon whom it
was evident no entreaties could prevail.

"Since it is so, sir," said Buckingham,
"pardon my indiscretion, I beg you; and
if, at any time, I should go into
France ---- " and he turned round to
take a last look at the princess, who
took but little notice of him, totally
occupied as she was, or appeared to be,
with Rochester. Buckingham sighed.

"Well?" said D'Artagnan.

"I was saying that if, any day, I were
to go to France ---- "

"You will go, my lord," said D'Artagnan.
"I shall answer for that."

"And how so?"

"Oh, I have strange powers of
prediction; if I do predict anything I
am seldom mistaken. If, then, you do
come to France?"

"Well, then, monsieur, you, of whom
kings ask that valuable friendship which
restores crowns to them, I will venture
to beg of you a little of that great
interest you took in my father."

"My lord," replied D'Artagnan, "believe
me, I shall deem myself highly honored
if, in France, you remember having seen
me here. And now permit ---- "

Then, turning towards the princess:
"Madam," said he, "your royal highness
is a daughter of France; and in that
quality I hope to see you again in
Paris. One of my happy days will be that
on which your royal highness shall give
me any command whatever, thus proving to
me that you have not forgotten the
recommendations of your august brother."
And he bowed respectfully to the young
princess, who gave him her hand to kiss
with a right royal grace.

"Ah! madam," said Buckingham, in a
subdued voice, "what can a man do to
obtain a similar favor from your royal
highness?"

"Dame! my lord " replied Henrietta, "ask
Monsieur d'Artagnan; he will tell you."




CHAPTER 36

How D'Artagnan drew, as a Fairy would
have done, a Country-seat from a Deal
Box



The king's words regarding the wounded
pride of Monk had not inspired
D'Artagnan with a small portion of
apprehension. The lieutenant had had,
all his life, the great art of choosing
his enemies; and when he had found them
implacable and invincible, it was when
he had not been able, under any
pretense, to make them otherwise. But
points of view change greatly in the
course of a life. It is a magic lantern,
of which the eye of man every year
changes the aspects. It results that
from the last day of a year on which we
saw white, to the first day of the year
on which we shall see black, there is
but the interval of a single night.

Now, D'Artagnan, when he left Calais
with his ten scamps, would have
hesitated as little in attacking a
Goliath, a Nebuchadnezzar, or a
Holofernes as he would in crossing
swords with a recruit or caviling with a
landlady. Then he resembled the
sparrow-hawk which, when fasting, will
attack a ram. Hunger is blind. But
D'Artagnan satisfied -- D'Artagnan
rich -- D'Artagnan a conqueror --
D'Artagnan proud of so difficult a
triumph -- D'Artagnan had too much to
lose not to reckon, figure by figure,
with probable misfortune.

His thoughts were employed, therefore,
all the way on the road from his
presentation, with one thing, and that
was, how he should conciliate a man like
Monk, a man whom Charles himself, kind
as he was, conciliated with difficulty;
for, scarcely established, the protected
might again stand in need of the
protector, and would, consequently, not
refuse him, such being the case, the
petty satisfaction of transporting M.
d'Artagnan, or of confining him in one
of the Middlesex prisons, or drowning
him a little on his passage from Dover
to Boulogne. Such sorts of satisfaction
kings are accustomed to render to
viceroys without disagreeable
consequences.

It would not be at all necessary for the
king to be active in that contrepartie
of the play in which Monk should take
his revenge. The part of the king would
be confined to simply pardoning the
viceroy of Ireland all he should
undertake against D'Artagnan. Nothing
more was necessary to place the
conscience of the Duke of Albemarle at
rest than a te absolvo said with a
laugh, or the scrawl of "Charles the
King," traced at the foot of a
parchment; and with these two words
pronounced, and these two words written,
poor D'Artagnan was forever crushed
beneath the ruins of his imagination.

And then, a thing sufficiently
disquieting for a man with such
foresight as our musketeer, he found
himself alone; and even the friendship
of Athos could not restore his
confidence. Certainly if the affair had
only concerned a free distribution of
sword-thrusts, the musketeer would have
counted upon his companion; but in
delicate dealings with a king, when the
perhaps of an unlucky chance should
arise in justification of Monk or of
Charles of England, D'Artagnan knew
Athos well enough to be sure he would
give the best possible coloring to the
loyalty of the survivor, and would
content himself with shedding floods of
tears on the tomb of the dead, supposing
the dead to be his friend, and
afterwards composing his epitaph in the
most pompous superlatives.

"Decidedly," thought the Gascon; and
this thought was the result of the
reflections which he had just whispered
to himself and which we have repeated
aloud -- "decidedly, I must be
reconciled with M. Monk, and acquire a
proof of his perfect indifference for
the past. If, and God forbid it should
be so! he is still sulky and reserved in
the expression of this sentiment, I
shall give my money to Athos to take
away with him, and remain in England
just long enough to unmask him, then, as
I have a quick eye and a light foot, I
shall notice the first hostile sign; to
decamp or conceal myself at the
residence of my lord of Buckingham, who
seems a good sort of devil at the
bottom, and to whom, in return for his
hospitality, I shall relate all that
history of the diamonds, which can now
compromise nobody but an old queen, who
need not be ashamed, after being the
wife of a miserly creature like Mazarin,
of having formerly been the mistress of
a handsome nobleman like Buckingham.
Mordioux! that is the thing, and this
Monk shall not get the better of me. Eh?
and besides I have an idea!"

We know that, in general, D'Artagnan was
not wanting in ideas; and during this
soliloquy, D'Artagnan buttoned his vest
up to the chin, and nothing excited his
imagination like this preparation for a
combat of any kind, called accinction by
the Romans. He was quite heated when he
reached the mansion of the Duke of
Albemarle. He was introduced to the
viceroy with a promptitude which proved
that he was considered as one of the
household. Monk was in his
business-closet.

"My lord," said D'Artagnan, with that
expression of frankness which the Gascon
knew so well how to assume, "my lord, I
have come to ask your grace's advice!"

Monk, as closely buttoned up morally as
his antagonist was physically, replied:
"Ask, my friend;" and his countenance
presented an expression not less open
than that of D'Artagnan.

"My lord, in the first place, promise me
secrecy and indulgence."

"I promise you all you wish. What is the
matter? Speak!"

"It is, my lord, that I am not quite
pleased with the king."

"Indeed! And on what account, my dear
lieutenant?"

"Because his majesty gives way sometimes
to jest very compromising for his
servants; and jesting, my lord, is a
weapon that seriously wounds men of the
sword, as we are."

Monk did all in his power not to betray
his thought, but D'Artagnan watched him
with too close an attention not to
detect an almost imperceptible flush
upon his face. "Well, now, for my part,"
said he, with the most natural air
possible, "I am not an enemy of jesting,
my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan; my soldiers
will tell you that even many times in
camp, I listened very indifferently, and
with a certain pleasure, to the
satirical songs which the army of
Lambert passed into mine, and which,
certainly, would have caused the ears of
a general more susceptible than I am to
tingle."

"Oh, my lord," said D'Artagnan, "I know
you are a complete man; I know you have
been, for a long time placed above human
miseries; but there are jests and jests
of a certain kind, which have the power
of irritating me beyond expression."

"May I inquire what kind, my friend?"

"Such as are directed against my friends
or against people I respect, my lord!"

Monk made a slight movement, which
D'Artagnan perceived. "Eh! and in what,"
asked Monk, "in what can the stroke of a
pin which scratches another tickle your
skin? Answer me that."

"My lord, I can explain it to you in one
single sentence; it concerns you."

Monk advanced a single step towards
D'Artagnan. "Concerns me?" said he.

"Yes, and this is what I cannot explain;
but that arises, perhaps, from my want
of knowledge of his character. How can
the king have the heart to jest about a
man who has rendered him so many and
such great services? How can one
understand that he should amuse himself
in setting by the ears a lion like you
with a gnat like me?"

"I cannot conceive that in any way,"
said Monk.

"But so it is. The king, who owed me a
reward, might have rewarded me as a
soldier, without contriving that history
of the ransom, which affects you, my
lord."

"No," said Monk, laughing: "it does not
affect me in any way, I can assure you."

"Not as regards me, I can understand,
you know me, my lord, I am so discreet
that the grave would appear a babbler
compared to me; but -- do you
understand, my lord?"

"No," replied Monk, with persistent
obstinacy.

"If another knew the secret which I
know ---- "

"What secret?"

"Eh! my lord, why, that unfortunate
secret of Newcastle."

"Oh! the million of M. le Comte de la
Fere?"

"No, my lord, no; the enterprise made
upon you grace's person."

"It was well played, chevalier, that is
all, and no more is to be said about it:
you are a soldier, both brave and
cunning, which proves that you unite the
qualities of Fabius and Hannibal. You
employed your means, force and cunning:
there is nothing to be said against
that: I ought to have been on guard."

"Ah! yes; I know, my lord, and I
expected nothing less from your
partiality; so that if it were only the
abduction in itself, Mordieux! that
would be nothing; but there are ---- "

"What?"

"The circumstances of that abduction."

"What circumstances?"

"Oh! you know very well what I mean, my
lord."

"No, curse me if I do."

"There is -- in truth, it is difficult
to speak it."

"There is?"

"Well, there is that devil of a box!"

Monk colored visibly. "Well, I have
forgotten it."

"Deal box," continued D'Artagnan, "with
holes for the nose and mouth. In truth,
my lord, all the rest was well; but the
box, the box! that was really a coarse
joke." Monk fidgeted about in his chair.
"And, notwithstanding my having done
that," resumed D'Artagnan, "I, a soldier
of fortune, it was quite simple, because
by the side of that action, a little
inconsiderate I admit, which I
committed, but which the gravity of the
case may excuse, I am circumspect and
reserved."

"Oh!" said Monk, "believe me, I know you
well, Monsieur d'Artagnan, and I
appreciate you."

D'Artagnan never took his eyes off Monk;
studying all which passed in the mind of
the general, as he prosecuted his idea.
"But it does not concern me," resumed
he.

"Well, then, whom does it concern?" said
Monk, who began to grow a little
impatient.

"It relates to the king, who will never
restrain his tongue."

"Well! and suppose he should say all he
knows?" said Monk, with a degree of
hesitation.

"My lord," replied D'Artagnan, "do not
dissemble, I implore you, with a man who
speaks so frankly as I do. You have a
right to feel your susceptibility
excited, however benignant it may be.
What, the devil! it is not the place for
a man like you, a man who plays with
crowns and scepters as a Bohemian plays
with his balls; it is not the place of a
serious man, I said, to be shut up in a
box like some freak of natural history;
for you must understand it would make
all your enemies ready to burst with
laughter, and you are so great, so
noble, so generous, that you must have
many enemies. This secret is enough to
set half the human race laughing, if you
were represented in that box. It is not
decent to have the second personage in
the kingdom laughed at."

Monk was quite out of countenance at the
idea of seeing himself represented in
his box. Ridicule, as D'Artagnan had
judiciously foreseen, acted upon him in
a manner which neither the chances of
war, the aspirations of ambition, nor
the fear of death had been able to do.

"Good," thought the Gascon, "he is
frightened: I am safe."

"Oh! as to the king," said Monk, "fear
nothing, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan;
the king will not jest with Monk, I
assure you!"

The momentary flash of his eye was
noticed by D'Artagnan. Monk lowered his
tone immediately: "The king," continued
he, "is of too noble a nature, the
king's heart is too high to allow him to
wish ill to those who do him good."

"Oh! certainly," cried D'Artagnan. "I am
entirely of your grace's opinion with
regard to his heart, but not as to his
head -- it is good, but it is trifling."

"The king will not trifle with Monk, be
assured."

"Then you are quite at ease, my lord?"

"On that side, at least! yes,
perfectly."

"Oh! I understand you; you are at ease
as far as the king is concerned?"

"I have told you I was."

"But you are not so much so on my
account?"

"I thought I had told you that I had
faith in your loyalty and discretion."

"No doubt, no doubt, but you must
remember one thing ---- "

"What is that?"

"That I was not alone, that I had
companions; and what companions!"

"Oh! yes, I know them."

"And, unfortunately, my lord, they know
you, too!"

"Well?"

"Well; they are yonder, at Boulogne,
waiting for me."

"And you fear ---- "

"Yes, I fear that in my absence --
Parbleu! If I were near them, I could
answer for their silence."

"Was I not right in saying that the
danger, if there was any danger, would
not come from his majesty, however
disposed he may be to jest, but from
your companions, as you say? To be
laughed at by a king may be tolerable,
but by the horse-boys and scamps of the
army! Damn it!"

"Yes, I understand, that would be
unbearable, that is why, my lord, I came
to say, -- do you not think it would be
better for me to set out for France as
soon as possible?"

"Certainly, if you think your
presence ---- "

"Would impose silence upon these
scoundrels? Oh! I am sure of that, my
lord."

"Your presence will not prevent the
report from spreading, if the tale has
already transpired."

"Oh! it has not transpired, my lord, I
will wager. At all events, be assured I
am determined upon one thing."

"What is that?"

"To blow out the brains of the first who
shall have propagated that report, and
of the first who has heard it. After
which I shall return to England to seek
an asylum, and perhaps employment with
your grace."

"Oh, come back! come back!"

"Unfortunately, my lord, I am acquainted
with nobody here but your grace, and if
I should no longer find you, or if you
should have forgotten me in your
greatness?"

"Listen to me, Monsieur d'Artagnan,"
replied Monk; "you are a superior man,
full of intelligence and courage; you
deserve all the good fortune this world
can bring you; come with me into
Scotland, and, I swear to you, I shall
arrange for you a fate which all may
envy."

"Oh! my lord, that is impossible. At
present I have a sacred duty to perform;
I have to watch over your glory, I have
to prevent a low jester from tarnishing
in the eyes of our contemporaries -- who
knows? in the eyes of posterity -- the
splendor of your name."

"Of posterity, Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Doubtless. It is necessary, as regards
posterity, that all the details of that
history should remain a mystery; for,
admit that this unfortunate history of
the deal box should spread, and it
should be asserted that you had not
re-established the king loyally, and of
your own free will, but in consequence
of a compromise entered into at
Scheveningen between you two. It would
be vain for me to declare how the thing
came about, for though I know I should
not be believed, it would be said that I
had received my part of the cake, and
was eating it."

Monk knitted his brow. -- "Glory, honor,
probity!" said he, "you are but empty
words."

"Mist!" replied D'Artagnan; "nothing but
mist, through which nobody can see
clearly."

"Well, then, go to France, my dear
Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Monk; "go,
and to render England more attractive
and agreeable to you, accept a
remembrance of me.

"What now?" thought D'Artagnan.

"I have on the banks of the Clyde,"
continued Monk, "a little house in a
grove, cottage as it is called here. To
this house are attached a hundred acres
of land. Accept it as a souvenir."

"Oh my lord! ---- "

"Faith! you will be there in your own
home, and that will be the place of
refuge you spoke of just now."

"For me to be obliged to your lordship
to such an extent! Really, your grace, I
am ashamed."

"Not at all, not at all, monsieur,"
replied Monk, with an arch smile; "it is
I who shall be obliged to you. And,"
pressing the hand of the musketeer, "I
shall go and draw up the deed of
gift," -- and he left the room.

D'Artagnan looked at him as he went out
with something of a pensive and even an
agitated air.

"After all," said he, "he is a brave
man. It is only a sad reflection that it
is from fear of me, and not affection
that he acts thus. Well, I shall
endeavor that affection may follow."
Then, after an instant's deeper
reflection, -- "Bah!" said he, "to what
purpose? He is an Englishman." And he in
his turn went out, a little confused
after the combat.

"So," said he, "I am a land-owner! But
how the devil am I to share the cottage
with Planchet? Unless I give him the
land, and I take the chateau, or that he
takes the house and I -- nonsense! M.
Monk will never allow me to share a
house he has inhabited, with a grocer.
He is too proud for that. Besides, why
should I say anything about it to him?
It was not with the money of the company
I have acquired that property, it was
with my mother-wit alone; it is all
mine, then. So, now I will go and find
Athos." And he directed his steps
towards the dwelling of the Comte de la
Fere




CHAPTER 37

How D'Artagnan regulated the "Assets" of
the Company before he established its
"Liabilities"



"Decidedly," said D'Artagnan to himself,
"I have struck a good vein. That star
which shines once in the life of every
man, which shone for Job and Iris, the
most unfortunate of the Jews and the
poorest of the Greeks, is come at last
to shine on me. I will commit no folly,
I will take advantage of it; it comes
quite late enough to find me
reasonable."

He supped that evening, in very good
humor, with his friend Athos; he said
nothing to him about the expected
donation, but he could not forbear
questioning his friend, while eating,
about country produce, sowing, and
planting. Athos replied complacently, as
he always did. His idea was that
D'Artagnan wished to become a
land-owner, only he could not help
regretting, more than once, the absence
of the lively humor and amusing sallies
of the cheerful companion of former
days. In fact, D'Artagnan was so
absorbed, that, with his knife, he took
advantage of the grease left at the
bottom of his plate, to trace ciphers
and make additions of surprising
rotundity.

The order, or rather license, for their
embarkation, arrived at Athos's lodgings
that evening. While this paper was
remitted to the comte, another messenger
brought to D'Artagnan a little bundle of
parchments, adorned with all the seals
employed in setting off property deeds
in England. Athos surprised him turning
over the leaves of these different acts
which establish the transmission of
property. The prudent Monk -- others
would say the generous Monk -- had
commuted the donation into a sale, and
acknowledged the receipt of the sum of
fifteen thousand crowns as the price of
the property ceded. The messenger was
gone. D'Artagnan still continued
reading, Athos watched him with a smile.
D'Artagnan, surprising one of those
smiles over his shoulder, put the bundle
in its wrapper.

"I beg your pardon," said Athos.

"Oh! not at all, my friend," replied the
lieutenant, "I shall tell you ---- "

"No, don't tell me anything, I beg you;
orders are things so sacred, that to
one's brother, one's father, the person
charged with such orders should never
open his mouth. Thus I, who speak to
you, and love you more tenderly than
brother, father, or all the world ---- "

"Except your Raoul?"

"I shall love Raoul still better when he
shall be a man, and I shall have seen
him develop himself in all the phases of
his character and his actions -- as I
have seen you, my friend."

"You said, then, that you had an order
likewise, and that you would not
communicate it to me."

"Yes, my dear D'Artagnan."

The Gascon sighed. "There was a time,"
said he, "when you would have placed
that order open upon the table, saying,
`D'Artagnan, read this scrawl to
Porthos, Aramis, and to me.'"

"That is true. Oh! that was the time of
youth, confidence, the generous season
when the blood commands, when it is
warmed by feeling!"

"Well! Athos, will you allow me to tell
you?"

"Speak, my friend!"

"That delightful time, that generous
season, that ruling by warm blood, were
all very fine things, no doubt; but I do
not regret them at all. It is absolutely
like the period of studies. I have
constantly met with fools who would
boast of the days of pensums, ferules
and crusts of dry bread. It is singular,
but I never loved all that; for my part,
however active and sober I might be (you
know if I was so, Athos), however simple
I might appear in my clothes, I would
not the less have preferred the
braveries and embroideries of Porthos to
my little perforated cassock, which gave
passage to the wind in winter and the
sun in summer. I should always, my
friend, mistrust him who would pretend
to prefer evil to good. Now, in times
past all went wrong with me, and every
month found a fresh hole in my cassock
and in my skin, a gold crown less in my
poor purse; of that execrable time of
small beer and see-saw, I regret
absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing
save our friendship; for within me I
have a heart, and it is a miracle that
heart has not been dried up by the wind
of poverty which passed through the
holes of my cloak, or pierced by the
swords of all shapes which passed
through the holes in my poor flesh."

"Do not regret our friendship," said
Athos, "that will only die with
ourselves. Friendship is composed, above
all things, of memories and habits, and
if you have just now made a little
satire upon mine, because I hesitate to
tell you the nature of my mission into
France ---- "

"Who! I? -- Oh! heavens! if you knew, my
dear friend, how indifferent all the
missions of the world will henceforth
become to me!" And he laid his hand upon
the parchment in his vest pocket.

Athos rose from the table and called the
host in order to pay the reckoning.

"Since I have known you, my friend,"
said D'Artagnan, "I have never
discharged the reckoning. Porthos often
did, Aramis sometimes, and you, you
almost always drew out your purse with
the dessert. I am now rich and should
like to try if it is heroic to pay."

"Do so," said Athos; returning his purse
to his pocket.

The two friends then directed their
steps towards the port, not, however,
without D'Artagnan's frequently turning
round to watch the transportation of his
dear crowns. Night had just spread her
thick veil over the yellow waters of the
Thames; they heard those noises of casks
and pulleys, the preliminaries of
preparing to sail which had so many
times made the hearts of the musketeers
beat when the dangers of the sea were
the least of those they were going to
face. This time they were to embark on
board a large vessel which awaited them
at Gravesend, and Charles II., always
delicate in small matters, had sent one
of his yachts, with twelve men of his
Scotch guard, to do honor to the
ambassador he was sending to France. At
midnight the yacht had deposited its
passengers on board the vessel, and at
eight o'clock in the morning, the vessel
landed the ambassador and his friend on
the wharf at Boulogne. Whilst the comte,
with Grimaud, was busy procuring horses
to go straight to Paris, D'Artagnan
hastened to the hostelry where,
according to his orders, his little army
was to wait for him. These gentlemen
were at breakfast upon oysters, fish,
and spiced brandy, when D'Artagnan
appeared. They were all very gay, but
not one of them had yet exceeded the
bounds of reason. A hurrah of joy
welcomed the general. "Here I am," said
D'Artagnan, "the campaign is ended. I am
come to bring to each his supplement of
pay, as agreed upon." Their eyes
sparkled. "I will lay a wager there are
not, at this moment, a hundred crowns
remaining in the purse of the richest
among you."

"That is true," cried they in chorus.

"Gentlemen," said D'Artagnan, "then,
this is the last order. The treaty of
commerce has been concluded thanks to
our coup-de-main which made us masters
of the most skillful financier of
England, for now I am at liberty to
confess to you that the man we had to
carry off was the treasurer of General
Monk."

This word treasurer produced a certain
effect on his army. D'Artagnan observed
that the eyes of Menneville alone did
not evince perfect faith. "This
treasurer," he continued, "I conveyed to
a neutral territory, Holland; I forced
him to sign the treaty; I have even
reconducted him to Newcastle, and as he
was obliged to be satisfied with our
proceedings towards him -- the deal
coffer being always carried without
jolting, and being lined softly, I asked
for a gratification for you. Here it
is." He threw a respectable-looking
purse upon the cloth; and all
involuntarily stretched out their hands.
"One moment, my lambs," said D'Artagnan;
"if there are profits, there are also
charges."

"Oh! oh!" murmured they.

"We are about to find ourselves, my
friends, in a position that would not be
tenable for people without brains. I
speak plainly: we are between the
gallows and the Bastile."

"Oh! oh!" said the chorus.

"That is easily understood. It was
necessary to explain to General Monk the
disappearance of his treasurer. I
waited, for that purpose, till the very
unhopedfor moment of the restoration of
King Charles II., who is one of my
friends."

The army exchanged a glance of
satisfaction in reply to the
sufficiently proud look of D'Artagnan.
"The king being restored, I restored to
Monk his man of business, a little
plucked, it is true, but, in short, I
restored him. Now, General Monk, when he
pardoned me, for he has pardoned me,
could not help repeating these words to
me, which I charge every one of you to
engrave deeply there, between the eyes,
under the vault of the cranium: --
`Monsieur, the joke has been a good one,
but I don't naturally like jokes; if
ever a word of what you have done' (you
understand me, Menneville) `escapes from
your lips, or the lips of your
companions, I have, in my government of
Scotland and Ireland, seven hundred and
forty-one wooden gibbets, of strong oak,
clamped with iron, and freshly greased
every week. I will make a present of one
of these gibbets to each of you, and
observe well, M. d'Artagnan,' added he
(observe it also, M. Menneville), `I
shall still have seven hundred and
thirty left for my private pleasure. And
still further ---- '"

"Ah! ah!" said the auxiliaries, "is
there more still?"

"A mere trifle. `Monsieur d'Artagnan, I
send to the king of France the treaty in
question, with a request that he will
cast into the Bastile provisionally, and
then send to me, all who have taken part
in this expedition; and that is a prayer
with which the king will certainly
comply.'"

A cry of terror broke from all corners
of the table.

"There! there! there," said D'Artagnan,
"this brave M. Monk has forgotten one
thing, and that is he does not know the
name of any one of you, I alone know
you, and it is not I, you may well
believe, who will betray you. Why should
I? As for you -- I cannot suppose you
will be silly enough to denounce
yourselves, for then the king, to spare
himself the expense of feeding and
lodging you, will send you off to
Scotland, where the seven hundred and
forty-one gibbets are to be found. That
is all, messieurs; I have not another
word to add to what I have had the honor
to tell you. I am sure you have
understood me perfectly well, have you
not, M. Menneville?"

"Perfectly," replied the latter.

"Now the crowns!" said D'Artagnan. "Shut
the doors," he cried, and opened the bag
upon the table, from which rolled
several fine gold crowns. Every one made
a movement towards the floor.

"Gently!" cried D'Artagnan. "Let no one
stoop, and then I shall not be out in my
reckoning." He found it all right, gave
fifty of those splendid crowns to each
man, and received as many benedictions
as he bestowed pieces. "Now," said he,
"if it were possible for you to reform a
little, if you could become good and
honest citizens ---- "

"That is rather difficult," said one of
the troop.

"What then, captain?" said another.

"Because I might be able to find you
again, and, who knows what other good
fortune?" He made a sign to Menneville,
who listened to all he said with a
composed air. "Menneville," said he,
"come with me. Adieu my brave fellows! I
need not warn you to be discreet."

Menneville followed him, whilst the
salutations of the auxiliaries were
mingled with the sweet sound of the
money clinking in their pockets.

"Menneville," said D'Artagnan, when they
were once in the street, "you were not
my dupe; beware of being so. You did not
appear to me to have any fear of the
gibbets of Monk, or the Bastile of his
majesty, King Louis XIV., but you will
do me the favor of being afraid of me.
Then listen at the smallest word that
shall escape you, I will kill you as I
would a fowl. I have absolution from our
holy father, the pope, in my pocket."

"I assure you I know absolutely nothing,
my dear M. d'Artagnan, and that your
words have all been to me so many
articles of faith."

"I was quite sure you were an
intelligent fellow," said the musketeer;
"I have tried you for a length of time.
These fifty gold crowns which I give you
above the rest will prove the esteem I
have for you. Take them."

"Thanks, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said
Menneville.

"With that sum you can really become an
honest man," replied D'Artagnan, in the
most serious tone possible. "It would be
disgraceful for a mind like yours, and a
name you no longer dare to bear, to sink
forever under the rust of an evil life.
Become a gallant man, Menneville, and
live for a year upon those hundred gold
crowns: it is a good provision; twice
the pay of a high officer. In a year
come to me, and, Mordioux! I will make
something of you."

Menneville swore, as his comrades had
sworn, that he would be as silent as the
grave. And yet some one must have
spoken; and as, certainly, it was not
one of the nine companions, and quite as
certainly, it was not Menneville, it
must have been D'Artagnan, who, in his
quality of a Gascon, had his tongue very
near to his lips. For, in short, if it
were not he, who could it be? And how
can it be explained that the secret of
the deal coffer pierced with holes
should come to our knowledge, and in so
complete a fashion that we have, as has
been seen, related the history of it in
all its most minute details; details
which, besides, throw a light as new as
unexpected upon all that portion of the
history of England which has been left,
up to the present day, completely in
darkness by the historian of our
neighbors?




CHAPTER 38

In which it is seen that the French
Grocer had already been established in
the Seventeenth Century



His accounts once settled, and his
recommendations made, D'Artagnan thought
of nothing but returning to Paris as
soon as possible. Athos, on his part,
was anxious to reach home and to rest a
little. However whole the character and
the man may remain after the fatigues of
a voyage, the traveler perceives with
pleasure, at the close of the day --
even though the day has been a fine
one -- that night is approaching, and
will bring a little sleep with it. So,
from Boulogne to Paris, jogging on, side
by side, the two friends, in some degree
absorbed each in his individual
thoughts, conversed of nothing
sufficiently interesting for us to
repeat to our readers. Each of them
given up to his personal reflections,
and constructing his future after his
own fashion, was, above all, anxious to
abridge the distance by speed. Athos and
D'Artagnan arrived at the gates of Paris
on the evening of the fourth day after
leaving Boulogne.

"Where are you going, my friend?" asked
Athos. "I shall direct my course
straight to my hotel."

"And I straight to my partner's."

"To Planchet's?"

"Yes; at the Pilon d'Or."

"Well, but shall we not meet again?"

"If you remain in Paris, yes, for I
shall stay here."

"No: after having embraced Raoul, with
whom I have appointed a meeting at my
hotel, I shall set out immediately for
La Fere."

"Well, adieu, then, dear and true
friend."

"Au revoir! I should rather say, for why
can you not come and live with me at
Blois? You are free, you are rich, I
shall purchase for you, if you like, a
handsome estate in the vicinity of
Chiverny or of Bracieux. On the one side
you will have the finest woods in the
world, which join those of Chambord; on
the other, admirable marshes. You who
love sporting, and who, whether you
admit it or not, are a poet, my dear
friend, you will find pheasants, rail
and teal, without counting sunsets and
excursions on the water, to make you
fancy yourself Nimrod and Apollo
themselves. While awaiting the purchase,
you can live at La Fere, and we shall go
together to fly our hawks among the
vines, as Louis XIII. used to do. That
is a quiet amusement for old fellows
like us."

D'Artagnan took the hands of Athos in
his own. "Dear count," said he, "I shall
say neither `Yes' nor `No.' Let me pass
in Paris the time necessary for the
regulation of my affairs, and accustom
myself, by degrees, to the heavy and
glittering idea which is beating in my
brain and dazzles me. I am rich, you
see, and from this moment until the time
when I shall have acquired the habit of
being rich, I know myself, and I shall
be an insupportable animal. Now, I am
not enough of a fool to wish to appear
to have lost my wits before a friend
like you, Athos. The cloak is handsome,
the cloak is richly gilded, but it is
new, and does not seem to fit me."

Athos smiled. "So be it," said he. "But
a propos of this cloak, dear D'Artagnan,
will you allow me to offer you a little
advice?"

"Yes, willingly."

"You will not be angry?"

"Proceed."

"When wealth comes to a man late in life
or all at once, that man, in order not
to change, must most likely become a
miser -- that is to say, not spend much
more money than he had done before; or
else become a prodigal, and contract so
many debts as to become poor again."

"Oh! but what you say looks very much
like a sophism, my dear philosophic
friend."

"I do not think so. Will you become a
miser?"

"No, pardieu! I was one already, having
nothing. Let us change."

"Then be prodigal."

"Still less, Mordioux! Debts terrify me.
Creditors appear to me, by anticipation
like those devils who turn the damned
upon the gridirons, and as patience is
not my dominant virtue, I am always
tempted to thrash those devils."

"You are the wisest man I know, and
stand in no need of advice from any one.
Great fools must they be who think they
have anything to teach you. But are we
not at the Rue Saint Honore?"

"Yes, dear Athos."

"Look yonder, on the left, that small,
long white house is the hotel where I
lodge. You may observe that it has but
two stories; I occupy the first; the
other is let to an officer whose duties
oblige him to be absent eight or nine
months in the year, -- so I am in that
house as in my own home, without the
expense."

"Oh! how well you manage, Athos! What
order and what liberality! They are what
I wish to unite! But, of what use
trying! that comes from birth, and
cannot be acquired."

"You are a flatterer! Well! adieu, dear
friend. A propos, remember me to Master
Planchet; he was always a bright
fellow."

"And a man of heart, too, Athos. Adieu."

And they separated. During all this
conversation, D'Artagnan had not for a
moment lost sight of a certain
pack-horse, in whose panniers, under
some hay, were spread the sacoches
(messenger's bags) with the portmanteau.
Nine o'clock was striking at
Saint-Merri. Planchet's helps were
shutting up his shop. D'Artagnan stopped
the postilion who rode the pack-horse,
at the corner of the Rue des Lombards,
under a penthouse, and calling one of
Planchet's boys, he desired him not only
to take care of the two horses, but to
watch the postilion; after which he
entered the shop of the grocer, who had
just finished supper, and who, in his
little private room, was, with a degree
of anxiety, consulting the calendar, on
which, every evening, he scratched out
the day that was past. At the moment
when Planchet, according to his daily
custom, with the back of his pen, erased
another day, D'Artagnan kicked the door
with his foot, and the blow made his
steel spur jingle. "Oh! good Lord!"
cried Planchet. The worthy grocer could
say no more; he had just perceived his
partner. D'Artagnan entered with a bent
back and a dull eye: the Gascon had an
idea with regard to Planchet.

"Good God!" thought the grocer, looking
earnestly at the traveler, "he looks
sad!" The musketeer sat down.

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said
Planchet, with a horrible palpitation of
the heart. "Here you are! and your
health?"

"Tolerably good, Planchet, tolerably
good!" said D'Artagnan, with a profound
sigh.

"You have not been wounded, I hope?"

"Phew!"

"Ah, I see," continued Planchet, more
and more alarmed, "the expedition has
been a trying one?"

"Yes," said D'Artagnan. A shudder ran
down Planchet's back. "I should like to
have something to drink," said the
musketeer, raising his head piteously.

Planchet ran to the cupboard, and poured
out to D'Artagnan some wine in a large
glass. D'Artagnan examined the bottle.

"What wine is that?" asked he.

"Alas! that which you prefer, monsieur,"
said Planchet; "that good old Anjou
wine, which was one day nearly costing
us all so dear."

"Ah!" replied D'Artagnan, with a
melancholy smile, "Ah! my poor Planchet,
ought I still to drink good wine?"

"Come! my dear master," said Planchet,
making a superhuman effort, whilst all
his contracted muscles, his pallor, and
his trembling, betrayed the most acute
anguish. "Come! I have been a soldier
and consequently have some courage; do
not make me linger, dear Monsieur
d'Artagnan; our money is lost, is it
not?"

Before he answered, D'Artagnan took his
time, and that appeared an age to the
poor grocer. Nevertheless he did nothing
but turn about on his chair.

"And if that were the case," said he,
slowly, moving his head up and down, "if
that were the case, what would you say,
my dear friend?"

Planchet, from being pale, turned
yellow. It might have been thought he
was going to swallow his tongue, so full
became his throat, so red were his eyes!

"Twenty thousand livres!" murmured he.
"Twenty thousand livres, and yet ---- "

D'Artagnan, with his neck elongated, his
legs stretched out, and his hands
hanging listlessly, looked like a statue
of discouragement. Planchet drew up a
sigh from the deepest cavities of his
breast.

"Well," said he, "I see how it is. Let
us be men! It is all over, is it not?
The principal thing is, monsieur, that
your life is safe."

"Doubtless! doubtless! -- life is
something -- but I am ruined!"

"Cordieu! monsieur!" said Planchet, "if
it is so, we must not despair for that;
you shall become a grocer with me; I
shall take you for my partner, we will
share the profits, and if there should
be no more profits, well, why then we
shall share the almonds, raisins and
prunes, and we will nibble together the
last quarter of Dutch cheese."

D'Artagnan could hold out no longer.
"Mordioux!" cried he, with great
emotion, "thou art a brave fellow on my
honor, Planchet. You have not been
playing a part, have you? You have not
seen the pack-horse with the bags under
the shed yonder?"

"What horse? What bags?" said Planchet,
whose trembling heart began to suggest
that D'Artagnan was mad.

"Why, the English bags, Mordioux!" said
D'Artagnan, all radiant, quite
transfigured.

"Ah! good God!" articulated Planchet,
drawing back before the dazzling fire of
his looks.

"Imbecile!" cried D'Artagnan, "you think
me mad! Mordioux! On the contrary, never
was my head more clear, or my heart more
joyous. To the bags, Planchet, to the
bags!"

"But to what bags, good heavens!"

D'Artagnan pushed Planchet towards the
window.

"Under the shed yonder, don't you see a
horse?"

"Yes."

"Don't you see how his back is laden?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Don't you see your lad talking with the
postilion?"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"Well, you know the name of that lad,
because he is your own. Call him."

"Abdon! Abdon!" vociferated Planchet,
from the window.

"Bring the horse!" shouted D'Artagnan.

"Bring the horse!" screamed Planchet.

"Now give ten crowns to the postilion,"
said D'Artagnan, in the tone he would
have employed in commanding a maneuver;
"two lads to bring up the two first
bags, two to bring up the two last, --
and move, Mordioux! be lively!"

Planchet rushed down the stairs, as if
the devil had been at his heels. A
moment later the lads ascended the
staircase, bending beneath their burden.
D'Artagnan sent them off to their
garrets, carefully closed the door, and
addressing Planchet, who, in his turn,
looked a little wild, --

"Now, we are by ourselves," said he, and
he spread upon the floor a large cover,
and emptied the first bag into it.
Planchet did the same with the second;
then D'Artagnan, all in a tremble, let
out the precious bowels of the third
with a knife. When Planchet heard the
provoking sound of the silver and
gold -- when he saw bubbling out of the
bags the shining crowns, which glittered
like fish from the sweep-net -- when he
felt himself plunging his hands up to
the elbow in that still rising tide of
yellow and white coins, a giddiness
seized him, and like a man struck by
lightning, he sank heavily down upon the
enormous heap, which his weight caused
to roll away in all directions.
Planchet, suffocated with joy, had lost
his senses. D'Artagnan threw a glass of
white wine in his face, which
incontinently recalled him to life.

"Ah! good heavens! good heavens! good
heavens!" said Planchet, wiping his
mustache and beard.

At that time, as they do now, grocers
wore the cavalier mustache and the
lansquenet beard, only the money baths,
already rare in those days, have become
almost unknown now.

"Mordieux!" said D'Artagnan, "there are
a hundred thousand crowns for you,
partner. Draw your share, if you please,
and I will draw mine."

"Oh! the lovely sum! Monsieur
d'Artagnan, the lovely sum!"

"I confess that half an hour ago I
regretted that I had to give you so
much, but I now no longer regret it;
thou art a brave grocer, Planchet.
There, let us close our accounts, for,
as they say, short reckonings make long
friends."

"Oh! rather, in the first place, tell me
the whole history," said Planchet; "that
must be better than the money."

"Ma foi!" said D'Artagnan, stroking his
mustache, "I can't say no, and if ever
the historian turns to me for
information, he will be able to say he
has not dipped his bucket into a dry
spring. Listen, then, Planchet, I will
tell you all about it."

"And I shall build piles of crowns,"
said Planchet. "Begin, my dear master."

"Well, this is it," said D'Artagnan,
drawing breath.

"And that is it," said Planchet, picking
up his first handful of crowns.




CHAPTER 39

Mazarin's Gaming Party



In a large chamber of the Palais Royal,
hung with a dark colored velvet, which
threw into strong relief the gilded
frames of a great number of magnificent
pictures, on the evening of the arrival
of the two Frenchmen, the whole court
was assembled before the alcove of M. le
Cardinal de Mazarin, who gave a card
party to the king and queen.

A small screen separated three prepared
tables. At one of these tables the king
and the two queens were seated. Louis
XIV., placed opposite to the young
queen, his wife, smiled upon her with an
expression of real happiness. Anne of
Austria held the cards against the
cardinal, and her daughter-in-law
assisted her in the game, when she was
not engaged in smiling at her husband.
As for the cardinal, who was lying on
his bed with a weary and careworn face,
his cards were held by the Comtesse de
Soissons, and he watched them with an
incessant look of interest and cupidity.

The cardinal's face had been painted by
Bernouin; but the rouge, which glowed
only on his cheeks, threw into stronger
contrast the sickly pallor of his
countenance and the shining yellow of
his brow. His eyes alone acquired a more
brilliant luster from this auxiliary,
and upon those sick man's eyes were,
from time to time, turned the uneasy
looks of the king, the queen, and the
courtiers. The fact is, that the two
eyes of the Signor Mazarin were the
stars more or less brilliant in which
the France of the seventeenth century
read its destiny every evening and every
morning.

Monseigneur neither won nor lost; he
was, therefore neither gay nor sad. It
was a stagnation in which, full of pity
for him, Anne of Austria would not have
willingly left him; but in order to
attract the attention of the sick man by
some brilliant stroke, she must have
either won or lost. To win would have
been dangerous, because Mazarin would
have changed his indifference into an
ugly grimace; to lose would likewise
have been dangerous, because she must
have cheated, and the infanta, who
watched her game, would, doubtless, have
exclaimed against her partiality for
Mazarin. Profiting by this calm, the
courtiers were chatting. When not in a
bad humor, M. de Mazarin was a very
debonnaire prince, and he, who prevented
nobody from singing, provided they paid,
was not tyrant enough to prevent people
from talking, provided they made up
their minds to lose.

They were therefore chatting. At the
first table, the king's younger brother,
Philip, Duc d'Anjou, was admiring his
handsome face in the glass of a box. His
favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine,
leaning over the back of the prince's
chair, was listening, with secret envy,
to the Comte de Guiche, another of
Philip's favorites, who was relating in
choice terms the various vicissitudes of
fortune of the royal adventurer Charles
II. He told, as so many fabulous events,
all the history of his perigrinations in
Scotland, and his terrors when the
enemy's party was so closely on his
track, of nights spent in trees, and
days spent in hunger and combats. By
degrees, the fate of the unfortunate
king interested his auditors so greatly,
that the play languished even at the
royal table, and the young king, with a
pensive look and downcast eye, followed,
without appearing to give any attention
to it, the smallest details of this
Odyssey, very picturesquely related by
the Comte de Guiche.

The Comtesse de Soissons interrupted the
narrator: "Confess, count, you are
inventing."

"Madame, I am repeating like a parrot
all the stories related to me by
different Englishmen. To my shame I am
compelled to say, I am as exact as a
copy."

"Charles II. would have died before he
could have endured all that."

Louis XIV. raised his intelligent and
proud head. "Madame," said he, in a
grave tone, still partaking something of
the timid child, "monsieur le cardinal
will tell you that during my minority
the affairs of France were in
jeopardy, -- and that if I had been
older, and obliged to take sword in
hand, it would sometimes have been for
the evening meal."

"Thanks to God," said the cardinal, who
spoke for the first time, "your majesty
exaggerates, and your supper has always
been ready with that of your servants."

The king colored.

"Oh!" cried Philip, inconsiderately,
from his place, and without ceasing to
admire himself, -- "I recollect once, at
Melun, the supper was laid for nobody,
and that the king ate two-thirds of a
slice of bread, and abandoned to me the
other third."

The whole assembly, seeing Mazarin
smile, began to laugh. Courtiers flatter
kings with the remembrance of past
distresses, as with the hopes of future
good fortune.

"It is not to be denied that the crown
of France has always remained firm upon
the heads of its kings," Anne of Austria
hastened to say, "and that it has fallen
off of that of the king of England; and
when by chance that crown oscillated a
little, -- for there are throne-quakes
as well as earthquakes, -- every time, I
say, that rebellion threatened it, a
good victory restored tranquillity."

"With a few gems added to the crown,"
said Mazarin.

The Comte de Guiche was silent: the king
composed his countenance, and Mazarin
exchanged looks with Anne of Austria, as
if to thank her for her intervention.

"It is of no consequence," said Philip,
smoothing his hair; "my cousin Charles
is not handsome, but he is very brave,
and fought like a landsknecht; and if he
continues to fight thus, no doubt he
will finish by gaining a battle, like
Rocroy ---- "

"He has no soldiers," interrupted the
Chevalier de Lorraine.

"The king of Holland, his ally, will
give him some. I would willingly have
given him some if I had been king of
France."

Louis XIV. blushed excessively. Mazarin
affected to be more attentive to his
game than ever.

"By this time," resumed the Comte de
Guiche, "the fortune of this unhappy
prince is decided. If he has been
deceived by Monk, he is ruined.
Imprisonment, perhaps death, will finish
what exile, battles, and privations have
commenced."

Mazarin's brow became clouded.

"Is it certain," said Louis XIV. "that
his majesty Charles II., has quitted the
Hague?"

"Quite certain, your majesty," replied
the young man; "my father has received a
letter containing all the details; it is
even known that the king has landed at
Dover; some fishermen saw him entering
the port; the rest is still a mystery."

"I should like to know the rest," said
Philip, impetuously. "You know, -- you,
my brother."

Louis XIV. colored again. That was the
third time within an hour. "Ask my lord
cardinal," replied he, in a tone which
made Mazarin, Anne of Austria, and
everybody else open their eyes.

"That means, my son," said Anne of
Austria, laughing, "that the king does
not like affairs of state to be talked
of out of the council."

Philip received the reprimand with good
grace, and bowed, first smiling at his
brother, and then his mother. But
Mazarin saw from the corner of his eye
that a group was about to be formed in
the corner of the room, and that the Duc
d'Anjou, with the Comte de Guiche, and
the Chevalier de Lorraine, prevented
from talking aloud, might say, in a
whisper, what it was not convenient
should be said. He was beginning, then,
to dart at them glances full of mistrust
and uneasiness, inviting Anne of Austria
to throw perturbation in the midst of
the unlawful assembly, when, suddenly,
Bernouin, entering from behind the
tapestry of the bedroom, whispered in
the ear of Mazarin, "Monseigneur, an
envoy from his majesty, the king of
England."

Mazarin could not help exhibiting a
slight emotion, which was perceived by
the king. To avoid being indiscreet,
rather than to appear useless, Louis
XIV. rose immediately, and approaching
his eminence, wished him good-night. All
the assembly had risen with a great
noise of rolling of chairs and tables
being pushed away.

"Let everybody depart by degrees," said
Mazarin in a whisper to Louis XIV., "and
be so good as to excuse me a few
minutes. I am going to dispatch an
affair about which I wish to converse
with your majesty this very evening."

"And the queens?" asked Louis XIV.

"And M. le Duc d'Anjou," said his
eminence.

At the same time he turned round in his
ruelle, the curtains of which, in
falling, concealed the bed. The
cardinal, nevertheless, did not lose
sight of the conspirators.

"M. le Comte de Guiche," said he, in a
fretful voice, whilst putting on, behind
the curtain, his dressing-gown, with the
assistance of Bernouin.

"I am here, my lord," said the young
man, as he approached.

"Take my cards, you are lucky. Win a
little money for me of these gentlemen."

"Yes, my lord."

The young man sat down at the table from
which the king withdrew to talk with the
two queens. A serious game was commenced
between the comte and several rich
courtiers. In the meantime Philip was
discussing the questions of dress with
the Chevalier de Lorraine, and they had
ceased to hear the rustling of the
cardinal's silk robe from behind the
curtain. His eminence had followed
Bernouin into the closet adjoining the
bedroom.




CHAPTER 40

An Affair of State



The cardinal, on passing into his
cabinet, found the Comte de la Fere, who
was waiting for him, engaged in admiring
a very fine Raphael placed over a
sideboard covered with plate. His
eminence came in softly, lightly, and
silently as a shadow, and surprised the
countenance of the comte, as he was
accustomed to do, pretending to divine
by the simple expression of the face of
his interlocutor what would be the
result of the conversation.

But this time Mazarin was foiled in his
expectation: he read nothing upon the
face of Athos, not even the respect he
was accustomed to see on all faces.
Athos was dressed in black, with a
simple lacing of silver. He wore the
Holy Ghost, the Garter, and the Golden
Fleece, three orders of such importance,
that a king alone, or else a player,
could wear them at once.

Mazarin rummaged a long time in his
somewhat troubled memory to recall the
name he ought to give to this icy
figure, but he did not succeed. "I am
told," said he, at length, "you have a
message from England for me."

And he sat down, dismissing Bernouin,
who, in his quality of secretary, was
getting his pen ready.

"On the part of his majesty, the king of
England, yes, your eminence."

"You speak very good French for an
Englishman monsieur," said Mazarin,
graciously, looking through his fingers
at the Holy Ghost, Garter, and Golden
Fleece, but more particularly at the
face of the messenger.

"I am not an Englishman, but a
Frenchman, monsieur le cardinal,"
replied Athos.

"It is remarkable that the king of
England should choose a Frenchman for
his ambassador; it is an excellent
augury. Your name, monsieur, if you
please."

"Comte de la Fere," replied Athos,
bowing more slightly than the ceremonial
and pride of the all-powerful minister
required.

Mazarin bent his shoulders, as if to
say: --

"I do not know that name."

Athos did not alter his carriage.

"And you come, monsieur," continued
Mazarin, "to tell me ---- "

"I come on the part of his majesty the
king of Great Britain to announce to the
king of France" -- Mazarin frowned --
"to announce to the king of France,"
continued Athos, imperturbably, "the
happy restoration of his majesty Charles
II. to the throne of his ancestors."

This shade did not escape his cunning
eminence. Mazarin was too much
accustomed to mankind, not to see in the
cold and almost haughty politeness of
Athos, an index of hostility, which was
not of the temperature of that hot-house
called a court.

"You have powers. I suppose?" asked
Mazarin, in a short, querulous tone.

"Yes, monseigneur." And the word
"monseigneur" came so painfully from the
lips of Athos that it might be said it
skinned them.

Athos took from an embroidered velvet
bag which he carried under his doublet a
dispatch. The cardinal held out his hand
for it. "Your pardon, monseigneur," said
Athos. "My dispatch is for the king."

"Since you are a Frenchman, monsieur,
you ought to know the position of a
prime minister at the court of France."

"There was a time," replied Athos, "when
I occupied myself with the importance of
prime ministers, but I have formed, long
ago, a resolution to treat no longer
with any but the king."

"Then, monsieur," said Mazarin, who
began to be irritated, "you will neither
see the minister nor the king."

Mazarin rose. Athos replaced his
dispatch in its bag, bowed gravely, and
made several steps towards the door.
This coolness exasperated Mazarin. "What
strange diplomatic proceedings are
these!" cried he. "Have we returned to
the times when Cromwell sent us bullies
in the guise of charges d'affaires? You
want nothing monsieur, but the steel cap
on your head, and a Bible at your
girdle."

"Monsieur," said Athos, dryly, "I have
never had, as you have, the advantage of
treating with Cromwell; and I have only
seen his charges d'affaires sword in
hand, I am therefore ignorant of how he
treated with prime ministers. As for the
king of England, Charles II., I know
that when he writes to his majesty King
Louis XIV., he does not write to his
eminence the Cardinal Mazarin. I see no
diplomacy in that distinction."

"Ah!" cried Mazarin, raising his
attenuated hand and striking his head,
"I remember now!" Athos looked at him in
astonishment. "Yes, that is it!" said
the cardinal, continuing to look at his
interlocutor; "yes, that is certainly
it. I know you now, monsieur. Ah!
diavolo! I am no longer astonished."

"In fact, I was astonished that, with
your eminence's excellent memory,"
replied Athos, smiling, "you had not
recognized me before."

"Always refractory and grumbling --
monsieur -- monsieur -- What do they
call you? Stop -- a name of a river --
Potamos; no -- the name of an island --
Naxos; no, per Giove! -- the name of a
mountain -- Athos! now I have it.
Delighted to see you again, and to be no
longer at Rueil, where you and your
damned companions made me pay ransom.
Fronde! still Fronde! accursed Fronde!
Oh, what grudges! Why, monsieur, have
your antipathies survived mine? If any
one had cause to complain, I think it
could not be you, who got out of the
affair not only in a sound skin, but
with the cordon of the Holy Ghost around
your neck."

"My lord cardinal," replied Athos,
"permit me not to enter into
considerations of that kind. I have a
mission to fulfill. Will you facilitate
the means of my fulfilling that mission,
or will you not?"

"I am astonished," said Mazarin, --
quite delighted at having recovered his
memory, and bristling with malice -- "I
am astonished, Monsieur -- Athos -- that
a Frondeur like you should have accepted
a mission for the Mazarin, as used to be
said in the good old times ---- " And
Mazarin began to laugh, in spite of a
painful cough, which cut short his
sentences, converting them into sobs.

"I have only accepted the mission near
the king of France, monsieur le
cardinal," retorted the comte, though
with less asperity, for he thought he
had sufficiently the advantage to show
himself moderate.

"And yet, Monsieur le Frondeur," said
Mazarin gayly, "the affair which you
have taken in charge must, from the
king ---- "

"With which I have been given in charge,
monseigneur. I do not run after
affairs."

"Be it so. I say that this negotiation
must pass through my hands. Let us lose
no precious time, then. Tell me the
conditions."

"I have had the honor of assuring your
eminence that only the letter of his
majesty King Charles II. contains the
revelation of his wishes."

"Pooh! you are ridiculous with your
obstinacy, Monsieur Athos. It is plain
you have kept company with the Puritans
yonder. As to your secret, I know it
better than you do; and you have done
wrongly, perhaps, in not having shown
some respect for a very old and
suffering man, who has labored much
during his life, and kept the field for
his ideas as bravely as you have for
yours. You will not communicate your
letter to me? You will say nothing to
me? Very well! Come with me into my
chamber; you shall speak to the king --
and before the king. -- Now, then, one
last word: who gave you the Fleece? I
remember you passed for having the
Garter; but as to the Fleece, I do not
know ---- "

"Recently, my lord, Spain, on the
occasion of the marriage of his majesty
Louis XIV., sent King Charles II. a
brevet of the Fleece in blank, Charles
II. immediately transmitted it to me,
filling up the blank with my name."

Mazarin arose, and leaning on the arm of
Bernouin, he returned to his ruelle at
the moment the name of M. le Prince was
being announced. The Prince de Conde,
the first prince of the blood, the
conqueror of Rocroy, Lens and
Nordlingen, was, in fact, entering the
apartment of Monseigneur de Mazarin,
followed by his gentlemen, and had
already saluted the king, when the prime
minister raised his curtain. Athos had
time to see Raoul pressing the hand of
the Comte de Guiche, and send him a
smile in return for his respectful bow.
He had time, likewise, to see the
radiant countenance of the cardinal,
when he perceived before him, upon the
table, an enormous heap of gold, which
the Comte de Guiche had won in a run of
luck, after his eminence had confided
his cards to him. So forgetting
ambassador, embassy and prince, his
first thought was of the gold. "What!"
cried the old man -- "all that -- won?"

"Some fifty thousand crowns; yes,
monseigneur!" replied the Comte de
Guiche, rising. "Must I give up my place
to your eminence, or shall I continue?"

"Give up! give up! you are mad. You
would lose all you have won. Peste!"

"My lord!" said the Prince de Conde,
bowing.

"Good-evening, monsieur le prince," said
the minister, in a careless tone; "it is
very kind of you to visit an old sick
friend."

"A friend!" murmured the Comte de la
Fere, at witnessing with stupor this
monstrous alliance of words; --
"friends! when the parties are Conde and
Mazarin!"

Mazarin seemed to divine the thought of
the Frondeur, for he smiled upon him
with triumph, and immediately, --
"Sire," said he to the king, "I have the
honor of presenting to your majesty,
Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, ambassador
from his Britannic majesty. An affair of
state, gentlemen," added he, waving his
hand to all who filled the chamber, and
who, the Prince de Conde at their head,
all disappeared at the simple gesture.
Raoul, after a last look cast at the
comte, followed M. de Conde. Philip of
Anjou and the queen appeared to be
consulting about departing.

"A family affair," said Mazarin,
suddenly, detaining them in their seats.
"This gentleman is the bearer of a
letter in which King Charles II.,
completely restored to his throne,
demands an alliance between Monsieur,
the brother of the king, and
Mademoiselle Henrietta, grand-daughter
of Henry IV. Will you remit your letter
of credit to the king, monsieur le
comte?"

Athos remained for a minute stupefied.
How could the minister possibly know the
contents of the letter which had never
been out of his keeping for a single
instant? Nevertheless, always master of
himself, he held out the dispatch to the
young king, Louis XIV., who took it with
a blush. A solemn silence reigned in the
cardinal's chamber. It was only troubled
by the dull sound of the gold, which
Mazarin with his yellow dry hand, piled
up in a casket, whilst the king was
reading.




CHAPTER 41

The Recital



The maliciousness of the cardinal did
not leave much for the ambassador to
say; nevertheless, the word
"restoration" had struck the king, who,
addressing the comte, upon whom his eyes
had been fixed since his entrance, --
"Monsieur," said he, "will you have the
kindness to give us some details
concerning the affairs of England. You
come from that country, you are a
Frenchman, and the orders which I see
glittering upon your person announce you
to be a man of merit as well as a man of
quality."

"Monsieur," said the cardinal, turning
towards the queen-mother, "is an ancient
servant of your majesty's, Monsieur le
Comte de la Fere."

Anne of Austria was as oblivious as a
queen whose life had been mingled with
fine and stormy days. She looked at
Mazarin, whose evil smile promised her
something disagreeable; then she
solicited from Athos, by another look,
an explanation.

"Monsieur," continued the cardinal, "was
a Treville musketeer, in the service of
the late king. Monsieur is well
acquainted with England, whither he has
made several voyages at various periods;
he is a subject of the highest merit.

These words made allusion to all the
memories which Anne of Austria trembled
to evoke. England, that was her hatred
of Richelieu and her love for
Buckingham; a Treville musketeer, that
was the whole Odyssey of the triumphs
which had made the heart of the young
woman throb, and of the dangers which
had been so near overturning the throne
of the young queen. These words had much
power, for they rendered mute and
attentive all the royal personages, who,
with very various sentiments, set about
recomposing at the same time the
mysteries which the young had not seen,
and which the old had believed to be
forever effaced.

"Speak, monsieur," said Louis XIV., the
first to escape from troubles,
suspicions, and remembrances.

"Yes, speak," added Mazarin, to whom the
little malicious thrust directed against
Anne of Austria had restored energy and
gayety.

"Sire," said the comte, "a sort of
miracle has changed the whole destiny of
Charles II. That which men, till that
time, had been unable to do, God
resolved to accomplish."

Mazarin coughed while tossing about in
his bed.

"King Charles II.," continued Athos,
"left the Hague neither as a fugitive
nor a conqueror, but as an absolute
king, who, after a distant voyage from
his kingdom, returns amidst universal
benedictions."

"A great miracle, indeed," said Mazarin;
"for, if the news was true, King Charles
II., who has just returned amidst
benedictions, went away amidst
musket-shots."

The king remained impassible. Philip,
younger and more frivolous, could not
repress a smile, which flattered Mazarin
as an applause of his pleasantry.

"It is plain," said the king, "there is
a miracle; but God, who does so much for
kings, monsieur le comte, nevertheless
employs the hand of man to bring about
the triumph of His designs. To what men
does Charles II. principally owe his
re-establishment?"

"Why," interrupted Mazarin, without any
regard for the king's pride -- "does not
your majesty know that it is to M.
Monk?"

"I ought to know it," replied Louis
XIV., resolutely; "and yet I ask my lord
ambassador the causes of the change in
this General Monk?"

"And your majesty touches precisely the
question," replied Athos, "for without
the miracle of which I have had the
honor to speak, General Monk would
probably have remained an implacable
enemy of Charles II. God willed that a
strange, bold, and ingenious idea should
enter into the mind of a certain man,
whilst a devoted and courageous idea
took possession of the mind of another
man. The combinations of these two ideas
brought about such a change in the
position of M. Monk, that, from an
inveterate enemy, he became a friend to
the deposed king."

"These are exactly the details I asked
for," said the king. "Who and what are
the two men of whom you speak?"

"Two Frenchmen, sire."

"Indeed! I am glad of that."

"And the two ideas," said Mazarin; -- "I
am more curious about ideas than about
men, for my part."

"Yes," murmured the king.

"The second idea, the devoted,
reasonable idea -- the least important,
sir -- was to go and dig up a million in
gold, buried by King Charles I. at
Newcastle, and to purchase with that
gold the adherence of Monk."

"Oh, oh!" said Mazarin, reanimated by
the word million. "But Newcastle was at
the time occupied by Monk."

"Yes, monsieur le cardinal, and that is
why I venture to call the idea
courageous as well as devoted. It was
necessary, if Monk refused the offers of
the negotiator, to reinstate King
Charles II. in possession of this
million, which was to be torn, as it
were, from the loyalty and not the
royalism of General Monk. This was
effected in spite of many difficulties:
the general proved to be loyal, and
allowed the money to be taken away."

"It seems to me," said the timid,
thoughtful king, "that Charles II. could
not have known of this million whilst he
was in Paris."

"It seems to me," rejoined the cardinal,
maliciously, "that his majesty the king
of Great Britain knew perfectly well of
this million, but that he preferred
having two millions to having one."

"Sire," said Athos, firmly, "the king of
England, whilst in France, was so poor
that he had not even money to take the
post; so destitute of hope that he
frequently thought of dying. He was so
entirely ignorant of the existence of
the million at Newcastle, that but for a
gentleman -- one of your majesty's
subjects -- the moral depositary of the
million, who revealed the secret to King
Charles II., that prince would still be
vegetating in the most cruel
forgetfulness."

"Let us pass on to the strange, bold and
ingenious idea," interrupted Mazarin,
whose sagacity foresaw a check. "What
was that idea?"

"This -- M. Monk formed the only
obstacle to the re-establishment of the
fallen king. A Frenchman imagined the
idea of suppressing this obstacle."

"Oh! oh! but he is a scoundrel, that
Frenchman," said Mazarin, "and the idea
is not so ingenious as to prevent its
author being tied up by the neck at the
Place de Greve, by decree of the
parliament."

"Your eminence is mistaken," replied
Athos, dryly; "I did not say that the
Frenchman in question had resolved to
assassinate M. Monk, but only to
suppress him. The words of the French
language have a value which the
gentlemen of France know perfectly.
Besides, this is an affair of war; and
when men serve kings against their
enemies they are not to be condemned by
a parliament -- God is their judge. This
French gentleman, then, formed the idea
of gaining possession of the person of
Monk, and he executed his plan."

The king became animated at the recital
of great actions. The king's younger
brother struck the table with his hand,
exclaiming, "Ah! that is fine!"

"He carried off Monk?" said the king.
"Why, Monk was in his camp."

"And the gentleman was alone, sire."

"That is marvelous!" said Philip.

"Marvelous, indeed!" cried the king.

"Good! There are the two little lions
unchained," murmured the cardinal. And
with an air of spite, which he did not
dissemble: "I am unacquainted with these
details, will you guarantee their
authenticity, monsieur?"

"All the more easily, my lord cardinal,
from having seen the events."

"You have?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

The king had involuntarily drawn close
to the count, the Duc d'Anjou had turned
sharply round, and pressed Athos on the
other side.

"What next? monsieur, what next?" cried
they both at the same time.

"Sire, M. Monk, being taken by the
Frenchman, was brought to King Charles
II., at the Hague. The king gave back
his freedom to Monk, and the grateful
general, in return, gave Charles II. the
throne of Great Britain, for which so
many valiant men had fought in vain."

Philip clapped his hands with
enthusiasm; Louis XIV., more reflective,
turned towards the Comte de la Fere.

"Is this true," said he, "in all its
details?"

"Absolutely true, sire."

"That one of my gentlemen knew the
secret of the million, and kept it?"

"Yes, sire."

"The name of that gentleman?"

"It was your humble servant," said
Athos, simply, and bowing.

A murmur of admiration made the heart of
Athos swell with pleasure. He had reason
to be proud, at least. Mazarin, himself,
had raised his arms towards heaven.

"Monsieur," said the king, "I shall
seek, and find means to reward you."
Athos made a movement. "Oh, not for your
honesty, to be paid for that would
humiliate you, but I owe you a reward
for having participated in the
restoration of my brother, King Charles
II."

"Certainly," said Mazarin.

"It is the triumph of a good cause which
fills the whole house of France with
joy," said Anne of Austria.

"I continue," said Louis XIV. "Is it
also true that a single man penetrated
to Monk, in his camp, and carried him
off?"

"That man had ten auxiliaries, taken
from a very inferior rank."

"And nothing but them?"

"Nothing more."

"And he is named?"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan, formerly
lieutenant of the musketeers of your
majesty."

Anne of Austria colored; Mazarin became
yellow with shame; Louis XIV. was deeply
thoughtful, and a drop of moisture fell
from his pale brow. "What men!" murmured
he. And, involuntarily, he darted a
glance at the minister which would have
terrified him, if Mazarin, at the
moment, had not concealed his head under
his pillow.

"Monsieur," said the young Duc d'Anjou,
placing his hand, delicate and white as
that of a woman, upon the arm of Athos,
"tell that brave man, I beg you, that
Monsieur, brother of the king, will
to-morrow drink his health before five
hundred of the best gentlemen of
France." And, on finishing these words,
the young man, perceiving that his
enthusiasm had deranged one of his
ruffles, set to work to put it to rights
with the greatest care imaginable.

"Let us resume business, sire,"
interrupted Mazarin who never was
enthusiastic, and who wore no ruffles.

"Yes, monsieur," replied Louis XIV.
"Pursue your communication, monsieur le
comte," added he, turning towards Athos.

Athos immediately began and offered in
due form the hand of the Princess
Henrietta Stuart to the young prince,
the king's brother. The conference
lasted an hour; after which the doors of
the chamber were thrown open to the
courtiers, who resumed their places as
if nothing had been kept from them in
the occupations of that evening. Athos
then found himself again with Raoul, and
the father and son were able to clasp
each other's hands.




CHAPTER 42

In which Mazarin becomes Prodigal



Whilst Mazarin was endeavoring to
recover from the serious alarm he had
just experienced, Athos and Raoul were
exchanging a few words in a corner of
the apartment. "Well, here you are at
Paris, then, Raoul?" said the comte.

"Yes, monsieur, since the return of M.
le Prince."

"I cannot converse freely with you here,
because we are observed; but I shall
return home presently, and shall expect
you as soon as your duty permits."

Raoul bowed, and, at that moment, M. le
Prince came up to them. The prince had
that clear and keen look which
distinguishes birds of prey of the noble
species; his physiognomy itself
presented several distinct traits of
this resemblance. It is known that in
the Prince de Conde, the aquiline nose
rose out sharply and incisively from a
brow slightly retreating, rather low
than high, and according to the railers
of the court, -- a pitiless race even
for genius, -- constituted rather an
eagle's beak than a human nose, in the
heir of the illustrious princes of the
house of Conde. This penetrating look,
this imperious expression of the whole
countenance generally disturbed those to
whom the prince spoke, more than either
majesty or regular beauty could have
done in the conqueror of Rocroy. Besides
this, the fire mounted so suddenly to
his projecting eyes, that with the
prince every sort of animation resembled
passion. Now, on account of his rank,
everybody at the court respected M. le
Prince, and many even, seeing only the
man, carried their respect as far as
terror.

Louis de Conde then advanced towards the
Comte de la Fere and Raoul, with the
marked intention of being saluted by the
one, and of speaking to the other. No
man bowed with more reserved grace than
the Comte de la Fere. He disdained to
put into a salutation all the shades
which a courtier ordinarily borrows from
the same color -- the desire to please.
Athos knew his own personal value, and
bowed to the prince like a man,
correcting by something sympathetic and
undefinable that which might have
appeared offensive to the pride of the
highest rank in the inflexibility of his
attitude. The prince was about to speak
to Raoul. Athos forestalled him. "If M.
le Vicomte de Bragelonne," said he,
"were not one of the humble servants of
your royal highness, I would beg him to
pronounce my name before you -- mon
prince."

"I have the honor to address Monsieur le
Comte de la Fere," said Conde instantly.

"My protector," added Raoul, blushing.

"One of the most honorable men in the
kingdom," continued the prince; "one of
the first gentlemen of France, and of
whom I have heard so much that I have
frequently desired to number him among
my friends."

"An honour of which I should be
unworthy," replied Athos, "but for the
respect and admiration I entertain for
your royal highness."

"Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the
prince, "is a good officer, and it is
plainly seen that he has been to a good
school. Ah, monsieur le comte, in your
time, generals had soldiers!"

"That is true, my lord, but nowadays
soldiers have generals."

This compliment, which savored so little
of flattery, gave a thrill of joy to the
man whom already Europe considered a
hero; and who might be thought to be
satiated with praise.

"I regret very much," continued the
prince, "that you should have retired
from the service, monsieur le comte, for
it is more than probable that the king
will soon have a war with Holland or
England, and opportunities for
distinguishing himself would not be
wanting for a man who, like you, knows
Great Britain as well as you do France."

"I believe I may say, monseigneur, that
I have acted wisely in retiring from the
service," said Athos, smiling. "France
and Great Britain will henceforward live
like two sisters, if I can trust my
presentiments."

"Your presentiments?"

"Stop, monseigneur, listen to what is
being said yonder, at the table of my
lord the cardinal."

"Where they are playing?"

"Yes, my lord."

The cardinal had just raised himself on
one elbow, and made a sign to the king's
brother, who went to him.

"My lord," said the cardinal, "pick up,
if you please, all those gold crowns."
And he pointed to the enormous pile of
yellow and glittering pieces which the
Comte de Guiche had raised by degrees
before him by a surprising run of luck
at play.

"For me?" cried the Duc d'Anjou.

"Those fifty thousand crowns; yes,
monseigneur, they are yours."

"Do you give them to me?"

"I have been playing on your account,
monseigneur," replied the cardinal,
getting weaker and weaker, as if this
effort of giving money had exhausted all
his physical and moral faculties.

"Oh, good heavens!" exclaimed Philip,
wild with joy, "what a fortunate day!"
And he himself, making a rake of his
fingers, drew a part of the sum into his
pockets, which he filled, and still full
a third remained on the table.

"Chevalier," said Philip to his
favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine,
"come hither, chevalier." The favorite
quickly obeyed. "Pocket the rest," said
the young prince.

This singular scene was considered by
the persons present only as a touching
kind of family fete. The cardinal
assumed the airs of a father with the
sons of France, and the two young
princes had grown up under his wing. No
one then imputed to pride, or even
impertinence, as would be done nowadays,
this liberality on the part of the first
minister. The courtiers were satisfied
with envying the prince. -- The king
turned away his head.

"I never had so much money before," said
the young prince, joyously, as he
crossed the chamber with his favorite to
go to his carriage. "No, never! What a
weight these crowns are!"

"But why has monsieur le cardinal given
all this money at once?" asked M. le
Prince of the Comte de la Fere. "He must
be very ill, the dear cardinal!"

"Yes, my lord, very ill; without doubt;
he looks very ill, as your royal
highness may perceive."

"But surely he will die of it. A hundred
and fifty thousand crowns! Oh, it is
incredible! But, comte tell me a reason
for it?"

"Patience, monseigneur, I beg of you.
Here comes M. le Duc d'Anjou, talking
with the Chevalier de Lorraine; I should
not be surprised if they spared us the
trouble of being indiscreet. Listen to
them."

In fact the chevalier said to the prince
in a low voice, "My lord, it is not
natural for M. Mazarin to give you so
much money. Take care! you will let some
of the pieces fall, my lord. What design
has the cardinal upon you to make him so
generous?"

"As I said," whispered Athos in the
prince's ear; "that, perhaps, is the
best reply to your question."

"Tell me, my lord," repeated the
chevalier impatiently, as he was
calculating, by weighing them in his
pocket, the quota of the sum which had
fallen to his share by rebound.

"My dear chevalier, a wedding present."

"How a wedding present?"

"Eh! yes, I am going to be married,"
replied the Duc d'Anjou, without
perceiving, at the moment, he was
passing the prince and Athos, who both
bowed respectfully.

The chevalier darted at the young duke a
glance so strange, and so malicious,
that the Comte de la Fere quite started
on beholding it.

"You! you to be married!" repeated he;
"oh! that's impossible. You would not
commit such a folly!"

"Bah! I don't do it myself; I am made to
do it," replied the Duc d'Anjou. "But
come, quick! let us get rid of our
money." Thereupon he disappeared with
his companion, laughing and talking,
whilst all heads were bowed on his
passage.

"Then," whispered the prince to Athos,
"that is the secret."

"It was not I that told you so, my
lord."

"He is to marry the sister of Charles
II.?"

"I believe so."

The prince reflected for a moment, and
his eye shot forth one of its not
unfrequent flashes. "Humph!" said he
slowly, as if speaking to himself; "our
swords are once more to be hung on the
wall -- for a long time!" and he sighed.

All that sigh contained of ambition
silently stifled, of extinguished
illusions and disappointed hopes, Athos
alone divined, for he alone had heard
that sigh. Immediately after, the prince
took leave and the king left the
apartment. Athos, by a sign made to
Bragelonne, renewed the desire he had
expressed at the beginning of the scene.
By degrees the chamber was deserted, and
Mazarin was left alone, a prey to
suffering which he could no longer
dissemble. "Bernouin! Bernouin!" cried
he, in a broken voice.

"What does monseigneur want?"

"Guenaud -- let Guenaud be sent for,"
said his eminence. "I think I'm dying."

Bernouin, in great terror, rushed into
the cabinet to give the order, and the
piqueur, who hastened to fetch the
physician, passed the king's carriage in
the Rue Saint Honore.




CHAPTER 43

Guenaud



The cardinal's order was pressing;
Guenaud quickly obeyed it. He found his
patient stretched on his bed, his legs
swelled, his face livid, and his stomach
collapsed. Mazarin had a severe attack
of gout. He suffered tortures with the
impatience of a man who has not been
accustomed to resistances. On seeing
Guenaud: "Ah!" said he; "now I am
saved!"

Guenaud was a very learned and
circumspect man, who stood in no need of
the critiques of Boileau to obtain a
reputation. When facing a disease, if it
were personified in a king, he treated
the patient as a Turk treats a Moor. He
did not, therefore, reply to Mazarin as
the minister expected: "Here is the
doctor; good-bye disease!" On the
contrary, on examining his patient, with
a very serious air:

"Oh! oh!" said he.

"Eh! what! Guenaud! How you look at me!"

"I look as I should on seeing your
complaint, my lord; it is a very
dangerous one."

"The gout -- oh! yes, the gout."

"With complications, my lord"

Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow,
and, questioning by look and gesture:
"What do you mean by that? Am I worse
than I believe myself to be?"

"My lord," said Guenaud, seating himself
beside the bed, "your eminence has
worked very hard during your life; your
eminence has suffered much."

"But I am not old, I fancy. The late M.
de Richelieu was but seventeen months
younger than I am when he died, and died
of a mortal disease. I am young,
Guenaud: remember, I am scarcely
fifty-two."

"Oh! my lord, you are much more than
that. How long did the Fronde last?"

"For what purpose do you put such a
question to me?"

"For a medical calculation,
monseigneur."

"Well, some ten years -- off and on."

"Very well, be kind enough to reckon
every year of the Fronde as three
years -- that makes thirty; now twenty
and fifty-two makes seventy-two years.
You are seventy-two, my lord; and that
is a great age."

Whilst saying this, he felt the pulse of
his patient. This pulse was full of such
fatal indications, that the physician
continued, notwithstanding the
interruptions of the patient: "Put down
the years of the Fronde at four each,
and you have lived eighty-two years."

"Are you speaking seriously, Guenaud?"

"Alas! yes, monseigneur."

"You take a roundabout way, then, to
inform me that I am very ill?"

"Ma foi! yes, my lord, and with a man of
the mind and courage of your eminence,
it ought not to be necessary to do."

The cardinal breathed with such
difficulty that he inspired pity even in
a pitiless physician. "There are
diseases and diseases," resumed Mazarin.
"From some of them people escape."

"That is true, my lord."

"Is it not?" cried Mazarin, almost
joyously; "for, in short, what else
would be the use of power, of strength
of will? What would the use of genius
be -- your genius, Guenaud? What would
be the use of science and art, if the
patient, who disposes of all that,
cannot be saved from peril?"

Guenaud was about to open his mouth, but
Mazarin continued:

"Remember," said he, "I am the most
confiding of your patients; remember I
obey you blindly, and that
consequently ---- "

"I know all that," said Guenaud.

"I shall be cured, then?"

"Monseigneur, there is neither strength
of will, nor power, nor genius, nor
science that can resist a disease which
God doubtless sends, or which He casts
upon the earth at the creation, with
full power to destroy and kill mankind.
When the disease is mortal, it kills,
and nothing can ---- "

"Is -- my -- disease -- mortal?" asked
Mazarin.

"Yes, my lord."

His eminence sank down for a moment,
like an unfortunate wretch who is
crushed by a falling column. But the
spirit of Mazarin was a strong one, or
rather his mind was a firm one.
"Guenaud," said he, recovering from his
first shock, "you will permit me to
appeal from your judgment. I will call
together the most learned men of Europe:
I will consult them. I will live, in
short, by the virtue of I care not what
remedy."

"My lord must not suppose," said
Guenaud, "that I have the presumption to
pronounce alone upon an existence so
valuable as yours. I have already
assembled all the good physicians and
practitioners of France and Europe.
There were twelve of them."

"And they said ---- "

"They said that your eminence was
suffering from a mortal disease; I have
the consultation signed in my portfolio.
If your eminence will please to see it,
you will find the names of all the
incurable diseases we have met with.
There is first ---- "

"No, no!" cried Mazarin, pushing away
the paper. "No, no, Guenaud, I yield! I
yield!" And a profound silence, during
which the cardinal resumed his senses
and recovered his strength, succeeded to
the agitation of this scene. "There is
another thing," murmured Mazarin; "there
are empirics and charlatans. In my
country, those whom physicians abandon
run the chance of a quack, who kills
them ten times but saves them a hundred
times."

"Has not your eminence observed, that
during the last month I have changed my
remedies ten times?"

"Yes. Well?"

"Well, I have spent fifty thousand
crowns in purchasing the secrets of all
these fellows: the list is exhausted,
and so is my purse. You are not cured;
and but for my art, you would be dead."

"That ends it!" murmured the cardinal;
"that ends it." And he threw a
melancholy look upon the riches which
surrounded him. "And must I quit all
that?" sighed he. "I am dying, Guenaud!
I am dying!"

"Oh! not yet, my lord," said the
physician.

Mazarin seized his hand. "In what time?"
asked he, fixing his two large eyes upon
the impassible countenance of the
physician.

"My lord, we never tell that."

"To ordinary men, perhaps not; -- but to
me -- to me, whose every minute is worth
a treasure. Tell me, Guenaud, tell me!"

"No, no, my lord."

"I insist upon it, I tell you. Oh! give
me a month and for every one of those
thirty days I will pay you a hundred
thousand crowns."

"My lord," replied Guenaud, in a firm
voice, "it is God who can give you days
of grace, and not I. God only allows you
a fortnight."

The cardinal breathed a painful sigh,
and sank back upon his pillow,
murmuring, "Thank you, Guenaud, thank
you!"

The physician was about to depart; the
dying man, raising himself up:
"Silence!" said he, with flaming eyes,
"silence!"

"My lord, I have known this secret two
months; you see that I have kept it
faithfully."

"Go, Guenaud, I will take care of your
fortunes, go and tell Brienne to send me
a clerk called M. Colbert. Go!"




CHAPTER 44

Colbert



Colbert was not far off. During the
whole evening he had remained in one of
the corridors, chatting with Bernouin
and Brienne, and commenting, with the
ordinary skill of people of a court,
upon the news which developed like
air-bubbles upon the water, on the
surface of each event. It is doubtless
time to trace, in a few words, one of
the most interesting portraits of the
age, and to trace it with as much truth,
perhaps, as contemporary painters have
been able to do. Colbert was a man in
whom the historian and the moralist have
an equal right.

He was thirteen years older than Louis
XIV., his future master. Of middle
height, rather lean than otherwise, he
had deep-set eyes, a mean appearance,
his hair was coarse, black and thin,
which, say the biographers of his time,
made him take early to the skull-cap. A
look of severity, or harshness even, a
sort of stiffness, which, with
inferiors, was pride, with superiors an
affectation of superior virtue; a surly
cast of countenance upon all occasions,
even when looking at himself in a glass
alone -- such is the exterior of this
personage. As to the moral part of his
character, the depth of his talent for
accounts, and his ingenuity in making
sterility itself productive, were much
boasted of. Colbert had formed the idea
of forcing governors of frontier places
to feed the garrisons without pay, with
what they drew from contributions. Such
a valuable quality made Mazarin think of
replacing Joubert, his intendant, who
had recently died, by M. Colbert, who
had such skill in nibbling down
allowances. Colbert by degrees crept
into court, notwithstanding his lowly
birth, for he was the son of a man who
sold wine as his father had done, but
who afterwards sold cloth, and then silk
stuffs. Colbert, destined for trade, had
been clerk in Lyons to a merchant, whom
he had quitted to come to Paris in the
office of a Chatelet procureur named
Biterne. It was here he learned the art
of drawing up an account, and the much
more valuable one of complicating it.

This stiffness of manner in Colbert had
been of great service to him; it is so
true that Fortune, when she has a
caprice, resembles those women of
antiquity, who, when they had a fancy,
were disgusted by no physical or moral
defects in either men or things.
Colbert, placed with Michel Letellier,
secretary of state in 1648, by his
cousin Colbert, Seigneur de
Saint-Penange, who protected him,
received one day from the minister a
commission for Cardinal Mazarin. His
eminence was then in the enjoyment of
flourishing health, and the bad years of
the Fronde had not yet counted triple
and quadruple for him. He was at Sedan,
very much annoyed at a court intrigue in
which Anne of Austria seemed inclined to
desert his cause.

Of this intrigue Letellier held the
thread. He had just received a letter
from Anne of Austria, a letter very
valuable to him, and strongly
compromising Mazarin; but, as he already
played the double part which served him
so well, and by which he always managed
two enemies so as to draw advantage from
both, either by embroiling them more and
more or by reconciling them, Michel
Letellier wished to send Anne of
Austria's letter to Mazarin, in order
that he might be acquainted with it, and
consequently pleased with his having so
willingly rendered him a service. To
send the letter was an easy matter; to
recover it again, after having
communicated it, that was the
difficulty. Letellier cast his eyes
around him, and seeing the black and
meager clerk with the scowling brow,
scribbling away in his office, he
preferred him to the best gendarme for
the execution of this design.

Colbert was commanded to set out for
Sedan, with positive orders to carry the
letter to Mazarin, and bring it back to
Letellier. He listened to his orders
with scrupulous attention, required the
instructions to be repeated twice, and
was particular in learning whether the
bringing back was as necessary as the
communicating, and Letellier replied
sternly, "More necessary." Then he set
out, traveled like a courier, without
any care for his body, and placed in the
hands of Mazarin, first a letter from
Letellier, which announced to the
cardinal the sending of the precious
letter, and then that letter itself.
Mazarin colored greatly whilst reading
Anne of Austria's letter, gave Colbert a
gracious smile and dismissed him.

"When shall I have the answer,
monseigneur?"

"To-morrow."

"To-morrow morning?"

"Yes, monsieur."

The clerk turned upon his heel, after
making his very best bow. The next day
he was at his post at seven o'clock.
Mazarin made him wait till ten. He
remained patiently in the ante-chamber;
his turn having come, he entered;
Mazarin gave him a sealed packet. On the
envelope of this packet were these
words: -- Monsieur Michel Letellier,
etc. Colbert looked at the packet with
much attention; the cardinal put on a
pleasant countenance and pushed him
towards the door.

"And the letter of the queen-mother, my
lord?" asked Colbert.

"It is with the rest, in the packet,"
said Mazarin.

"Oh! very well," replied Colbert, and
placing his hat between his knees, he
began to unseal the packet.

Mazarin uttered a cry. "What are you
doing?" said he, angrily.

"I am unsealing the packet, my lord."

"You mistrust me, then, master pedant,
do you? Did any one ever see such
impertinence?"

"Oh! my lord, do not be angry with me!
It is certainly not your eminence's word
I place in doubt, God forbid!"

"What then?"

"It is the carefulness of your chancery,
my lord. What is a letter? A rag. May
not a rag be forgotten? And look, my
lord, look if I was not right. Your
clerks have forgotten the rag; the
letter is not in the packet."

"You are an insolent fellow, and you
have not looked," cried Mazarin, very
angrily, "begone and wait my pleasure."
Whilst saying these words, with
perfectly Italian subtlety he snatched
the packet from the hands of Colbert,
and re-entered his apartments.

But this anger could not last so long as
not to be replaced in time by reason.
Mazarin, every morning, on opening his
closet door, found the figure of Colbert
like a sentinel behind the bench, and
this disagreeable figure never failed to
ask him humbly, but with tenacity, for
the queen-mother's letter. Mazarin could
hold out no longer, and was obliged to
give it up. He accompanied this
restitution with a most severe
reprimand, during which Colbert
contented himself with examining,
feeling, even smelling, as it were, the
paper, the characters, and the
signature, neither more nor less than if
he had to deal with the greatest forger
in the kingdom. Mazarin behaved still
more rudely to him, but Colbert, still
impassible, having obtained a certainty
that the letter was the true one, went
off as if he had been deaf. This conduct
obtained for him afterwards the post of
Joubert; for Mazarin, instead of bearing
malice, admired him, and was desirous of
attaching so much fidelity to himself.

It may be judged by this single
anecdote, what the character of Colbert
was. Events, developing themselves, by
degrees allowed all the powers of his
mind to act freely. Colbert was not long
in insinuating himself into the good
graces of the cardinal: he became even
indispensable to him. The clerk was
acquainted with all his accounts without
the cardinal's ever having spoken to him
about them. This secret between them was
a powerful tie, and this was why, when
about to appear before the Master of
another world, Mazarin was desirous of
taking good counsel in disposing of the
wealth he was so unwillingly obliged to
leave in this world. After the visit of
Guenaud, he therefore sent for Colbert,
desired him to sit down. and said to
him: "Let us converse, Monsieur Colbert,
and seriously, for I am very ill, and I
may chance to die."

"Man is mortal," replied Colbert.

"I have always remembered that, M.
Colbert, and I have worked with that end
in view. You know that I have amassed a
little wealth."

"I know you have, monseigneur."

"At how much do you estimate, as near as
you can, the amount of this wealth, M.
Colbert?"

"At forty millions, five hundred and
sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine
cents, eight farthings," replied
Colbert.

The cardinal heaved a deep sigh, and
looked at Colbert with wonder, but he
allowed a smile to steal across his
lips.

"Known money," added Colbert, in reply
to that smile.

The cardinal gave quite a start in bed.
"What do you mean by that?" said he.

"I mean," said Colbert, "that besides
those forty millions, five hundred and
sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine
cents, eight farthings, there are
thirteen millions that are not known."

"Ouf!" sighed Mazarin, "what a man!"

At this moment the head of Bernouin
appeared through the embrasure of the
door.

"What is it?" asked Mazarin, "and why do
you disturb me?"

"The Theatin father, your eminence's
director, was sent for this evening; and
he cannot come again to my lord till
after to-morrow."

Mazarin looked at Colbert, who rose and
took his hat saying: "I shall come
again, my lord."

Mazarin hesitated. "No, no," said he; "I
have as much business to transact with
you as with him. Besides, you are my
other confessor -- and what I have to
say to one the other may hear. Remain
where you are, Colbert."

"But, my lord, if there be no secret of
penitence, will the director consent to
my being here?"

"Do not trouble yourself about that;
come into the ruelle."

"I can wait outside, monseigneur."

"No, no, it will do you good to hear the
confession of a rich man."

Colbert bowed and went into the ruelle.

"Introduce the Theatin father," said
Mazarin, closing the curtains.




CHAPTER 45

Confession of a Man of Wealth



The Theatin entered deliberately,
without being too much astonished at the
noise and agitation which anxiety for
the cardinal's health had raised in his
household. "Come in, my reverend
father," said Mazarin, after a last look
at the ruelle, "come in and console me."

"That is my duty, my lord," replied the
Theatin.

"Begin by sitting down, and making
yourself comfortable, for I am going to
begin with a general confession, you
will afterwards give me a good
absolution, and I shall believe myself
more tranquil."

"My lord," said the father, "you are not
so ill as to make a general confession
urgent -- and it will be very
fatiguing -- take care."

"You suspect then, that it may be long,
father"

"How can I think it otherwise, when a
man has lived so completely as your
eminence has done?"

"Ah! that is true! -- yes -- the recital
may be long."

"The mercy of God is great," snuffled
the Theatin.

"Stop," said Mazarin; "there I begin to
terrify myself with having allowed so
many things to pass which the Lord might
reprove."

"Is not that always so?" said the
Theatin naively, removing further from
the lamp his thin pointed face, like
that of a mole. "Sinners are so
forgetful beforehand, and scrupulous
when it is too late."

"Sinners?" replied Mazarin. "Do you use
that word ironically, and to reproach me
with all the genealogies I have allowed
to be made on my account -- I -- the son
of a fisherman, in fact?"*



*This is quite untranslatable -- it
being a play upon the words pecheur, a
sinner, and pecheur, a fisherman. It is
in very bad taste. -- TRANS.



"Hum!" said the Theatin.

"That is a first sin, father; for I have
allowed myself made to descend from two
old Roman consuls, S. Geganius Macerinus
1st, Macerinus 2d, and Proculus
Macerinus 3d, of whom the Chronicle of
Haolander speaks. From Macerinus to
Mazarin the proximity was tempting.
Macerinus, a diminutive, means leanish,
poorish, out of case. Oh! reverend
father! Mazarini may now be carried to
the augmentative Maigre, thin as
Lazarus. Look! ' and he showed his
fleshless arms.

"In your having been born of a family of
fishermen I see nothing injurious to
you; for -- St. Peter was a fisherman;
and if you are a prince of the church,
my lord, he was the supreme head of it.
Pass on, if you please."

"So much the more for my having
threatened with the Bastile a certain
Bounet, a priest of Avignon, who wanted
to publish a genealogy of the Casa
Mazarini much too marvelous."

"To be probable?" replied the Theatin.

"Oh! if I had acted up to his idea,
father, that would have been the vice of
pride -- another sin."

"It was excess of wit, and a person is
not to be reproached with such sorts of
abuses. Pass on, pass on!"

"I was all pride. Look you, father, I
will endeavor to divide that into
capital sins."

"I like divisions, when well made."

"I am glad of that. You must know that
in 1630 -- alas! that is thirty-one
years ago ---- "

"You were then twenty-nine years old,
monseigneur."

"A hot-headed age. I was then something
of a soldier, and I threw myself at
Casal into the arquebuscades, to show
that I rode on horseback as well as an
officer. It is true, I restored peace
between the French and the Spaniards.
That redeems my sin a little."

"I see no sin in being able to ride well
on horseback," said the Theatin; "that
is in perfect good taste, and does honor
to our gown. As a Christian, I approve
of your having prevented the effusion of
blood; as a monk I am proud of the
bravery a monk has exhibited."

Mazarin bowed his head humbly. "Yes,"
said he, "but the consequences?"

"What consequences?"

"Eh! that damned sin of pride has roots
without end. From the time that I threw
myself in that manner between two
armies, that I had smelt powder and
faced lines of soldiers, I have held
generals a little in contempt."

"Ah!" said the father.

"There is the evil; so that I have not
found one endurable since that time."

"The fact is," said the Theatin, "that
the generals we have had have not been
remarkable."

"Oh!" cried Mazarin, "there was Monsieur
le Prince. I have tormented him
thoroughly."

"He is not much to be pitied: he has
acquired sufficient glory, and
sufficient wealth."

"That may be, for Monsieur le Prince;
but M. Beaufort, for example -- whom I
held suffering so long in the dungeon of
Vincennes?"

"Ah! but he was a rebel, and the safety
of the state required that you should
make a sacrifice. Pass on!"

"I believe I have exhausted pride. There
is another sin which I am afraid to
qualify."

"I can qualify it myself. Tell it."

"A great sin, reverend father!"

"We shall judge, monseigneur."

"You cannot fail to have heard of
certain relations which I have had --
with her majesty the queen-mother; --
the malevolent ---- "

"The malevolent, my lord, are fools. Was
it not necessary for the good of the
state and the interests of the young
king, that you should live in good
intelligence with the queen? Pass on,
pass on!"

"I assure you," said Mazarin, "you
remove a terrible weight from my
breast."

"These are all trifles! -- look for
something serious."

"I have had much ambition, father."

"That is the march of great minds and
things, my lord."

"Even the longing for the tiara?"

"To be pope is to be the first of
Christians. Why should you not desire
that?"

"It has been printed that, to gain that
object, I had sold Cambria to the
Spaniards."

"You have, perhaps, yourself written
pamphlets without severely persecuting
pamphleteers."

"Then, reverend father, I have truly a
clean breast. I feel nothing remaining
but slight peccadilloes."

"What are they?"

"Play."

"That is rather worldly: but you were
obliged by the duties of greatness to
keep a good house."

"I like to win."

"No player plays to lose."

"I cheated a little."

"You took your advantage. Pass on."

"Well! reverend father, I feel nothing
else upon my conscience. Give me
absolution, and my soul will be able,
when God shall please to call it, to
mount without obstacle to the
throne ---- "

The Theatin moved neither his arms nor
his lips. "What are you waiting for,
father?" said Mazarin.

"I am waiting for the end."

"The end of what?"

"Of the confession, monsieur."

"But I have ended."

"Oh, no; your eminence is mistaken."

"Not that I know of."

"Search diligently."

"I have searched as well as possible."

"Then I shall assist your memory."

"Do."

The Theatin coughed several times. "You
have said nothing of avarice, another
capital sin, nor of those millions,"
said he.

"What millions, father?"

"Why, those you possess, my lord."

"Father, that money is mine, why should
I speak to you about that?"

"Because, see you, our opinions differ.
You say that money is yours, whilst I --
I believe it is rather the property of
others."

Mazarin lifted his cold hand to his
brow, which was beaded with
perspiration. "How so?" stammered he.

"This way. Your excellency has gained
much wealth -- in the service of the
king."

"Hum! much -- that is, not too much."

"Whatever it may be, whence came that
wealth?

"From the state."

"The state, that is the king."

"But what do you conclude from that,
father?" said Mazarin, who began to
tremble.

"I cannot conclude without seeing a list
of the riches you possess. Let us reckon
a little, if you please. You have the
bishopric of Metz?"

"Yes."

"The abbeys of St. Clement, St. Arnould,
and St. Vincent, all at Metz?"

"Yes."

"You have the abbey of St. Denis, in
France, a magnificent property?"

"Yes, father."

"You have the abbey of Cluny, which is
rich?"

"I have."

"That of St. Medard at Soissons, with a
revenue of one hundred thousand livres?"

"I cannot deny it."

"That of St. Victor, at Marseilles, --
one of the best in the south?"

"Yes, father."

"A good million a year. With the
emoluments of the cardinalship and the
ministry, I say too little when I say
two millions a year."

"Eh!"

"In ten years that is twenty
millions, -- and twenty millions put out
at fifty per cent give, by progression,
twenty-three millions in ten years."

"How well you reckon for a Theatin!"

"Since your eminence placed our order in
the convent we occupy, near St. Germain
des Pres, in 1641, I have kept the
accounts of the society."

"And mine likewise, apparently, father."

"One ought to know a little of
everything, my lord."

"Very well. Conclude, at present."

"I conclude that your baggage is too
heavy to allow you to pass through the
gates of Paradise."

"Shall I be damned?"

"If you do not make restitution, yes."

Mazarin uttered a piteous cry.
"Restitution! -- but to whom, good God?"

"To the owner of that money, -- to the
king."

"But the king did not give it all to
me."

"One moment, -- does not the king sign
the ordonnances?"

Mazarin passed from sighs to groans.
"Absolution! absolution!" cried he.

"Impossible, my lord. Restitution!
restitution!" replied the Theatin.

"But you absolve me from all other sins,
why not from that?"

"Because," replied the father, "to
absolve you for that motive would be a
sin for which the king would never
absolve me, my lord."

Thereupon the confessor quitted his
penitent with an air full of
compunction. He then went out in the
same manner he had entered.

"Oh, good God!" groaned the cardinal.
"Come here, Colbert, I am very, very ill
indeed, my friend."




CHAPTER 46

The Donation



Colbert reappeared beneath the curtains.

"Have you heard?" said Mazarin.

"Alas! yes, my lord."

"Can he be right? Can all this money be
badly acquired?"

"A Theatin, monseigneur, is a bad judge
in matters of finance," replied Colbert,
coolly. "And yet it is very possible
that, according to his theological
ideas, your eminence has been, in a
certain degree, in the wrong. People
generally find they have been so, --
when they die."

"In the first place, they commit the
wrong of dying, Colbert."

"That is true, my lord. Against whom,
however, did the Theatin make out that
you had committed these wrongs? Against
the king?!"

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders. "As if I
had not saved both his state and his
finances."

"That admits of no contradiction, my
lord."

"Does it? Then I have received a merely
legitimate salary, in spite of the
opinion of my confessor?"

"That is beyond doubt."

"And I might fairly keep for my own
family, which is so needy, a good
fortune, -- the whole, even, of which I
have earned?"

"I see no impediment to that,
monseigneur."

"I felt assured that in consulting you,
Colbert, I should have good advice,"
replied Mazarin, greatly delighted.

Colbert resumed his pedantic look. "My
lord," interrupted he, "I think it would
be quite as well to examine whether what
the Theatin said is not a snare."

"Oh! no; a snare? What for? The Theatin
is an honest man."

"He believed your eminence to be at
death's door, because your eminence
consulted him. Did not I hear him say --
`Distinguish that which the king has
given you from that which you have given
yourself.' Recollect, my lord, if he did
not say something a little like that to
you? -- that is quite a theatrical
speech."

"That is possible."

"In which case, my lord, I should
consider you as required by the Theatin
to ---- "

"To make restitution!" cried Mazarin,
with great warmth.

"Eh! I do not say no."

"What, of all! You do not dream of such
a thing! You speak just as the confessor
did."

"To make restitution of a part, -- that
is to say, his majesty's part; and that,
monseigneur, may have its dangers. Your
eminence is too skillful a politician
not to know that, at this moment, the
king does not possess a hundred and
fifty thousand livres clear in his
coffers."

"That is not my affair," said Mazarin,
triumphantly; "that belongs to M. le
Surintendant Fouquet, whose accounts I
gave you to verify some months ago."

Colbert bit his lips at the name of
Fouquet. "His majesty," said he, between
his teeth, "has no money but that which
M. Fouquet collects: your money,
monseigneur, would afford him a
delicious banquet."

"Well, but I am not the superintendent
of his majesty's finances -- I have my
purse -- surely I would do much for his
majesty's welfare -- some legacy -- but
I cannot disappoint my family."

"The legacy of a part would dishonor you
and offend the king. Leaving a part to
his majesty is to avow that that part
has inspired you with doubts as to the
lawfulness of the means of acquisition."

"Monsieur Colbert!"

"I thought your eminence did me the
honor to ask my advice?"

"Yes, but you are ignorant of the
principal details of the question."

"I am ignorant of nothing, my lord;
during ten years, all the columns of
figures which are found in France have
passed in review before me, and if I
have painfully nailed them into my
brain, they are there now so well
riveted, that, from the office of M.
Letellier, who is sober, to the little
secret largesses of M. Fouquet, who is
prodigal, I could recite, figure by
figure, all the money that is spent in
France from Marseilles to Cherbourg."

"Then, you would have me throw all my
money into the coffers of the king!"
cried Mazarin, ironically; and from
whom, at the same time, the gout forced
painful moans. "Surely the king would
reproach me with nothing, but he would
laugh at me, while squandering my
millions, and with good reason."

"Your eminence has misunderstood me. I
did not, the least in the world, pretend
that his majesty ought to spend your
money."

"You said so clearly, it seems to me,
when you advised me to give it to him."

"Ah," replied Colbert, "that is because
your eminence, absorbed as you are by
your disease, entirely loses sight of
the character of Louis XIV."

"How so?"

"That character, if I may venture to
express myself thus, resembles that
which my lord confessed just now to the
Theatin."

"Go on -- that is?"

"Pride! Pardon me, my lord, haughtiness,
nobleness; kings have no pride, that is
a human passion."

"Pride, -- yes, you are right. Next?"

"Well, my lord, if I have divined
rightly, your eminence has but to give
all your money to the king, and that
immediately."

"But for what?" said Mazarin, quite
bewildered.

"Because the king will not accept of the
whole."

"What, and he a young man, and devoured
by ambition?"

"Just so."

"A young man who is anxious for my
death ---- "

"My lord!"

"To inherit, yes, Colbert, yes; he is
anxious for my death in order to
inherit. Triple fool that I am! I would
prevent him!"

"Exactly: if the donation were made in a
certain form he would refuse it."

"Well, but how?"

"That is plain enough. A young man who
has yet done nothing -- who burns to
distinguish himself -- who burns to
reign alone, will never take anything
ready built, he will construct for
himself. This prince, monseigneur, will
never be content with the Palais Royal,
which M. de Richelieu left him, nor with
the Palais Mazarin, which you have had
so superbly constructed, nor with the
Louvre, which his ancestors inhabited;
nor with St. Germain, where he was born.
All that does not proceed from himself,
I predict, he will disdain."

"And you will guarantee, that if I give
my forty millions to the king ---- "

"Saying certain things to him at the
same time, I guarantee he will refuse
them."

"But those things -- what are they?"

"I will write them, if my lord will have
the goodness to dictate them."

"Well, but, after all, what advantage
will that be to me?"

"An enormous one. Nobody will afterwards
be able to accuse your eminence of that
unjust avarice with which pamphleteers
have reproached the most brilliant mind
of the present age."

"You are right, Colbert, you are right;
go, and seek the king, on my part, and
take him my will."

"Your donation, my lord."

"But, if he should accept it; if he
should even think of accepting it!"

"Then there would remain thirteen
millions for your family, and that is a
good round sum."

"But then you would be either a fool or
a traitor."

"And I am neither the one nor the other,
my lord. You appear to be much afraid
that the king will accept; you have a
deal more reason to fear that he will
not accept."

"But, see you, if he does not accept, I
should like to guarantee my thirteen
reserved millions to him -- yes, I will
do so -- yes. But my pains are
returning, I shall faint. I am very,
very ill, Colbert; I am very near my
end!"

Colbert started. The cardinal was indeed
very ill; large drops of sweat flowed
down upon his bed of agony, and the
frightful pallor of a face streaming
with water was a spectacle which the
most hardened practitioner could not
have beheld without compassion. Colbert
was, without doubt, very much affected,
for he quitted the chamber, calling
Bernouin to attend the dying man and
went into the corridor. There, walking
about with a meditative expression,
which almost gave nobility to his vulgar
head, his shoulders thrown up, his neck
stretched out, his lips half open, to
give vent to unconnected fragments of
incoherent thoughts, he lashed up his
courage to the pitch of the undertaking
contemplated, whilst within ten paces of
him, separated only by a wall, his
master was being stifled by anguish
which drew from him lamentable cries,
thinking no more of the treasures of the
earth, or of the joys of Paradise, but
much of all the horrors of hell. Whilst
burning-hot napkins, physic, revulsives,
and Guenaud, who was recalled, were
performing their functions with
increased activity, Colbert, holding his
great head in both his hands, to
compress within it the fever of the
projects engendered by the brain, was
meditating the tenor of the donation he
would make Mazarin write, at the first
hour of respite his disease should
afford him. It would appear as if all
the cries of the cardinal, and all the
attacks of death upon this
representative of the past, were
stimulants for the genius of this
thinker with the bushy eyebrows, who was
turning already towards the rising sun
of a regenerated society. Colbert
resumed his place at Mazarin's pillow at
the first interval of pain, and
persuaded him to dictate a donation thus
conceived.



"About to appear before God, the Master
of mankind, I beg the king, who was my
master on earth, to resume the wealth
which his bounty has bestowed upon me,
and which my family would be happy to
see pass into such illustrious hands.
The particulars of my property will be
found -- they are drawn up -- at the
first requisition of his majesty, or at
the last sigh of his most devoted
servant,

Jules, Cardinal de Mazarin."



The cardinal sighed heavily as he signed
this; Colbert sealed the packet, and
carried it immediately to the Louvre,
whither the king had returned.

He then went back to his own home,
rubbing his hands with the confidence of
a workman who has done a good day's
work.




CHAPTER 47

How Anne of Austria gave one Piece of
Advice to Louis XIV., and how M. Fouquet
gave him another



The news of the extreme illness of the
cardinal had already spread, and
attracted at least as much attention
among the people of the Louvre as the
news of the marriage of Monsieur, the
king's brother, which had already been
announced as an official fact. Scarcely
had Louis XIV. returned home, with his
thoughts fully occupied with the various
things he had seen and heard in the
course of the evening, when an usher
announced that the same crowd of
courtiers who, in the morning, had
thronged his lever, presented themselves
again at his coucher, a remarkable piece
of respect which, during the reign of
the cardinal, the court, not very
discreet in its preferences, had
accorded to the minister, without caring
about displeasing the king.

But the minister had had, as we have
said, an alarming attack of gout, and
the tide of flattery was mounting
towards the throne. Courtiers have a
marvelous instinct in scenting the turn
of events; courtiers possess a supreme
kind of science; they are diplomatists
in throwing light upon the unraveling of
complicated intrigues, captains in
divining the issue of battles, and
physicians in curing the sick. Louis
XIV., to whom his mother had taught this
axiom, together with many others,
understood at once that the cardinal
must be very ill.

Scarcely had Anne of Austria conducted
the young queen to her apartments and
taken from her brow the head-dress of
ceremony, when she went to see her son
in his cabinet, where, alone, melancholy
and depressed, he was indulging, as if
to exercise his will, in one of those
terrible inward passions -- king's
passions -- which create events when
they break out, and with Louis XIV.,
thanks to his astonishing command over
himself, became such benign tempests,
that his most violent, his only passion,
that which Saint Simon mentions with
astonishment, was that famous fit of
anger which he exhibited fifty years
later, on the occasion of a little
concealment of the Duc de Maine's. and
which had for result a shower of blows
inflicted with a cane upon the back of a
poor valet who had stolen a biscuit. The
young king then was, as we have seen, a
prey to a double excitement; and he said
to himself as he looked in a glass, "O
king! -- king by name, and not in
fact; -- phantom, vain phantom art
thou! -- inert statue, which has no
other power than that of provoking
salutations from courtiers, when wilt
thou be able to raise thy velvet arm, or
clench thy silken hand? when wilt thou
be able to open, for any purpose but to
sigh, or smile, lips condemned to the
motionless stupidity of the marbles in
thy gallery?"

Then, passing his hand over his brow,
and feeling the want of air, he
approached a window, and looking down,
saw below some horsemen talking
together, and groups of timid observers.
These horsemen were a fraction of the
watch: the groups were busy portions of
the people, to whom a king is always a
curious thing, the same as a rhinoceros,
a crocodile, or a serpent. He struck his
brow with his open hand, crying, --
"King of France! what title! People of
France! what a heap of creatures! I have
just returned to my Louvre; my horses,
just unharnessed, are still smoking, and
I have created interest enough to induce
scarcely twenty persons to look at me as
I passed. Twenty! what do I say? no;
there were not twenty anxious to see the
king of France. There are not even ten
archers to guard my place of residence:
archers, people, guards, all are at the
Palais Royal! Why, my good God! have not
I, the king, the right to ask of you all
that?"

"Because," said a voice, replying to
his, and which sounded from the other
side of the door of the cabinet,
"because at the Palais Royal lies all
the gold, -- that is to say, all the
power of him who desires to reign."

Louis turned sharply round. The voice
which had pronounced these words was
that of Anne of Austria. The king
started, and advanced towards her. "I
hope," said he, "your majesty has paid
no attention to the vain declamations
which the solitude and disgust familiar
to kings suggest to the happiest
dispositions?"

"I only paid attention to one thing, my
son, and that was, that you were
complaining."

"Who! I? Not at all," said Louis XIV.;
"no, in truth, you err, madame."

"What were you doing, then?"

"I thought I was under the ferule of my
professor, and developing a subject of
amplification."

"My son," replied Anne of Austria,
shaking her head, "you are wrong not to
trust my word; you are wrong not to
grant me your confidence. A day will
come, and perhaps quickly, wherein you
will have occasion to remember that
axiom: -- `Gold is universal power; and
they alone are kings who are
all-powerful.'"

"Your intention," continued the king,
"was not, however, to cast blame upon
the rich men of this age, was it?

"No," said the queen, warmly; "no, sire;
they who are rich in this age, under
your reign, are rich because you have
been willing they should be so, and I
entertain against them neither malice
nor envy; they have, without doubt,
served your majesty sufficiently well
for your majesty to have permitted them
to reward themselves. That is what I
mean to say by the words for which you
reproach me."

"God forbid, madame, that I should ever
reproach my mother with anything!"

"Besides," continued Anne of Austria,
"the Lord never gives the goods of this
world but for a season; the Lord -- as
correctives to honor and riches -- the
Lord has placed sufferings, sickness,
and death; and no one," added she, with
a melancholy smile, which proved she
made the application of the funeral
precept to herself, "no man can take his
wealth or greatness with him to the
grave. It results, therefore, that the
young gather the abundant harvest
prepared for them by the old."

Louis listened with increased attention
to the words which Anne of Austria, no
doubt, pronounced with a view to console
him. "Madame," said he, looking
earnestly at his mother, "one would
almost say in truth that you had
something else to announce to me."

"I have absolutely nothing, my son; only
you cannot have failed to remark that
his eminence the cardinal is very ill."

Louis looked at his mother, expecting
some emotion in her voice, some sorrow
in her countenance. The face of Anne of
Austria appeared a little changed, but
that was from sufferings of quite a
personal character. Perhaps the
alteration was caused by the cancer
which had begun to consume her breast.
"Yes, madame," said the king; "yes, M.
de Mazarin is very ill."

"And it would be a great loss to the
kingdom if God were to summon his
eminence away. Is not that your opinion
as well as mine, my son?" said the
queen.

"Yes, madame; yes, certainly, it would
be a great loss for the kingdom," said
Louis, coloring; "but the peril does not
seem to me to be so great; besides, the
cardinal is still young." The king had
scarcely ceased speaking when an usher
lifted the tapestry, and stood with a
paper in his hand, waiting for the king
to speak to him.

"What have you there?" asked the king.

"A message from M. de Mazarin," replied
the usher.

"Give it to me," said the king; and he
took the paper. But at the moment he was
about to open it, there was a great
noise in the gallery, the ante-chamber,
and the court.

"Ah, ah," said Louis XIV., who doubtless
knew the meaning of that triple noise.
"How could I say there was but one king
in France! I was mistaken, there are
two."

As he spoke or thought thus, the door
opened, and the superintendent of the
finances, Fouquet, appeared before his
nominal master. It was he who made the
noise in the ante-chamber, it was his
horses that made the noise in the
courtyard. In addition to all this, a
loud murmur was heard along his passage,
which did not die away till some time
after he had passed. It was this murmur
which Louis XIV. regretted so deeply not
hearing as he passed, and dying away
behind him.

"He is not precisely a king, as you
fancy," said Anne of Austria to her son;
"he is only a man who is much too
rich -- that is all."

Whilst saying these words, a bitter
feeling gave to these words of the queen
a most hateful expression; whereas the
brow of the king, calm and
self-possessed, on the contrary, was
without the slightest wrinkle. He
nodded, therefore, familiarly to
Fouquet, whilst he continued to unfold
the paper given to him by the usher.
Fouquet perceived this movement, and
with a politeness at once easy and
respectful, advanced towards the queen,
so as not to disturb the king. Louis had
opened the paper, and yet he did not
read it. He listened to Fouquet paying
the most charming compliments to the
queen upon her hand and arm. Anne of
Austria's frown relaxed a little, she
even almost smiled. Fouquet perceived
that the king, instead of reading, was
looking at him; he turned half round,
therefore, and while continuing his
conversation with the queen, faced the
king.

"You know, Monsieur Fouquet," said
Louis, "how ill M. Mazarin is?"

"Yes, sire, I know that," said Fouquet;
"in fact, he is very ill. I was at my
country-house of Vaux when the news
reached me; and the affair seemed so
pressing that I left at once."

"You left Vaux this evening, monsieur?"

"An hour and a half ago, yes, your
majesty," said Fouquet, consulting a
watch, richly ornamented with diamonds.

"An hour and a half!" said the king,
still able to restrain his anger, but
not to conceal his astonishment.

"I understand you, sire. Your majesty
doubts my word, and you have reason to
do so, but I have really come in that
time, though it is wonderful! I received
from England three pairs of very fast
horses, as I had been assured. They were
placed at distances of four leagues
apart, and I tried them this evening.
They really brought me from Vaux to the
Louvre in an hour and a half, so your
majesty sees I have not been cheated."
The queen-mother smiled with something
like secret envy. But Fouquet caught her
thought. "Thus, madame," he promptly
said, "such horses are made for kings,
not for subjects; for kings ought never
to yield to any one in anything."

The king looked up.

"And yet," interrupted Anne of Austria,
"you are not a king, that I know of, M.
Fouquet."

"Truly not, madame; therefore the horses
only await the orders of his majesty to
enter the royal stables; and if I
allowed myself to try them, it was only
for fear of offering to the king
anything that was not positively
wonderful."

The king became quite red.

"You know, Monsieur Fouquet," said the
queen, "that at the court of France it
is not the custom for a subject to offer
anything to his king."

Louis started.

"I hoped, madame," said Fouquet, much
agitated, "that my love for his majesty,
my incessant desire to please him, would
serve to compensate the want of
etiquette. It was not so much a present
that I permitted myself to offer, as the
tribute I paid."

"Thank you, Monsieur Fouquet," said the
king politely, "and I am gratified by
your intention, for I love good horses;
but you know I am not very rich; you,
who are my superintendent of finances,
know it better than any one else. I am
not able, then, however willing I may
be, to purchase such a valuable set of
horses."

Fouquet darted a haughty glance at the
queen-mother, who appeared to triumph at
the false position in which the minister
had placed himself, and replied: --

"Luxury is the virtue of kings, sire: it
is luxury which makes them resemble God:
it is by luxury they are more than other
men. With luxury a king nourishes his
subjects, and honors them. Under the
mild heat of this luxury of kings
springs the luxury of individuals, a
source of riches for the people. His
majesty, by accepting the gift of these
six incomparable horses, would stimulate
the pride of his own breeders, of
Limousin, Perche, and Normandy, and this
emulation would have been beneficial to
all. But the king is silent, and
consequently I am condemned."

During this speech, Louis was,
unconsciously, folding and unfolding
Mazarin's paper, upon which he had not
cast his eyes. At length he glanced upon
it, and uttered a faint cry at reading
the first line.

"What is the matter, my son?" asked the
queen, anxiously, and going towards the
king.

"From the cardinal," replied the king,
continuing to read; "yes, yes, it is
really from him."

"Is he worse, then?"

"Read!" said the king, passing the
parchment to his mother, as if he
thought that nothing less than reading
would convince Anne of Austria of a
thing so astonishing as was conveyed in
that paper.

Anne of Austria read in turn, and as she
read, her eyes sparkled with a joy all
the greater from her useless endeavor to
hide it, which attracted the attention
of Fouquet.

"Oh! a regularly drawn up deed of gift,"
said she.

"A gift?" repeated Fouquet.

"Yes," said the king, replying pointedly
to the superintendent of finances, "yes,
at the point of death, monsieur le
cardinal makes me a donation of all his
wealth."

"Forty millions," cried the queen. "Oh,
my son! this is very noble on the part
of his eminence, and will silence all
malicious rumors; forty millions scraped
together slowly, coming back all in one
heap to the treasury! It is the act of a
faithful subject and a good Christian."
And having once more cast her eyes over
the act, she restored it to Louis XIV.,
whom the announcement of the sum greatly
agitated. Fouquet had taken some steps
backwards and remained silent. The king
looked at him, and held the paper out to
him, in turn. The superintendent only
bestowed a haughty look of a second upon
it; then bowing, -- "Yes, sire," said
he, "a donation, I see."

"You must reply to it, my son," said
Anne of Austria; "you must reply to it,
and immediately."

"But how, madame?"

"By a visit to the cardinal."

"Why, it is but an hour since I left his
eminence," said the king.

"Write, then, sire."

"Write!" said the young king, with
evident repugnance.

"Well!" replied Anne of Austria, "it
seems to me, my son, that a man who has
just made such a present has a good
right to expect to be thanked for it
with some degree of promptitude." Then
turning towards Fouquet: "Is not that
likewise your opinion, monsieur?"

"That the present is worth the trouble?
Yes madame," said Fouquet, with a lofty
air that did not escape the king.

"Accept, then, and thank him," insisted
Anne of Austria.

"What says M. Fouquet?" asked Louis XIV.

"Does your majesty wish to know my
opinion?"

"Yes."

"Thank him, sire ---- "

"Ah!" said the queen.

"But do not accept," continued Fouquet.

"And why not?" asked the queen.

"You have yourself said why, madame,"
replied Fouquet; "because kings cannot
and ought not to receive presents from
their subjects."

The king remained silent between these
two contrary opinions.

"But forty millions!" said Anne of
Austria, in the same tone as that in
which, at a later period, poor Marie
Antoinette replied, "You will tell me as
much!"

"I know," said Fouquet, laughing, "forty
millions makes a good round sum, -- such
a sum as could almost tempt a royal
conscience."

"But monsieur," said Anne of Austria,
"instead of persuading the king not to
receive this present, recall to his
majesty's mind, you, whose duty it is,
that these forty millions are a fortune
to him."

"It is precisely, madame, because these
forty millions would be a fortune that I
will say to the king, `Sire, if it be
not decent for a king to accept from a
subject six horses, worth twenty
thousand livres, it would be disgraceful
for him to owe a fortune to another
subject, more or less scrupulous in the
choice of the materials which
contributed to the building up of that
fortune.'"

"It ill becomes you, monsieur, to give
your king a lesson," said Anne of
Austria; "better procure for him forty
millions to replace those you make him
lose."

"The king shall have them whenever he
wishes," said the superintendent of
finances, bowing.

"Yes, by oppressing the people," said
the queen.

"And were they not oppressed, madame,"
replied Fouquet, "when they were made to
sweat the forty millions given by this
deed? Furthermore, his majesty has asked
my opinion, I have given it; if his
majesty ask my concurrence, it will be
the same."

"Nonsense! accept, my son, accept," said
Anne of Austria. "You are above reports
and interpretations."

"Refuse, sire," said Fouquet. "As long
as a king lives, he has no other measure
but his conscience, -- no other judge
than his own desires; but when dead, he
has posterity, which applauds or
accuses."

"Thank you, mother," replied Louis,
bowing respectfully to the queen. "Thank
you, Monsieur Fouquet," said he,
dismissing the superintendent civilly.

"Do you accept?" asked Anne of Austria,
once more.

"I shall consider of it," replied he,
looking at Fouquet.




CHAPTER 48

Agony



The day that the deed of gift had been
sent to the king, the cardinal caused
himself to be transported to Vincennes.
The king and the court followed him
thither. The last flashes of this torch
still cast splendor enough around to
absorb all other lights in its rays.
Besides, as it has been seen, the
faithful satellite of his minister,
young Louis XIV., marched to the last
minute in accordance with his
gravitation. The disease, as Guenaud had
predicted, had become worse; it was no
longer an attack of gout, it was an
attack of death; then there was another
thing which made that agony more
agonizing still, -- and that was the
agitation brought into his mind by the
donation he had sent to the king, and
which, according to Colbert, the king
ought to send back unaccepted to the
cardinal. The cardinal had, as we have
said, great faith in the predictions of
his secretary; but the sum was a large
one, and whatever might be the genius of
Colbert, from time to time the cardinal
thought to himself that the Theatin also
might possibly have been mistaken, and
that there was at least as much chance
of his not being damned, as there was of
Louis XIV. sending back his millions.

Besides, the longer the donation was in
coming back, the more Mazarin thought
that forty millions were worth a little
risk, particularly of so hypothetic a
thing as the soul. Mazarin, in his
character of cardinal and prime
minister, was almost an atheist, and
quite a materialist. Every time that the
door opened, he turned sharply round
towards that door, expecting to see the
return of his unfortunate donation;
then, deceived in his hope, he fell back
again with a sigh, and found his pains
so much the greater for having forgotten
them for an instant.

Anne of Austria had also followed the
cardinal; her heart, though age had made
it selfish, could not help evincing
towards the dying man a sorrow which she
owed him as a wife, according to some;
and as a sovereign, according to others.
She had, in some sort, put on a mourning
countenance beforehand, and all the
court wore it as she did.

Louis, in order not to show on his face
what was passing at the bottom of his
heart, persisted in remaining in his own
apartments, where his nurse alone kept
him company; the more he saw the
approach of the time when all constraint
would be at an end, the more humble and
patient he was, falling back upon
himself, as all strong men do when they
form great designs, in order to gain
more spring at the decisive moment.
Extreme unction had been administered to
the cardinal, who, faithful to his
habits of dissimulation, struggled
against appearances, and even against
reality, receiving company in his bed,
as if he only suffered from a temporary
complaint.

Guenaud, on his part, preserved profound
secrecy; wearied with visits and
questions, he answered nothing but "his
eminence is still full of youth and
strength, but God wills that which He
wills, and when He has decided that man
is to be laid low, he will be laid low."
These words, which he scattered with a
sort of discretion, reserve, and
preference, were commented upon
earnestly by two persons, -- the king
and the cardinal. Mazarin,
notwithstanding the prophecy of Guenaud,
still lured himself with a hope, or
rather played his part so well, that the
most cunning, when saying that he lured
himself, proved that they were his
dupes.

Louis, absent from the cardinal for two
days; Louis with his eyes fixed upon
that same donation which so constantly
preoccupied the cardinal; Louis did not
exactly know how to make out Mazarin's
conduct. The son of Louis XIII.,
following the paternal traditions, had,
up to that time, been so little of a
king that, whilst ardently desiring
royalty, he desired it with that terror
which always accompanies the unknown.
Thus, having formed his resolution,
which, besides, he communicated to
nobody, he determined to have an
interview with Mazarin. It was Anne of
Austria, who, constant in her attendance
upon the cardinal, first heard this
proposition of the king's, and
transmitted it to the dying man, whom it
greatly agitated. For what purpose could
Louis wish for an interview? Was it to
return the deed, as Colbert had said he
would? Was it to keep it, after thanking
him, as Mazarin thought he would?
Nevertheless, as the dying man felt that
the uncertainty increased his torments,
he did not hesitate an instant.

"His majesty will be welcome, -- yes,
very welcome," cried he, making a sign
to Colbert, who was seated at the foot
of the bed, and which the latter
understood perfectly. "Madame,"
continued Mazarin, "will your majesty be
good enough to assure the king yourself
of the truth of what I have just said?"

Anne of Austria rose; she herself was
anxious to have the question of the
forty millions settled -- the question
which seemed to lie heavy on the mind of
every one. Anne of Austria went out;
Mazarin made a great effort, and,
raising himself up towards Colbert:
"Well, Colbert," said he, "two days have
passed away -- two mortal days -- and,
you see, nothing has been returned from
yonder."

"Patience, my lord," said Colbert.

"Are you mad, you wretch? You advise me
to have patience! Oh, in sad truth,
Colbert, you are laughing at me. I am
dying, and you call out to me to wait!"

"My lord," said Colbert, with his
habitual coolness, "it is impossible
that things should not come out as I
have said. His majesty is coming to see
you, and no doubt he brings back the
deed himself."

"Do you think so? Well, I, on the
contrary, am sure that his majesty is
coming to thank me."

At this moment Anne of Austria returned.
On her way to the apartments of her son
she had met with a new empiric. This was
a powder which was said to have power to
save the cardinal; and she brought a
portion of this powder with her. But
this was not what Mazarin expected;
therefore he would not even look at it,
declaring that life was not worth the
pains that were taken to preserve it.
But, whilst professing this
philosophical axiom, his long-confined
secret escaped him at last.

"That, madame," said he, "that is not
the interesting part of my situation. I
made, two days ago, a little donation to
the king; up to this time, from
delicacy, no doubt, his majesty has not
condescended to say anything about it;
but the time for explanation is come,
and I implore your majesty to tell me if
the king has made up his mind on that
matter."

Anne of Austria was about to reply, when
Mazarin stopped her.

"The truth, madame," said he -- "in the
name of Heaven, the truth! Do not
flatter a dying man with a hope that may
prove vain." There he stopped, a look
from Colbert telling him that he was on
a wrong tack.

"I know," said Anne of Austria, taking
the cardinal's hand, "I know that you
have generously made, not a little
donation, as you modestly call it, but a
magnificent gift. I know how painful it
would be to you if the king ---- "

Mazarin listened, dying as he was, as
ten living men could not have listened.

"If the king ---- " replied he.

"If the king," continued Anne of
Austria, "should not freely accept what
you offer so nobly."

Mazarin allowed himself to sink back
upon his pillow like Pantaloon; that is
to say, with all the despair of a man
who bows before the tempest; but he
still preserved sufficient strength and
presence of mind to cast upon Colbert
one of those looks which are well worth
ten sonnets, which is to say, ten long
poems.

"Should you not," added the queen, "have
considered the refusal of the king as a
sort of insult?" Mazarin rolled his head
about upon his pillow, without
articulating a syllable. The queen was
deceived, or feigned to be deceived, by
this demonstration.

"Therefore," resumed she, "I have
circumvented him with good counsels; and
as certain minds, jealous, no doubt, of
the glory you are about to acquire by
this generosity, have endeavored to
prove to the king that he ought not to
accept this donation, I have struggled
in your favor, and so well have I
struggled, that you will not have, I
hope, that distress to undergo."

"Ah!" murmured Mazarin, with languishing
eyes, "ah! that is a service I shall
never forget for a single minute of the
few hours I still have to live."

"I must admit," continued the queen,
"that it was not without trouble I
rendered it to your eminence."

"Ah, peste! I believe that. Oh! oh!"

"Good God! what is the matter?"

"I am burning!"

"Do you suffer much?"

"As much as one of the damned."

Colbert would have liked to sink through
the floor.

"So, then," resumed Mazarin, "your
majesty thinks that the king ---- "he
stopped several seconds -- "that the
king is coming here to offer me some
small thanks?"

"I think so," said the queen. Mazarin
annihilated Colbert with his last look.

At that moment the ushers announced that
the king was in the ante-chambers, which
were filled with people. This
announcement produced a stir of which
Colbert took advantage to escape by the
door of the ruelle. Anne of Austria
arose, and awaited her son, standing.
Louis IV. appeared at the threshold of
the door, with his eyes fixed upon the
dying man, who did not even think it
worth while to notice that majesty from
whom he thought he had nothing more to
expect. An usher placed an armchair
close to the bed. Louis bowed to his
mother, then to the cardinal, and sat
down. The queen took a seat in her turn.

Then, as the king looked behind him, the
usher understood that look and made a
sign to the courtiers who filled up the
doorway to go out, which they instantly
did. Silence fell upon the chamber with
the velvet curtains. The king, still
very young, and very timid in the
presence of him who had been his master
from his birth, still respected him
much, particularly now, in the supreme
majesty of death. He did not dare,
therefore, to begin the conversation,
feeling that every word must have its
weight not only upon things of this
world, but of the next. As to the
cardinal, at that moment he had but one
thought -- his donation. It was not
physical pain which gave him that air of
despondency, and that lugubrious look;
it was the expectation of the thanks
that were about to issue from the king's
mouth, and cut off all hope of
restitution. Mazarin was the first to
break the silence. "Is your majesty come
to make any stay at Vincennes?" said he.

Louis made an affirmative sign with his
head.

"That is a gracious favor," continued
Mazarin, "granted to a dying man, and
which will render death less painful to
him."

"I hope," replied the king, "I am come
to visit, not a dying man, but a sick
man, susceptible of cure."

Mazarin replied by a movement of the
head.

"Your majesty is very kind; but I know
more than you on that subject. The last
visit, sire," said he, "the last visit."

"If it were so, monsieur le cardinal,"
said Louis, "I would come a last time to
ask the counsels of a guide to whom I
owe everything."

Anne of Austria was a woman; she could
not restrain her tears. Louis showed
himself much affected, and Mazarin still
more than his two guests, but from very
different motives. Here the silence
returned. The queen wiped her eyes, and
the king resumed his firmness.

"I was saying," continued the king,
"that I owed much to your eminence." The
eyes of the cardinal devoured the king,
for he felt the great moment had come.
"And," continued Louis, "the principal
object of my visit was to offer you very
sincere thanks for the last evidence of
friendship you have kindly sent me."

The cheeks of the cardinal became
sunken, his lips partially opened, and
the most lamentable sigh he had ever
uttered was about to issue from his
chest.

"Sire," said he, "I shall have despoiled
my poor family; I shall have ruined all
who belong to me, which may be imputed
to me as an error; but, at least, it
shall not be said of me that I have
refused to sacrifice everything to my
king."

Anne of Austria's tears flowed afresh.

"My dear Monsieur Mazarin," said the
king, in a more serious tone than might
have been expected from his youth, "you
have misunderstood me, apparently."

Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow.

"I have no purpose to despoil your dear
family, nor to ruin your servants. Oh,
no, that must never be!"

"Humph!" thought Mazarin, "he is going
to restore me some scraps; let us get
the largest piece we can."

"The king is going to be foolishly
affected and play the generous," thought
the queen; "he must not be allowed to
impoverish himself; such an opportunity
for getting a fortune will never occur
again."

"Sire," said the cardinal, aloud, "my
family is very numerous, and my nieces
will be destitute when I am gone."

"Oh," interrupted the queen, eagerly,
"have no uneasiness with respect to your
family, dear Monsieur Mazarin; we have
no friends dearer than your friends;
your nieces shall be my children, the
sisters of his majesty; and if a favor
be distributed in France, it shall be to
those you love."

"Smoke!" thought Mazarin, who knew
better than any one the faith that can
be put in the promises of kings. Louis
read the dying man's thought in his
face.

"Be comforted, my dear Monsieur
Mazarin," said he, with a half-smile,
sad beneath its irony; "the
Mesdemoiselles de Mancini will lose, in
losing you, their most precious good;
but they shall none the less be the
richest heiresses of France; and since
you have been kind enough to give me
their dowry" -- the cardinal was
panting -- "I restore it to them,"
continued Louis, drawing from his breast
and holding towards the cardinal's bed
the parchment which contained the
donation that, during two days, had kept
alive such tempests in the mind of
Mazarin.

"What did I tell you, my lord?" murmured
in the alcove a voice which passed away
like a breath.

"Your majesty returns my donation!"
cried Mazarin, so disturbed by joy as to
forget his character of a benefactor.

"Your majesty rejects the forty
millions!" cried Anne of Austria, so
stupefied as to forget her character of
an afflicted wife, or queen.

"Yes, my lord cardinal; yes, madame,"
replied Louis XIV., tearing the
parchment which Mazarin had not yet
ventured to clutch; "yes, I annihilate
this deed, which despoiled a whole
family. The wealth acquired by his
eminence in my service is his own wealth
and not mine."

"But, sire, does your majesty reflect,"
said Anne of Austria, "that you have not
ten thousand crowns in your coffers?"

"Madame, I have just performed my first
royal action, and I hope it will
worthily inaugurate my reign."

"Ah! sire, you are right!" cried
Mazarin; "that is truly great -- that is
truly generous which you have just
done." And he looked, one after the
other, at the pieces of the act spread
over his bed, to assure himself that it
was the original and not a copy that had
been torn. At length his eyes fell upon
the fragment which bore his signature,
and recognizing it, he sunk back on his
bolster in a swoon. Anne of Austria,
without strength to conceal her regret,
raised her hands and eyes toward heaven.

"Oh! sire," cried Mazarin, "may you be
blessed! My God! May you be beloved by
all my family. Per Baccho! If ever any
of those belonging to me should cause
your displeasure, sire, only frown, and
I will rise from my tomb!"

This pantalonnade did not produce all
the effect Mazarin had counted upon.
Louis had already passed to
considerations of a higher nature, and
as to Anne of Austria, unable to bear,
without abandoning herself to the anger
she felt burning within her, the
magnanimity of her son and the hypocrisy
of the cardinal, she arose and left the
chamber, heedless of thus betraying the
extent of her grief. Mazarin saw all
this, and fearing that Louis XIV. might
repent his decision, in order to draw
attention another way he began to cry
out, as, at a later period, Scapin was
to cry out, in that sublime piece of
pleasantry with which the morose and
grumbling Boileau dared to reproach
Moliere. His cries, however, by degrees,
became fainter; and when Anne of Austria
left the apartment, they ceased
altogether.

"Monsieur le cardinal," said the king,
"have you any recommendations to make to
me?"

"Sire," replied Mazarin, "you are
already wisdom itself, prudence
personified; of your generosity I shall
not venture to speak; that which you
have just done exceeds all that the most
generous men of antiquity or of modern
times have ever done."

The king received this praise coldly.

"So you confine yourself," said he, "to
your thanks -- and your experience, much
more extensive than my wisdom, my
prudence, or my generosity, does not
furnish you with a single piece of
friendly advice to guide my future."

Mazarin reflected for a moment. "You
have just done much for me, sire," said
he, "that is, for my family."

"Say no more about that," said the king.

"Well!" continued Mazarin, "I shall give
you something in exchange for these
forty millions you have refused so
royally."

Louis XIV. indicated by a movement that
these flatteries were displeasing to
him. "I shall give you a piece of
advice," continued Mazarin; "yes, a
piece of advice -- advice more precious
than the forty millions."

"My lord cardinal!" interrupted Louis.

"Sire, listen to this advice."

"I am listening."

"Come nearer, sire, for I am weak! --
nearer, sire, nearer!"

The king bent over the dying man.
"Sire," said Mazarin, in so low a tone
that the breath of his words arrived
only like a recommendation from the tomb
in the attentive ears of the king --
"Sire, never have a prime minister."

Louis drew back astonished. The advice
was a confession -- a treasure, in fact,
was that sincere confession of Mazarin.
The legacy of the cardinal to the young
king was composed of six words only, but
those six words, as Mazarin had said,
were worth forty millions. Louis
remained for an instant bewildered. As
for Mazarin, he appeared only to have
said something quite natural. A little
scratching was heard along the curtains
of the alcove. Mazarin understood: "Yes,
yes!" cried he warmly, "yes, sire, I
recommend to you a wise man, an honest
man, and a clever man."

"Tell me his name, my lord."

"His name is yet almost unknown, sire;
it is M. Colbert, my attendant. Oh! try
him," added Mazarin, in an earnest
voice; "all that he has predicted has
come to pass, he has a safe glance, he
is never mistaken either in things or in
men -- which is more surprising still.
Sire, I owe you much, but I think I
acquit myself of all towards you in
giving you M. Colbert."

"So be it," said Louis, faintly, for, as
Mazarin had said, the name of Colbert
was quite unknown to him, and he thought
the enthusiasm of the cardinal partook
of the delirium of a dying man. The
cardinal sank back on his pillows.

"For the present, adieu, sire! adieu,"
murmured Mazarin. "I am tired, and I
have yet a rough journey to take before
I present myself to my new Master.
Adieu, sire!"

The young king felt the tears rise to
his eyes; he bent over the dying man,
already half a corpse, and then hastily
retired.




CHAPTER 49

The First Appearance of Colbert



The whole night was passed in anguish,
common to the dying man and to the king:
the dying man expected his deliverance,
the king awaited his liberty. Louis did
not go to bed. An hour after leaving the
chamber of the cardinal, he learned that
the dying man, recovering a little
strength, had insisted upon being
dressed, adorned and painted, and seeing
the ambassadors. Like Augustus, he no
doubt considered the world a great
stage, and was desirous of playing out
the last act of the comedy. Anne of
Austria reappeared no more in the
cardinal's apartments; she had nothing
more to do there. Propriety was the
pretext for her absence. On his part,
the cardinal did not ask for her: the
advice the queen had given her son
rankled in his heart.

Towards midnight, while still painted,
Mazarin's mortal agony came on. He had
revised his will, and as this will was
the exact expression of his wishes, and
as he feared that some interested
influence might take advantage of his
weakness to make him change something in
it, he had given orders to Colbert, who
walked up and down the corridor which
led to the cardinal's bed-chamber, like
the most vigilant of sentinels. The
king, shut up in his own apartment,
dispatched his nurse every hour to
Mazarin's chamber, with orders to bring
him back the exact bulletin of the
cardinal's state. After having heard
that Mazarin was dressed, painted, and
had seen the ambassadors, Louis heard
that the prayers for the dying were
being read for the cardinal. At one
o'clock in the morning, Guenaud had
administered the last remedy. This was a
relic of the old customs of that fencing
time, which was about to disappear to
give place to another time, to believe
that death could be kept off by some
good secret thrust. Mazarin, after
having taken the remedy, respired freely
for nearly ten minutes. He immediately
gave orders that the news should be
spread everywhere of a fortunate crisis.
The king, on learning this, felt as if a
cold sweat were passing over his
brow; -- he had had a glimpse of the
light of liberty; slavery appeared to
him more dark and less acceptable than
ever. But the bulletin which followed
entirely changed the face of things.
Mazarin could no longer breathe at all,
and could scarcely follow the prayers
which the cure of
Saint-Nicholas-des-Champs recited near
him. The king resumed his agitated walk
about his chamber, and consulted, as he
walked, several papers drawn from a
casket of which he alone had the key. A
third time the nurse returned. M. de
Mazarin had just uttered a joke, and had
ordered his "Flora," by Titian, to be
revarnished. At length, towards two
o'clock in the morning, the king could
no longer resist his weariness: he had
not slept for twenty-four hours. Sleep,
so powerful at his age, overcame him for
about an hour. But he did not go to bed
for that hour, he slept in a fauteuil.
About four o'clock his nurse awoke him
by entering the room.

"Well?" asked the king.

"Well, my dear sire," said the nurse,
clasping her hands with an air of
commiseration. "Well, he is dead!"

The king arose at a bound, as if a steel
spring had been applied to his legs.
"Dead!" cried he.

"Alas! yes."

"Is it quite certain?"

"Yes."

"Official?"

"Yes."

"Has the news been made public?"

"Not yet."

"Who told you, then, that the cardinal
was dead?"

"M. Colbert."

"M. Colbert?"

"Yes."

"And was he sure of what he said?"

"He came out of the chamber, and had
held a glass for some minutes before the
cardinal's lips."

"Ah!" said the king. "And what is become
of M. Colbert?"

"He has just left his eminence's
chamber."

"Where is he?"

"He followed me."

"So that he is ---- "

"Sire, waiting at your door, till it
shall be your good pleasure to receive
him."

Louis ran to the door, opened it
himself, and perceived Colbert standing
waiting in the passage. The king started
at sight of this statue, all clothed in
black. Colbert, bowing with profound
respect, advanced two steps towards his
majesty. Louis re-entered his chamber,
making Colbert a sign to follow. Colbert
entered; Louis dismissed the nurse, who
closed the door as she went out. Colbert
remained modestly standing near that
door.

"What do you come to announce to me,
monsieur?" said Louis, very much
troubled at being thus surprised in his
private thoughts, which he could not
completely conceal.

"That monsieur le cardinal has just
expired, sire; and that I bring your
majesty his last adieu."

The king remained pensive for a minute;
and during that minute he looked
attentively at Colbert; -- it was
evident that the cardinal's last words
were in his mind. "Are you, then, M.
Colbert?" asked he.

"Yes, sire."

"His faithful servant, as his eminence
himself told me?"

"Yes, sire."

"The depositary of many of his secrets?"

"Of all of them."

"The friends and servants of his
eminence will be dear to me, monsieur,
and I shall take care that you are well
placed in my employment."

Colbert bowed.

"You are a financier, monsieur, I
believe?"

"Yes, sire."

"And did monsieur le cardinal employ you
in his stewardship?"

"I had that honor, sire."

"You never did anything personally for
my household, I believe?"

"Pardon me, sire, it was I who had the
honor of giving monsieur le cardinal the
idea of an economy which puts three
hundred thousand francs a year into your
majesty's coffers."

"What economy was that, monsieur?" asked
Louis XIV.

"Your majesty knows that the hundred
Swiss have silver lace on each side of
their ribbons?"

"Doubtless."

"Well, sire, it was I who proposed that
imitation silver lace should be placed
upon these ribbons, it could not be
detected, and a hundred thousand crowns
serve to feed a regiment during six
months; and is the price of ten thousand
good muskets or the value of a vessel of
ten guns, ready for sea."

"That is true," said Louis XIV.,
considering more attentively, "and, ma
foi! that was a well placed economy;
besides, it was ridiculous for soldiers
to wear the same lace as noblemen."

"I am happy to be approved of by your
majesty."

"Is that the only appointment you held
about the cardinal?" asked the king.

"It was I who was appointed to examine
the accounts of the superintendent,
sire."

"Ah!" said Louis, who was about to
dismiss Colbert, but whom that word
stopped; "ah! it was you whom his
eminence had charged to control M.
Fouquet, was it? And the result of the
examination?"

"Is that there is a deficit, sire; but
if your majesty will permit me ---- "

"Speak, M. Colbert."

"I ought to give your majesty some
explanations."

"Not at all, monsieur, it is you who
have controlled these accounts, give me
the result."

"That is very easily done, sire;
emptiness everywhere, money nowhere."

"Beware, monsieur; you are roughly
attacking the administration of M.
Fouquet, who, nevertheless, I have heard
say, is an able man."

Colbert colored, and then became pale,
for he felt that from that minute he
entered upon a struggle with a man whose
power almost equaled the sway of him who
had just died. "Yes, sire, a very able
man," repeated Colbert, bowing.

"But if M. Fouquet is an able man, and,
in spite of that ability, if money be
wanting, whose fault is it?"

"I do not accuse, sire, I verify."

"That is well; make out your accounts,
and present them to me. There is a
deficit, you say? A deficit may be
temporary; credit returns and funds are
restored."

"No, sire."

"Upon this year, perhaps, I understand
that; but upon next year?"

"Next year is eaten as bare as the
current year."

"But the year after, then?"

"Will be just like next year."

"What do you tell me, Monsieur Colbert?"

"I say there are four years engaged
beforehand.

"They must have a loan, then."

"They must have three, sire."

"I will create offices to make them
resign, and the salary of the posts
shall be paid into the treasury."

"Impossible, sire, for there have
already been creations upon creations of
offices, the provisions of which are
given in blank, so that the purchasers
enjoy them without filling them. That is
why your majesty cannot make them
resign. Further, upon each agreement M.
Fouquet has made an abatement of a
third, so that the people have been
plundered, without your majesty
profiting by it. Let your majesty set
down clearly your thought, and tell me
what you wish me to explain."

"You are right, clearness is what you
wish, is it not?"

"Yes, sire, clearness. God is God above
all things, because He made light."

"Well, for example," resumed Louis XIV.,
"if today, the cardinal being dead, and
I being king, suppose I wanted money?"

"Your majesty would not have any."

"Oh! that is strange, monsieur! How! my
superintendent would not find me any
money?"

Colbert shook his large head.

"How is that?" said the king, "is the
income of the state so much in debt that
there is no longer any revenue?"

"Yes, sire."

The king started. "Explain me that, M.
Colbert," added he with a frown. "If it
be so, I will get together the
ordonnances to obtain a discharge from
the holders, a liquidation at a cheap
rate."

"Impossible, for the ordonnances have
been converted into bills, which bills,
for the convenience of return and
facility of transaction, are divided
into so many parts that the originals
can no longer be recognized."

Louis, very much agitated, walked about,
still frowning. "But, if this is as you
say, Monsieur Colbert," said he,
stopping all at once, "I shall be ruined
before I begin to reign."

"You are, in fact, sire," said the
impassible caster-up of figures.

"Well, but yet, monsieur, the money is
somewhere?"

"Yes, sire, and even as a beginning, I
bring your majesty a note of funds which
M. le Cardinal Mazarin was not willing
to set down in his testament, neither in
any act whatever, but which he confided
to me."

"To you?"

"Yes, sire, with an injunction to remit
it to your majesty."

"What! besides the forty millions of the
testament?"

"Yes, sire."

"M. de Mazarin had still other funds?"

Colbert bowed.

"Why, that man was a gulf!" murmured the
king. "M. de Mazarin on one side, M.
Fouquet on the other, -- more than a
hundred millions perhaps between them!
No wonder my coffers should be empty!"
Colbert waited without stirring.

"And is the sum you bring me worth the
trouble?" asked the king.

"Yes, sire, it is a round sum."

"Amounting to how much?"

"To thirteen millions of livres, sire."

"Thirteen millions!" cried Louis,
trembling with joy: "do you say thirteen
millions, Monsieur Colbert?"

"I said thirteen millions, yes, your
majesty."

"Of which everybody is ignorant?"

"Of which everybody is ignorant."

"Which are in your hands?"

"In my hands, yes, sire."

"And which I can have?"

"Within two hours, sire."

"But where are they, then?"

"In the cellar of a house which the
cardinal possessed in the city, and
which he was so kind as to leave me by a
particular clause of his will."

"You are acquainted with the cardinal's
will, then?"

"I have a duplicate of it, signed by his
hand."

"A duplicate?"

"Yes, sire, and here it is." Colbert
drew the deed quietly from his pocket
and showed it to the king. The king read
the article relative to the donation of
the house.

"But," said he, "there is no question
here but of the house; there is nothing
said of the money."

"Your pardon, sire, it is in my
conscience."

"And Monsieur Mazarin has intrusted it
to you?"

"Why not, sire?"

"He! a man mistrustful of everybody?"

"He was not so of me, sire, as your
majesty may perceive."

Louis fixed his eyes with admiration
upon that vulgar but expressive face.
"You are an honest man, M. Colbert,"
said the king.

"That is not a virtue, it is a duty,"
replied Colbert, coolly.

"But," added Louis, "does not the money
belong to the family?"

"If this money belonged to the family it
would be disposed of in the testament,
as the rest of his fortune is. If this
money belonged to the family, I, who
drew up the deed of donation in favor of
your majesty, should have added the sum
of thirteen millions to that of forty
millions which was offered to you."

"How!" exclaimed Louis XIV., "was it you
who drew up the deed of donation?"

"Yes, sire."

"And yet the cardinal was attached to
you?" added the king ingenuously.

"I had assured his eminence you would by
no means accept the gift," said Colbert
in that same quiet manner we have
described, and which, even in the common
habits of life, had something solemn in
it.

Louis passed his hand over his brow.
"Oh! how young I am," murmured he, "to
have the command of men."

Colbert waited the end of this
monologue. He saw Louis raise his head.
"At what hour shall I send the money to
your majesty?" asked he.

"To-night, at eleven o'clock; I desire
that no one may know that I possess this
money."

Colbert made no more reply than if the
thing had not been said to him.

"Is the amount in ingots, or coined
gold?"

"In coined gold, sire."

"That is well."

"Where shall I send it?"

"To the Louvre. Thank you, M. Colbert."

Colbert bowed and retired. "Thirteen
millions!" exclaimed Louis, as soon as
he was alone. "This must be a dream!"
Then he allowed his head to sink between
his hands, as if he were really asleep.
But at the end of a moment he arose, and
opening the window violently he bathed
his burning brow in the keen morning
air, which brought to his senses the
scent of the trees, and the perfume of
flowers. A splendid dawn was gilding the
horizon, and the first rays of the sun
bathed in flame the young king's brow.
"This is the dawn of my reign," murmured
Louis XIV. "It's a presage sent by the
Almighty."




CHAPTER 50

The First Day of the Royalty of Louis
XIV



In the morning, the news of the death of
the cardinal was spread through the
castle, and thence speedily reached the
city. The ministers Fouquet, Lyonne, and
Letellier entered la salle des seances,
to hold a council. The king sent for
them immediately. "Messieurs," said he,
"as long as monsieur le cardinal lived,
I allowed him to govern my affairs; but
now I mean to govern them myself. You
will give me your advice when I ask it.
You may go."

The ministers looked at each other with
surprise. If they concealed a smile it
was with a great effort, for they knew
that the prince, brought up in absolute
ignorance of business, by this took upon
himself a burden much too heavy for his
strength. Fouquet took leave of his
colleagues upon the stairs, saying: --
"Messieurs! there will be so much less
labor for us."

And he climbed gayly into his carriage.
The others, a little uneasy at the turn
things had taken, went back to Paris
together. Towards ten o'clock the king
repaired to the apartment of his mother,
with whom he had a long and private
conversation. After dinner, he got into
his carriage, and went straight to the
Louvre. There he received much company,
and took a degree of pleasure in
remarking the hesitation of each, and
the curiosity of all. Towards evening he
ordered the doors of the Louvre to be
closed, with the exception of one only,
which opened on the quay. He placed on
duty at this point two hundred Swiss,
who did not speak a word of French, with
orders to admit all who carried
packages, but no others; and by no means
to allow any one to go out. At eleven
o'clock precisely, he heard the rolling
of a heavy carriage under the arch, then
of another, then of a third; after which
the gate grated upon its hinges to be
closed. Soon after, somebody scratched
with his nail at the door of the
cabinet. The king opened it himself, and
beheld Colbert, whose first word was
this: -- "The money is in your majesty's
cellar."

The king then descended and went himself
to see the barrels of specie, in gold
and silver, which, under the direction
of Colbert, four men had just rolled
into a cellar of which the king had
given Colbert the key in the morning.
This review completed, Louis returned to
his apartments, followed by Colbert, who
had not apparently warmed with one ray
of personal satisfaction.

"Monsieur," said the king, "what do you
wish that I should give you, as a
recompense for this devotedness and
probity?"

"Absolutely nothing, sire."

"How nothing? Not even an opportunity of
serving me?"

"If your majesty were not to furnish me
with that opportunity, I should not the
less serve you. It is impossible for me
not to be the best servant of the king."

"You shall be intendant of the finances,
M. Colbert."

"But there is already a superintendent,
sire."

"I know that."

"Sire, the superintendent of the
finances is the most powerful man in the
kingdom."

"Ah!" cried Louis, coloring, "do you
think so?"

"He will crush me in a week, sire. Your
majesty gives me a controle for which
strength is indispensable. An intendant
under a superintendent, -- that is
inferiority."

"You want support -- you do not reckon
upon me?"

"I had the honor of telling your majesty
that during the lifetime of M. de
Mazarin, M. Fouquet was the second man
in the kingdom; now M. de Mazarin is
dead, M. Fouquet is become the first."

"Monsieur, I agree to what you told me
of all things up to to-day; but
to-morrow, please to remember, I shall
no longer suffer it."

"Then I shall be of no use to your
majesty?"

"You are already, since you fear to
compromise yourself in serving me."

"I only fear to be placed so that I
cannot serve your majesty."

"What do you wish, then?"

"I wish your majesty to allow me
assistance in the labors of the office
of intendant."

"The post would lose its value."

"It would gain in security."

"Choose your colleagues."

"Messieurs Breteuil, Marin, Harvard."

"To-morrow the ordonnance shall appear.

"Sire, I thank you."

"Is that all you ask?

"No, sire, one thing more."

"What is that?"

"Allow me to compose a chamber of
justice."

"What would this chamber of justice do?"

"Try the farmers-general and
contractors, who, during ten years, have
been robbing the state."

"Well, but what would you do with them?"

"Hang two or three, and that would make
the rest disgorge."

"I cannot commence my reign with
executions, Monsieur Colbert."

"On the contrary, sire, you had better,
in order not to have to end with them."

The king made no reply. "Does your
majesty consent?" said Colbert.

"I will reflect upon it, monsieur."

"It will be too late when reflection may
be made."

"Why?"

"Because you have to deal with people
stronger than ourselves, if they are
warned."

"Compose that chamber of justice,
monsieur."

"I will, sire."

"Is that all?"

"No, sire; there is still another
important affair. What rights does your
majesty attach to this office of
intendant?"

"Well -- I do not know -- the customary
ones."

"Sire, I desire that this office be
invested with the right of reading the
correspondence with England."

"Impossible, monsieur, for that
correspondence is kept from the council;
monsieur le cardinal himself carried it
on."

"I thought your majesty had this morning
declared that there should no longer be
a council?"

"Yes, I said so."

"Let your majesty then have the goodness
to read all the letters yourself,
particularly those from England; I hold
strongly to this article."

"Monsieur, you shall have that
correspondence, and render me an account
of it."

"Now, sire, what shall I do with respect
to the finances?"

"Everything M. Fouquet has not done."

"That is all I ask of your majesty.
Thanks, sire, I depart in peace;" and at
these words he took his leave. Louis
watched his departure. Colbert was not
yet a hundred paces from the Louvre when
the king received a courier from
England. After having looked at and
examined the envelope, the king broke
the seal precipitately, and found a
letter from Charles II. The following is
what the English prince wrote to his
royal brother: --



"Your majesty must be rendered very
uneasy by the illness of M. le Cardinal
Mazarin; but the excess of danger can
only prove of service to you. The
cardinal is given over by his physician.
I thank you for the gracious reply you
have made to my communication touching
the Princess Henrietta, my sister, and,
in a week, the princess and her court
will set out for Paris. It is gratifying
to me to acknowledge the fraternal
friendship you have evinced towards me,
and to call you, more justly than ever,
my brother. It is gratifying to me,
above everything, to prove to your
majesty how much I am interested in all
that may please you. You are having
Belle-Isle-en-Mer secretly fortified.
That is wrong. We shall never be at war
against each other. That measure does
not make me uneasy, it makes me sad. You
are spending useless millions, tell your
ministers so; and rest assured that I am
well informed; render me the same
service, my brother, if occasion
offers."



The king rang his bell violently, and
his valet de chambre appeared. "Monsieur
Colbert is just gone; he cannot be far
off. Let him be called back!" exclaimed
he.

The valet was about to execute the
order, when the king stopped him.

"No," said he, "no, I see the whole
scheme of that man. Belle-Isle belongs
to M. Fouquet; Belle-Isle is being
fortified: that is a conspiracy on the
part of M. Fouquet. The discovery of
that conspiracy is the ruin of the
superintendent, and that discovery is
the result of the correspondence with
England: this is why Colbert wished to
have that correspondence. Oh! but I
cannot place all my dependence upon that
man; he has a good head, but I must have
an arm!" Louis, all at once, uttered a
joyful cry. "I had," said he, "a
lieutenant of musketeers!"

"Yes, sire -- Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"He quitted the service for a time."

"Yes, sire."

"Let him be found, and be here to-morrow
the first thing in the morning."

The valet de chambre bowed and went out.

"Thirteen millions in my cellar," said
the king; "Colbert carrying my purse and
D'Artagnan my sword -- I am king."




CHAPTER 51

A Passion



The day of his arrival, on returning
from the Palais Royal, Athos, as we have
seen, went straight to his hotel in the
Rue Saint-Honore. He there found the
Vicomte de Bragelonne waiting for him in
his chamber, chatting with Grimaud. It
was not an easy thing to talk with this
old servant. Two men only possessed the
secret, Athos and D'Artagnan. The first
succeeded, because Grimaud sought to
make him speak himself; D'Artagnan, on
the contrary, because he knew how to
make Grimaud talk. Raoul was occupied in
making him describe the voyage to
England, and Grimaud had related it in
all its details, with a limited number
of gestures and eight words, neither
more nor less. He had, at first,
indicated by an undulating movement of
his hand, that his master and he had
crossed the sea. "Upon some expedition?"
Raoul had asked.

Grimaud by bending down his head had
answered, "Yes."

"When monsieur le comte incurred much
danger?" asked Raoul.

"Neither too much nor too little," was
replied by a shrug of the shoulders.

"But, still, what sort of danger?"
insisted Raoul.

Grimaud pointed to the sword; he pointed
to the fire and to a musket that was
hanging on the wall.

"Monsieur le comte had an enemy there,
then?" cried Raoul.

"Monk," replied Grimaud.

"It is strange," continued Raoul, "that
monsieur le comte persists in
considering me a novice, and not
allowing me to partake the honor and
danger of his adventure."

Grimaud smiled. It was at this moment
Athos came in. The host was lighting him
up the stairs, and Grimaud, recognizing
the step of his master, hastened to meet
him, which cut short the conversation.
But Raoul was launched on the sea of
interrogatories, and did not stop.
Taking both hands of the comte, with
warm, but respectful tenderness, -- "How
is it, monsieur," said he, "that you
have set out upon a dangerous voyage
without bidding me adieu, without
commanding the aid of my sword, of
myself, who ought to be your support,
now I have the strength; whom you have
brought up like a man? Ah! monsieur, can
you expose me to the cruel trial of
never seeing you again?"

"Who told you, Raoul," said the comte,
placing his cloak and hat in the hands
of Grimaud, who had unbuckled his sword,
"who told you that my voyage was a
dangerous one?"

"I," said Grimaud.

"And why did you do so?" said Athos,
sternly.

Grimaud was embarrassed; Raoul came to
his assistance, by answering for him.
"It is natural, monsieur that our good
Grimaud should tell me the truth in what
concerns you. By whom should you be
loved and supported, if not by me?"

Athos did not reply. He made a friendly
motion to Grimaud, which sent him out of
the room, he then seated himself in a
fauteuil, whilst Raoul remained standing
before him.

"But is it true," continued Raoul, "that
your voyage was an expedition, and that
steel and fire threatened you?"

"Say no more about that, vicomte," said
Athos mildly. "I set out hastily, it is
true: but the service of King Charles
II. required a prompt departure. As to
your anxiety, I thank you for it, and I
know that I can depend upon you. You
have not wanted for anything, vicomte,
in my absence, have you?"

"No, monsieur, thank you."

"I left orders with Blaisois to pay you
a hundred pistoles, if you should stand
in need of money."

"Monsieur, I have not seen Blaisois."

"You have been without money, then?"

"Monsieur, I had thirty pistoles left
from the sale of the horses I took in my
last campaign, and M. le Prince had the
kindness to allow me to win two hundred
pistoles at his play-table three months
ago."

"Do you play? I don't like that, Raoul."

"I never play, monsieur; it was M. le
Prince who ordered me to hold his cards
at Chantilly -- one night when a courier
came to him from the king. I won, and M.
le Prince commanded me to take the
stakes."

"Is that a practice in the household,
Raoul?" asked Athos with a frown.

"Yes, monsieur; every week M. le Prince
affords, upon one occasion or another, a
similar advantage to one of his
gentlemen. There are fifty gentlemen in
his highness's household; it was my
turn."

"Very well! You went into Spain, then?"

"Yes, monsieur, I made a very delightful
and interesting journey."

"You have been back a month, have you
not?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And in the course of that month?"

"In that month ---- "

"What have you done?"

"My duty, monsieur."

"Have you not been home, to La Fere?"

Raoul colored. Athos looked at him with
a fixed but tranquil expression.

"You would be wrong not to believe me,"
said Raoul. "I feel that I colored, and
in spite of myself. The question you did
me the honor to ask me is of a nature to
raise in me much emotion. I color, then,
because I am agitated, not because I
meditate a falsehood."

"I know, Raoul, you never lie."

"No, monsieur."

"Besides, my young friend, you would be
wrong; what I wanted to say ---- "

"I know quite well, monsieur. You would
ask me if I have not been to Blois?"

"Exactly so."

"I have not been there; I have not even
seen the person to whom you allude."

Raoul's voice trembled as he pronounced
these words. Athos, a sovereign judge in
all matters of delicacy, immediately
added, "Raoul, you answer with a painful
feeling; you are unhappy."

"Very, monsieur; you have forbidden me
to go to Blois, or to see Mademoiselle
de la Valliere again." Here the young
man stopped. That dear name, so
delightful to pronounce, made his heart
bleed, although so sweet upon his lips.

"And I have acted rightly, Raoul," Athos
hastened to reply. "I am neither an
unjust nor a barbarous father; I respect
true love; but I look forward for you to
a future -- an immense future. A new
reign is about to break upon us like a
fresh dawn. War calls upon a young king
full of chivalric spirit. What is
wanting to assist this heroic ardor is a
battalion of young and free lieutenants
who would rush to the fight with
enthusiasm and fall, crying: `Vive le
Roi!' instead of `Adieu, my dear wife.'
You understand that, Raoul. However
brutal my reasoning may appear, I
conjure you, then, to believe me, and to
turn away your thoughts from those early
days of youth in which you took up this
habit of love -- days of effeminate
carelessness, which soften the heart and
render it incapable of consuming those
strong, bitter draughts called glory and
adversity. Therefore, Raoul, I repeat to
you, you should see in my counsel only
the desire of being useful to you, only
the ambition of seeing you prosper. I
believe you capable of becoming a
remarkable man. March alone, and you
will march better, and more quickly."

"You have commanded, monsieur," replied
Raoul, "and I obey."

"Commanded!" cried Athos. "Is it thus
you reply to me? I have commanded you!
Oh! you distort my words as you
misconceive my intentions. I do not
command you; I request you."

"No, monsieur, you have commanded," said
Raoul, persistently; "had you only
requested me, your request is even more
effective than your order. I have not
seen Mademoiselle de la Valliere again."

"But you are unhappy! you are unhappy!"
insisted Athos.

Raoul made no reply.

"I find you pale; I find you dull. The
sentiment is strong, then?"

"It is a passion," replied Raoul.

"No -- a habit."

"Monsieur, you know I have traveled
much, that I have passed two years far
away from her. A habit would yield to an
absence of two years, I believe;
whereas, on my return, I loved, not
more, that was impossible, but as much.
Mademoiselle de la Valliere is for me
the one lady above all others; but you
are for me a god upon earth -- to you I
sacrifice everything."

"You are wrong," said Athos; "I have no
longer any right over you. Age has
emancipated you; you no longer even
stand in need of my consent. Besides, I
will not refuse my consent after what
you have told me. Marry Mademoiselle de
la Valliere, if you like."

Raoul was startled, but suddenly: "You
are very kind, monsieur," said he, "and
your concession excites my warmest
gratitude, but I will not accept it."

"Then you now refuse?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I will not oppose you in anything,
Raoul."

"But you have at the bottom of your
heart an idea against this marriage: it
is not your choice."

"That is true."

"That is sufficient to make me resist: I
will wait."

"Beware, Raoul! What you are now saying
is serious."

"I know it is, monsieur; as I said, I
will wait."

"Until I die?" said Athos, much
agitated.

"Oh! monsieur," cried Raoul, with tears
in his eyes, "is it possible that you
should wound my heart thus? I have never
given you cause of complaint!"

"Dear boy, that is true," murmured
Athos, pressing his lips violently
together to conceal the emotion of which
he was no longer master. "No, I will no
longer afflict you; only I do not
comprehend what you mean by waiting.
Will you wait till you love no longer?"

"Ah! for that! -- no, monsieur. I will
wait till you change your opinion."

"I should wish to put the matter to a
test, Raoul; I should like to see if
Mademoiselle de la Valliere will wait as
you do."

"I hope so, monsieur."

"But take care, Raoul! suppose she did
not wait? Ah, you are so young, so
confiding, so loyal! Women are
changeable."

"You have never spoken ill to me of
women, monsieur; you have never had to
complain of them; why should you doubt
of Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"

"That is true," said Athos, casting down
his eyes; "I have never spoken ill to
you of women; I have never had to
complain of them; Mademoiselle de la
Valliere never gave birth to a
suspicion; but when we are looking
forward, we must go even to exceptions,
even to improbabilities! If, I say,
Mademoiselle de la Valliere should not
wait for you?"

"How, monsieur?"

"If she turned her eyes another way."

"If she looked favorably upon another,
do you mean, monsieur?" said Raoul, pale
with agony.

"Exactly."

"Well, monsieur, I would kill him," said
Raoul, simply, "and all the men whom
Mademoiselle de la Valliere should
choose, until one of them had killed me,
or Mademoiselle de la Valliere had
restored me her heart."

Athos started. "I thought," resumed he,
in an agitated voice, "that you called
me just now your god, your law in this
world."

"Oh!" said Raoul, trembling, "you would
forbid me the duel?"

"Suppose I did forbid it, Raoul?"

"You would forbid me to hope, monsieur;
consequently you would not forbid me to
die."

Athos raised his eyes toward the
vicomte. He had pronounced these words
with the most melancholy inflection,
accompanied by the most melancholy look.
"Enough,"said Athos, after a long
silence, "enough of this subject, upon
which we both go too far. Live as well
as you are able, Raoul, perform your
duties, love Mademoiselle de; la
Valliere; in a word, act like a man,
since you have attained the age of a
man; only do not forget that I love you
tenderly, and that you profess to love
me."

"Ah! monsieur le comte!" cried Raoul,
pressing the hand of Athos to his heart.

"Enough, dear boy, leave me; I want
rest. A propos, M. d'Artagnan has
returned from England with me; you owe
him a visit."

"I will pay it, monsieur, with great
pleasure. I love Monsieur d'Artagnan
exceedingly."

"You are right in doing so; he is a
worthy man and a brave cavalier."

"Who loves you dearly."

"I am sure of that. Do you know his
address?"

"At the Louvre, I suppose, or wherever
the king is. Does he not command the
musketeers?"

"No; at present M. d'Artagnan is absent
on leave; he is resting for awhile. Do
not, therefore, seek him at the posts of
his service. You will hear of him at the
house of a certain Planchet."

"His former lackey?"

"Exactly, turned grocer."

"I know; Rue des Lombards?"

"Somewhere thereabouts, or Rue des
Arcis."

"I will find it, monsieur, -- I will
find it."

"You will say a thousand kind things to
him, on my part, and ask him to come and
dine with me before I set out for La
Fere."

"Yes, monsieur."

"Good-night, Raoul!"

"Monsieur, I see you wear an order I
never saw you wear before; accept my
compliments!"

"The Fleece! that is true. A bauble, my
boy, which no longer amuses an old child
like myself. Goodnight, Raoul!"




CHAPTER 52

D'Artagnan's Lesson



Raoul did not meet with D'Artagnan the
next day, as he had hoped. He only met
with Planchet, whose joy was great at
seeing the young man again, and who
contrived to pay him two or three little
soldierly compliments, savoring very
little of the grocer's shop. But as
Raoul was returning the next day from
Vincennes, at the head of fifty dragoons
confided to him by Monsieur le Prince,
he perceived, in La Place Baudoyer, a
man with his nose in the air, examining
a house as we examine a horse we have a
fancy to buy. This man, dressed in
citizen costume buttoned up like a
military pourpoint, a very small hat on
his head, but a long shagreen-mounted
sword by his side, turned his head as
soon as he heard the steps of the
horses, and left off looking at the
house to look at the dragoons. It was
simply M. d'Artagnan; D'Artagnan on
foot; D'Artagnan with his hands behind
him, passing a little review upon the
dragoons, after having reviewed the
buildings. Not a man, not a tag, not a
horse's hoof escaped his inspection.
Raoul rode at the side of his troop;
D'Artagnan perceived him the last. "Eh!"
said he, "Eh! Mordioux!"

"I was not mistaken!" cried Raoul,
turning his horse towards him.

"Mistaken -- no! Good-day to you,"
replied the ex-musketeer; whilst Raoul
eagerly pressed the hand of his old
friend. "Take care, Raoul," said
D'Artagnan, "the second horse of the
fifth rank will lose a shoe before he
gets to the Pont Marie; he has only two
nails left in his off fore-foot."

"Wait a minute, I will come back," said
Raoul.

"Can you quit your detachment?"

"The cornet is there to take my place."

"Then you will come and dine with me?"

"Most willingly, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Be quick, then; leave your horse, or
make them give me one."

"I prefer coming back on foot with you."

Raoul hastened to give notice to the
cornet, who took his post; he then
dismounted, gave his horse to one of the
dragoons, and with great delight seized
the arm of M. d'Artagnan, who had
watched him during all these little
evolutions with the satisfaction of a
connoisseur.

"What, do you come from Vincennes?" said
he.

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier."

"And the cardinal?"

"Is very ill, it is even reported he is
dead.'

"Are you on good terms with M. Fouquet?"
asked D'Artagnan, with a disdainful
movement of the shoulders, proving that
the death of Mazarin did not affect him
beyond measure.

"With M. Fouquet?" said Raoul " I do not
know him."

"So much the worse! so much the worse!
for a new king always seeks to get good
men in his employment."

"Oh! the king means no harm," replied
the young man.

"I say nothing about the crown," cried
D'Artagnan; "I am speaking of the
king -- the king, that is M. Fouquet, if
the cardinal is dead. You must contrive
to stand well with M. Fouquet, if you do
not wish to molder away all your life as
I have moldered. It is true you have,
fortunately, other protectors."

"M. le Prince, for instance."

"Worn out! worn out!"

"M. le Comte de la Fere?"

"Athos! Oh! that's different; yes,
Athos -- and if you have any wish to
make your way in England, you cannot
apply to a better person; I can even
say, without too much vanity, that I
myself have some credit at the court of
Charles II. There is a king -- God speed
him!"

"Ah!" cried Raoul, with the natural
curiosity of well-born young people,
while listening to experience and
courage.

"Yes, a king who amuses himself, it is
true, but who has had a sword in his
hand, and can appreciate useful men.
Athos is on good terms with Charles II.
Take service there, and leave these
scoundrels of contractors and
farmers-general, who steal as well with
French hands as others have done with
Italian hands; leave the little
snivelling king, who is going to give us
another reign of Francis II. Do you know
anything of history, Raoul?"

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier."

"Do you know, then, that Francis II. had
always the earache?"

"No, I did not know that."

"That Charles IV. had always the
headache?"

"Indeed!"

"And Henry III. always the
stomach-ache?"

Raoul began to laugh.

"Well, my dear friend, Louis XIV. always
has the heartache; it is deplorable to
see a king sighing from morning till
night without saying once in course of
the day, ventre-saint-gris! corboeuf! or
anything to rouse one."

"Was that the reason why you quitted the
service, monsieur le chevalier?"

"Yes."

"But you yourself, M. d'Artagnan, are
throwing the handle after the axe; you
will not make a fortune."

"Who? I?" replied D'Artagnan, in a
careless tone; "I am settled -- I had
some family property."

Raoul looked at him. The poverty of
D'Artagnan was proverbial. A Gascon, he
exceeded in ill-luck all the gasconnades
of France and Navarre; Raoul had a
hundred times heard Job and D'Artagnan
named together, as the twins Romulus and
Remus. D'Artagnan caught Raoul's look of
astonishment.

"And has not your father told you I have
been in England?"

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier."

"And that I there met with a very lucky
chance?"

"No, monsieur, I did not know that."

"Yes, a very worthy friend of mine, a
great nobleman, the viceroy of Scotland
and Ireland, has endowed me with an
inheritance."

"An inheritance?"

"And a good one, too."

"Then you are rich?"

"Bah!"

"Receive my sincere congratulation."

"Thank you! Look, that is my house."

"Place de Greve?"

"Yes, don't you like this quarter?"

"On the contrary, the look-out over the
water is pleasant. Oh! what a pretty old
house!"

"The sign Notre Dame; it is an old
cabaret, which I have transformed into a
private house in two days."

"But the cabaret is still open?"

"Pardieu!"

"And where do you lodge, then?

"I? I lodge with Planchet."

"You said, just now, `This is my
house.'"

"I said so, because, in fact, it is my
house. I have bought it."

"Ah!" said Raoul.

"At ten years' purchase, my dear Raoul;
a superb affair, I bought the house for
thirty thousand livres; it has a garden
which opens to the Rue de la
Mortillerie; the cabaret lets for a
thousand livres, with the first story;
the garret, or second floor, for five
hundred livres."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, indeed."

"Five hundred livres for a garret? Why,
it is not habitable."

"Therefore no one inhabits it, only, you
see this garret has two windows which
look out upon the Place."

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, then, every time anybody is
broken on the wheel or hung, quartered,
or burnt, these two windows let for
twenty pistoles."

"Oh!" said Raoul, with horror.

"It is disgusting, is it not?" said
D'Artagnan.

"Oh!" repeated Raoul.

"It is disgusting, but so it is. These
Parisian cockneys are sometimes real
anthropophagi. I cannot conceive how
men, Christians, can make such
speculations."

"That is true."

"As for myself," continued D'Artagnan,
"if I inhabited that house, on days of
execution I would shut it up to the very
keyholes; but I do not inhabit it."

"And you let the garret for five hundred
livres?"

"To the ferocious cabaretier, who
sub-lets it. I said, then, fifteen
hundred livres."

"The natural interest of money," said
Raoul, -- "five per cent."

"Exactly so. I then have left the side
of the house at the back, store-rooms,
and cellars, inundated every winter, two
hundred livres; and the garden, which is
very fine, well planted, well shaded
under the walls and the portal of
Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais, thirteen
hundred livres."

"Thirteen hundred livres! why, that is
royal!"

"This is the whole history. I strongly
suspect some canon of the parish (these
canons are all as rich as Croesus) -- I
suspect some canon of having hired the
garden to take his pleasure in. The
tenant has given the name of M. Godard.
That is either a false name or a real
name; if true, he is a canon; if false,
he is some unknown; but of what
consequence is it to me? he always pays
in advance. I had also an idea just now,
when I met you, of buying a house in the
Place Baudoyer, the back premises of
which join my garden, and would make a
magnificent property. Your dragoons
interrupted my calculations. But come,
let us take the Rue de la Vannerie: that
will lead us straight to M. Planchet's."
D'Artagnan mended his pace, and
conducted Raoul to Planchet's dwelling,
a chamber of which the grocer had given
up to his old master. Planchet was out,
but the dinner was ready. There was a
remains of military regularity and
punctuality preserved in the grocer's
household. D'Artagnan returned to the
subject of Raoul's future.

"Your father brings you up rather
strictly?" said he.

"Justly, monsieur le chevalier."

"Oh, yes, I know Athos is just, but
close, perhaps?"

"A royal hand, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Well, never want, my boy! If ever you
stand in need of a few pistoles, the old
musketeer is at hand."

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan!"

"Do you play a little?"

"Never."

"Successful with the ladies, then? --
Oh, my little Aramis! That, my dear
friend, costs even more than play. It is
true we fight when we lose, that is a
compensation. Bah! that little
sniveller, the king, makes winners give
him his revenge. What a reign! my poor
Raoul, what a reign! When we think that,
in my time, the musketeers were besieged
in their houses like Hector and Priam in
the city of Troy, and the women wept,
and then the walls laughed, and then
five hundred beggarly fellows clapped
their hands, and cried, `Kill! kill!'
when not one musketeer was hurt.
Mordioux! you will never see anything
like that."

"You are very hard upon the king, my
dear Monsieur d'Artagnan; and yet you
scarcely know him."

"I! Listen, Raoul. Day by day, hour by
hour, -- take note of my words, -- I
will predict what he will do. The
cardinal being dead, he will fret; very
well, that is the least silly thing he
will do, particularly if he does not
shed a tear."

"And then?"

"Why then he will get M. Fouquet to
allow him a pension, and will go and
compose verses at Fontainebleau, upon
some Mancini or other, whose eyes the
queen will scratch out. She is a
Spaniard, you see, -- this queen of
ours, and she has, for mother-in-law,
Madame Anne of Austria. I know something
of the Spaniards of the house of
Austria."

"And next?"

"Well, after having torn off the silver
lace from the uniforms of his Swiss,
because lace is too expensive, he will
dismount the musketeers, because the
oats and hay of a horse cost five sols a
day."

"Oh! do not say that."

"Of what consequence is it to me? I am
no longer a musketeer, am I? Let them be
on horseback, let them be on foot, let
them carry a larding-pin, a spit, a
sword, or nothing -- what is it to me?"

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, I beseech
you speak no more ill of the king. I am
almost in his service, and my father
would be very angry with me for having
heard, even from your mouth, words
injurious to his majesty."

"Your father, eh? He is a knight in
every bad cause. Pardieu! yes, your
father is a brave man, a Caesar, it is
true -- but a man without perception."

"Now, my dear chevalier," exclaimed
Raoul, laughing, "are you going to speak
ill of my father, of him you call the
great Athos. Truly you are in a bad vein
to-day; riches render you as sour as
poverty renders other people."

"Pardieu! you are right. I am a rascal
and in my dotage; I am an unhappy wretch
grown old; a tent-cord untwisted, a
pierced cuirass, a boot without a sole,
a spur without a rowel; -- but do me the
pleasure to add one thing."

"What is that, my dear Monsieur
d'Artagnan?"

"Simply say: `Mazarin was a pitiful
wretch.'"

"Perhaps he is dead."

"More the reason -- I say was; if I did
not hope that he was dead, I would
entreat you to say: `Mazarin is a
pitiful wretch.' Come, say so, say so,
for love of me."

"Well, I will."

"Say it!"

"Mazarin was a pitiful wretch," said
Raoul, smiling at the musketeer, who
roared with laughter, as in his best
days.

"A moment," said the latter; "you have
spoken my first proposition, here is the
conclusion of it, -- repeat, Raoul,
repeat: `But I regret Mazarin.'"

"Chevalier!"

"You will not say it? Well, then, I will
say it twice for you."

"But you would regret Mazarin?"

And they were still laughing and
discussing this profession of
principles, when one of the shop-boys
entered. "A letter, monsieur," said he,
"for M. d'Artagnan."

"Thank you; give it me," cried the
musketeer.

"The handwriting of monsieur le comte,"
said Raoul.

"Yes, yes." And D'Artagnan broke the
seal.

"Dear friend," said Athos, "a person has
just been here to beg me to seek for
you, on the part of the king."

"Seek me!" said D'Artagnan, letting the
paper fall upon the table. Raoul picked
it up, and continued to read aloud: --

"Make haste. His majesty is very anxious
to speak to you, and expects you at the
Louvre."

"Expects me?" again repeated the
musketeer.

"He, he, he!" laughed Raoul.

"Oh, oh!" replied D'Artagnan. "What the
devil can this mean?"




CHAPTER 53

The King



The first moment of surprise over,
D'Artagnan reperused Athos's note. "It
is strange," said he, "that the king
should send for me."

"Why so?" said Raoul; "do you not think,
monsieur, that the king must regret such
a servant as you?"

"Oh, oh!" cried the officer, laughing
with all his might; "you are poking fun
at me, Master Raoul. If the king had
regretted me, he would not have let me
leave him. No, no; I see in it something
better, or worse, if you like."

"Worse! What can that be, monsieur le
chevalier?"

"You are young, you are a boy, you are
admirable. Oh, how I should like to be
as you are! To be but twenty-four, with
an unfurrowed brow, under which the
brain is void of everything but women,
love, and good intentions. Oh, Raoul, as
long as you have not received the smiles
of kings, the confidence of queens; as
long as you have not had two cardinals
killed under you, the one a tiger, the
other a fox, as long as you have not --
But what is the good of all this
trifling? We must part, Raoul."

"How you say the word! What a serious
face!"

"Eh! but the occasion is worthy of it.
Listen to me. I have a very good
recommendation to tender you."

"I am all attention, Monsieur
d'Artagnan."

"You will go and inform your father of
my departure."

"Your departure?"

"Pardieu! You will tell him that I am
gone into England; and that I am living
in my little country-house."

"In England, you! -- And the king's
orders?"

"You get more and more silly: do you
imagine that I am going to the Louvre,
to place myself at the disposal of that
little crowned wolf-cub?"

"The king a wolf-cub? Why, monsieur le
chevalier, you are mad!"

"On the contrary, I never was so sane.
You do not know what he wants to do with
me, this worthy son of Louis le
Juste! -- But, Mordioux! that is policy.
He wishes to ensconce me snugly in the
Bastile -- purely and simply, look you!"

"What for?" cried Raoul, terrified at
what he heard.

"On account of what I told him one day
at Blois. I was warm; he remembers it."

"You told him what?"

"That he was mean, cowardly, and silly."

"Good God!" cried Raoul, "is it possible
that such words should have issued from
your mouth?"

"Perhaps I don't give the letter of my
speech, but I give the sense of it."

"But did not the king have you arrested
immediately?"

"By whom? It was I who commanded the
musketeers; he must have commanded me to
convey myself to prison; I would never
have consented: I would have resisted
myself. And then I went into England --
no more D'Artagnan. Now, the cardinal is
dead, or nearly so, they learn that I am
in Paris, and they lay their hands on
me."

"The cardinal was your protector?"

"The cardinal knew me; he knew certain
particularities of me; I also knew some
of his; we appreciated each other
mutually. And then, on rendering his
soul to the devil, he would recommend
Anne of Austria to make me the
inhabitant of a safe place. Go then, and
find your father, relate the fact to
him -- and adieu!"

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan," said
Raoul, very much agitated, after having
looked out at the window, "you cannot
even fly!"

"Why not?"

"Because there is below an officer of
the Swiss guards waiting for you."

"Well!"

"Well, he will arrest you."

D'Artagnan broke into a Homeric laugh.

"Oh! I know very well that you will
resist, that you will fight, even; I
know very well that you will prove the
conqueror; but that amounts to
rebellion, and you are an officer
yourself, knowing what discipline is."

"Devil of a boy, how logical that is!"
grumbled D'Artagnan.

"You approve of it. do you not?"

"Yes, instead of passing into the
street, where that idiot is waiting for
me, I will slip quietly out at the back.
I have a horse in the stable, and a good
one. I will ride him to death; my means
permit me to do so, and by killing one
horse after another, I shall arrive at
Boulogne in eleven hours; I know the
road. Only tell your father one thing."

"What is that?"

"That is -- that the thing he knows
about is placed at Planchet's house,
except a fifth, and that ---- "

"But, my dear M. d'Artagnan, rest
assured that if you fly, two things will
be said of you."

"What are they, my dear friend?"

"The first, that you have been afraid."

"Ah! and who will dare to say that?"

"The king first."

"Well! but he will tell the truth, -- I
am afraid."

"The second, that you knew yourself
guilty."

"Guilty of what?"

"Why, of the crimes they wish to impute
to you."

"That is true again. So, then, you
advise me to go and get myself made a
prisoner in the Bastile?"

"M. le Comte de la Fere would advise you
just as I do."

"Pardieu! I know he would," said
D'Artagnan thoughtfully. "You are right,
I shall not escape. But if they cast me
into the Bastile?"

"We will get you out again," said Raoul,
with a quiet, calm air.

"Mordioux! You said that after a brave
fashion, Raoul," said D'Artagnan,
seizing his hand, "that savors of Athos,
distinctly. Well, I will go, then. Do
not forget my last word."

"Except a fifth," said Raoul.

"Yes, you are a fine boy! and I wish you
to add one thing to that last word."

"Speak, chevalier!"

"It is that if you cannot get me out of
the Bastile, and I remain there -- oh!
that will be so, and I shall be a
detestable prisoner; I, who have been a
passable man, -- in that case, I give
three-fifths to you, and the fourth to
your father."

"Chevalier!"

"Mordioux! If you will have some masses
said for me, you are welcome."

That being said, D'Artagnan took his
belt from the hook, girded on his sword,
took a hat the feather of which was
fresh, and held his hand out to Raoul,
who threw himself into his arms. When in
the shop, he cast a quick glance at the
shop-lads, who looked upon the scene
with a pride mingled with some
inquietude; then plunging his hands into
a chest of currants, he went straight to
the officer who was waiting for him at
the door.

"Those features! Can it be you, Monsieur
de Friedisch?" cried D'Artagnan, gayly.
"Eh! eh! what, do we arrest our
friends?"

"Arrest!" whispered the lads among
themselves.

"Yes, it is I, Monsieur d'Artagnan!
Good-day to you!" said the Swiss, in his
mountain patois.

"Must I give you up my sword? I warn
you, that it is long and heavy; you had
better let me wear it to the Louvre: I
feel quite lost in the streets without a
sword, and you would be more at a loss
than I should, with two."

"The king has given no orders about it,"
replied the Swiss, "so keep your sword."

"Well, that is very polite on the part
of the king. Let us go, at once."

Monsieur Friedisch was not a talker, and
D'Artagnan had too many things to think
about to say much. From Planchet's shop
to the Louvre was not far -- they
arrived in ten minutes. It was a dark
night. M. de Friedisch wanted to enter
by the wicket. "No," said D'Artagnan,
"you would lose time by that; take the
little staircase."

The Swiss did as D'Artagnan advised, and
conducted him to the vestibule of the
king's cabinet. When arrived there, he
bowed to his prisoner, and, without
saying anything, returned to his post.
D'Artagnan had not had time to ask why
his sword was not taken from him, when
the door of the cabinet opened, and a
valet de chambre called "M. D'Artagnan!"
The musketeer assumed his parade
carriage and entered, with his large
eyes wide open, his brow calm, his
mustache stiff. The king was seated at a
table writing. He did not disturb
himself when the step of the musketeer
resounded on the floor; he did not even
turn his head. D'Artagnan advanced as
far as the middle of the room, and
seeing that the king paid no attention
to him, and suspecting, besides, that
this was nothing but affectation, a sort
of tormenting preamble to the
explanation that was preparing, he
turned his back on the prince, and began
to examine the frescoes on the cornices,
and the cracks in the ceiling. This
maneuver was accompanied by a little
tacit monologue. "Ah! you want to humble
me, do you? -- you, whom I have seen so
young -- you, whom I have served as I
would my own child, -- you, whom I have
served as I would a God -- that is to
say, for nothing. Wait awhile! wait
awhile! you shall see what a man can do
who has snuffed the air of the fire of
the Huguenots, under the beard of
monsieur le cardinal -- the true
cardinal." At this moment Louis turned
round.

"Ah! are you there, Monsieur
d'Artagnan?" said he.

D'Artagnan saw the movement and imitated
it. "Yes, sire," said he.

"Very well; have the goodness to wait
till I have cast this up."

D'Artagnan made no reply; he only bowed.
"That is polite enough," thought he; "I
have nothing to say."

Louis made a violent dash with his pen,
and threw it angrily away.

"Ah! go on, work yourself up!" thought
the musketeer; "you will put me at my
ease. You shall find I did not empty the
bag, the other day, at Blois."

Louis rose from his seat, passed his
hand over his brow, then, stopping
opposite to D'Artagnan, he looked at him
with an air at once imperious and kind.
"What the devil does he want with me? I
wish he would begin!" thought the
musketeer.

"Monsieur," said the king, "you know,
without doubt, that monsieur le cardinal
is dead?"

"I suspected so, sire."

"You know that, consequently, I am
master in my own kingdom?"

"That is not a thing that dates from the
death of monsieur le cardinal, sire; a
man is always master in his own house,
when he wishes to be so."

"Yes; but do you remember all you said
to me at Blois?"

"Now we come to it," thought D'Artagnan,
"I was not deceived. Well, so much the
better, it is a sign that my scent is
tolerably keen yet."

"You do not answer me," said Louis.

"Sire, I think I recollect."

"You only think?"

"It is so long ago."

"If you do not remember, I do. You said
to me, -- listen with attention."

"Ah! I shall listen with all my ears,
sire; for it is very likely the
conversation will turn in a fashion very
interesting to me."

Louis once more looked at the musketeer,
The latter smoothed the feather of his
hat, then his mustache, and waited
bravely. Louis XIV. continued: "You
quitted my service, monsieur, after
having told me the whole truth?"

"Yes, sire."

"That is, after having declared to me
all you thought to be true, with regard
to my mode of thinking and acting. That
is always a merit. You began by telling
me that you had served my family thirty
years, and were fatigued."

"I said so; yes, sire."

"And you afterwards admitted that that
fatigue was a pretext, and that
discontent was the real cause."

"I was discontented, in fact, but that
discontent has never betrayed itself,
that I know of, and if, like a man of
heart, I have spoken out before your
majesty, I have not even thought of the
matter, before anybody else."

"Do not excuse yourself, D'Artagnan, but
continue to listen to me. When making me
the reproach that you were discontented,
you received in reply a promise: --
`Wait.' -- Is not that true?"

"Yes, sire, as true as what I told you."

"You answered me, `Hereafter! No, now,
immediately.' Do not excuse yourself, I
tell you. It was natural, but you had no
charity for your poor prince, Monsieur
d'Artagnan."

"Sire! charity for a king, on the part
of a poor soldier!"

"You understand me very well; you knew
that I stood in need of it; you knew
very well that I was not master; you
knew very well that my hope was in the
future. Now, you answered me when I
spoke of that future, `My discharge, --
and that directly.'"

"That is true," murmured D'Artagnan,
biting his mustache.

"You did not flatter me when I was in
distress," added Louis.

"But," said D'Artagnan, raising his head
nobly, "if I did not flatter your
majesty when poor, neither did I betray
you. I have shed my blood for nothing; I
have watched like a dog at a door,
knowing full well that neither bread nor
bone would be thrown to me. I, although
poor likewise, asked nothing of your
majesty but the discharge you speak of."

"I know you are a brave man, but I was a
young man, and you ought to have had
some indulgence for me. What had you to
reproach the king with? -- that he left
King Charles II. without assistance? --
let us say further -- that he did not
marry Mademoiselle de Mancini?" When
saying these words, the king fixed upon
the musketeer a searching look.

"Ah! ah!" thought the latter, "he is
doing far more than remembering, he
divines. The devil!"

"Your sentence," continued Louis, "fell
upon the king and fell upon the man.
But, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that weakness,
for you considered it a weakness?" --
D'Artagnan made no reply -- "you
reproached me also with regard to
monsieur, the defunct cardinal. Now,
monsieur le cardinal, did he not bring
me up, did he not support me? --
elevating himself and supporting himself
at the same time, I admit; but the
benefit was discharged. As an ingrate or
an egotist, would you, then, have better
loved or served me?"

"Sire!"

"We will say no more about it, monsieur;
it would only create in you too many
regrets, and me too much pain."

D'Artagnan was not convinced. The young
king, in adopting a tone of hauteur with
him, did not forward his purpose.

"You have since reflected?" resumed
Louis.

"Upon what, sire?" asked D'Artagnan,
politely.

"Why, upon all that I have said to you,
monsieur."

"Yes, sire, no doubt ---- "

"And you have only waited for an
opportunity of retracting your words?"

"Sire!"

"You hesitate, it seems."

"I do not understand what your majesty
did me the honor to say to me."

Louis's brow became cloudy.

"Have the goodness to excuse me, sire;
my understanding is particularly thick;
things do not penetrate it without
difficulty; but it is true, when once
they get in, they remain there."

"Yes, yes; you appear to have a memory."

"Almost as good a one as your
majesty's."

"Then give me quickly one solution. My
time is valuable. What have you been
doing since your discharge?"

"Making my fortune, sire."

"The expression is crude, Monsieur
d'Artagnan."

"Your majesty takes it in bad part,
certainly. I entertain nothing but the
profoundest respect for the king; and if
I have been impolite, which might be
excused by my long sojourn in camps and
barracks, your majesty is too much above
me to be offended at a word that
innocently escapes from a soldier."

"In fact, I know you performed a
brilliant action in England, monsieur. I
only regret that you have broken your
promise."

"I!" cried D'Artagnan.

"Doubtless. You engaged your word not to
serve any other prince on quitting my
service. Now it was for King Charles II.
that you undertook the marvelous
carrying off of M. Monk."

"Pardon me, sire, it was for myself."

"And did you succeed?"

"Like the captains of the fifteenth
century, coups-de-main and adventures."

"What do you call succeeding? -- a
fortune?"

"A hundred thousand crowns, sire, which
I now possess -- that is, in one week
three times as much money as I ever had
in fifty years."

"It is a handsome sum. But you are
ambitious, I perceive."

"I, sire? The quarter of that would be a
treasure; and I swear to you I have no
thought of augmenting it."

"What! you contemplate remaining idle?"

"Yes, sire."

"You mean to drop the sword?"

"That I have already done."

"Impossible, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said
Louis, firmly.

"But, sire ---- "

"Well?"

"And why, sire?"

"Because it is my wish you should not!"
said the young prince, in a voice so
stern and imperious that D'Artagnan
evinced surprise and even uneasiness.

"Will your majesty allow me one word of
reply?" said he.

"Speak."

"I formed that resolution when I was
poor and destitute."

"So be it. Go on."

"Now, when by my energy I have acquired
a comfortable means of subsistence,
would your majesty despoil me of my
liberty? Your majesty would condemn me
to the lowest, when I have gained the
highest?"

"Who gave you permission, monsieur to
fathom my designs, or to reckon with
me?" replied Louis, in a voice almost
angry; "who told you what I shall do or
what you will yourself do?"

"Sire," said the musketeer, quietly, "as
far as I see, freedom is not the order
of the conversation, as it was on the
day we came to an explanation at Blois."

"No, monsieur; everything is changed."

"I tender your majesty my sincere
compliments upon that, but ---- "

"But you don't believe it?"

"I am not a great statesman, and yet I
have my eye upon affairs; it seldom
fails; now, I do not see exactly as your
majesty does, sire. The reign of Mazarin
is over, but that of the financiers is
begun. They have the money; your majesty
will not often see much of it. To live
under the paw of these hungry wolves is
hard for a man who reckoned upon
independence."

At this moment some one scratched at the
door of the cabinet; the king raised his
head proudly. "Your pardon, Monsieur
d'Artagnan," said he; "it is M. Colbert,
who comes to make me a report. Come in
M. Colbert."

D'Artagnan drew back. Colbert entered
with papers in his hand, and went up to
the king. There can be little doubt that
the Gascon did not lose the opportunity
of applying his keen, quick glance to
the new figure which presented itself.

"Is the inquiry made?"

"Yes, sire."

"And the opinion of the inquisitors?"

"Is that the accused merit confiscation
and death."

"Ah! ah!" said the king, without
changing countenance, and casting an
oblique look at D'Artagnan. "And your
own opinion, M. Colbert?" said he.

Colbert looked at D'Artagnan in his
turn. That imposing countenance checked
the words upon his lips. Louis perceived
this. "Do not disturb yourself," said
he; "it is M. d'Artagnan, -- do you not
know M. d'Artagnan again?"

These two men looked at each other --
D'Artagnan, with eyes open and bright as
the day -- Colbert, with his half
closed, and dim. The frank intrepidity
of the one annoyed the other; the
circumspection of the financier
disgusted the soldier. "Ah! ah! this is
the gentleman who made that brilliant
stroke in England," said Colbert. And he
bowed slightly to D'Artagnan.

"Ah! ah!" said the Gascon, "this is the
gentleman who clipped off the lace from
the uniform of the Swiss! A praiseworthy
piece of economy."

The financier thought to pierce the
musketeer; but the musketeer ran the
financier through.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," resumed the king,
who had not remarked all the shades of
which Mazarin would have missed not one,
"this concerns the farmers of the
revenue who have robbed me, whom I am
hanging, and whose death-warrants I am
about to sign."

"Oh! oh!" said D'Artagnan, starting.

"What did you say?"

"Oh! nothing, sire. This is no business
of mine."

The king had already taken up the pen,
and was applying it to the paper.
"Sire," said Colbert in a subdued voice,
"I beg to warn your majesty, that if an
example be necessary, there will be
difficulty in the execution of your
orders."

"What do you say?" said Louis.

"You must not conceal from yourself,"
continued Colbert quietly, "that
attacking the farmers-general is
attacking the superintendence. The two
unfortunate guilty men in question are
the particular friends of a powerful
personage, and the punishment, which
otherwise might be comfortably confined
to the Chatelet will doubtless be a
signal for disturbances!"

Louis colored and turned towards
D'Artagnan, who took a slight bite at
his mustache, not without a smile of
pity for the financier, and for the king
who had to listen to him so long. But
Louis seized the pen, and with a
movement so rapid, that his hand shook,
he affixed his signature at the bottom
of the two papers presented by
Colbert, -- then looking the latter in
the face, -- "Monsieur Colbert'" said
he, "when you speak to me on business,
exclude more frequently the word
difficulty from your reasonings and
opinions; as to the word impossibility,
never pronounce it."

Colbert bowed, much humiliated at having
to undergo such a lesson before the
musketeer; he was about to go out, but,
jealous to repair his check: "I forgot
to announce to your majesty," said he,
"that the confiscations amount to the
sum of five millions of livres."

"That's pretty well!" thought
D'Artagnan.

"Which makes in my coffers?" said the
king.

"Eighteen millions of livres, sire,"
replied Colbert, bowing.

"Mordioux!" growled D'Artagnan, "that's
glorious!"

"Monsieur Colbert," added the king, "you
will, if you please, go through the
gallery where M. Lyonne is waiting, and
will tell him to bring hither what he
has drawn up -- by my order."

"Directly, sire; if your majesty wants
me no more this evening?"

"No, monsieur: good-night!" And Colbert
went out.

"Now, let us return to our affair, M.
d'Artagnan," said the king, as if
nothing had happened. "You see that,
with respect to money, there is already
a notable change."

"Something to the tune of from zero to
eighteen millions," replied the
musketeer, gayly. "Ah! that was what
your majesty wanted the day King Charles
II. came to Blois. The two states would
not have been embroiled to-day; for I
must say, that there also I see another
stumbling-block."

"Well, in the first place," replied
Louis, "you are unjust, monsieur; for,
if Providence had made me able to give
my brother the million that day, you
would not have quitted my service, and,
consequently, you would not have made
your fortune, as you told me just now
you have done. But, in addition to this,
I have had another piece of good
fortune; and my difference with Great
Britain need not alarm you."

A valet de chambre interrupted the king
by announcing M. Lyonne. "Come in,
monsieur," said the king; "you are
punctual; that is like a good servant.
Let us see your letter to my brother
Charles II."

D'Artagnan pricked up his ears. "A
moment, monsieur," said Louis,
carelessly to the Gascon, "I must
expedite to London my consent to the
marriage of my brother, M. le Duc
d'Anjou, with the Princess Henrietta
Stuart."

"He is knocking me about, it seems,"
murmured D'Artagnan, whilst the king
signed the letter, and dismissed M. de
Lyonne, "but, ma foi! the more he knocks
me about in this manner, the better I
like it."

The king followed M. de Lyonne with his
eyes, till the door was closed behind
him; he even made three steps, as if he
would follow the minister, but, after
these three steps, stopping, pausing,
and coming back to the musketeer, --
"Now, monsieur," said he, "let us hasten
to terminate our affair. You told me the
other day, at Blois, that you were not
rich?"

"But I am now, sire."

"Yes, but that does not concern me; you
have your own money, not mine; that does
not enter into my account."

"I do not well understand what your
majesty means."

"Then, instead of leaving you to draw
out words, speak, spontaneously. Should
you be satisfied with twenty thousand
livres a year as a fixed income?"

"But, sire," said D'Artagnan, opening
his eyes to the utmost.

"Would you be satisfied with four horses
furnished and kept, and with a
supplement of funds such as you might
require, according to occasions and
needs, or would you prefer a fixed sum
which would be, for example, forty
thousand livres? Answer."

"Sire, your majesty ---- "

"Yes, you are surprised; that is
natural, and I expected it. Answer me,
come! or I shall think you have no
longer that rapidity of judgment I have
so much admired in you."

"It is certain, sire, that twenty
thousand livres a year make a handsome
sum; but ---- "

"No buts! Yes or no, is it an honorable
indemnity?"

"Oh! very certainly."

"You will be satisfied with it? That is
well. It will be better to reckon the
extra expenses separately; you can
arrange that with Colbert. Now let us
pass to something more important."

"But, sire, I told your majesty ---- "

"That you wanted rest, I know you did:
only I replied that I would not allow
it -- I am master, I suppose?"

"Yes, sire."

"That is well. You were formerly in the
way of becoming captain of the
musketeers?"

"Yes, sire."

"Well, here is your commission signed. I
place it in this drawer. The day on
which you shall return from a certain
expedition which I have to confide to
you, on that day you may yourself take
the commission from the drawer."
D'Artagnan still hesitated, and hung
down his head. "Come, monsieur," said
the king, "one would believe, to look at
you, that you did not know that at the
court of the most Christian king, the
captain-general of the musketeers takes
precedence of the marechals of France."

"Sire, I know he does.

"Then, am I to think you do put no faith
in my word?"

"Oh! sire, never -- never dream of such
a thing."

"I have wished to prove to you, that
you, so good a servant, had lost a good
master; am I anything like the master
that will suit you?"

"I begin to think you are, sire."

"Then, monsieur, you will resume your
functions. Your company is quite
disorganized since your departure and
the men go about drinking and rioting in
the cabarets where they fight, in spite
of my edicts, and those of my father.
You will reorganize the service as soon
as possible."

"Yes, sire."

"You will not again quit my person."

"Very well, sire,"

"You will march with me to the army, you
will encamp round my tent."

"Then, sire," said D'Artagnan, "if it is
only to impose upon me a service like
that, your majesty need not give me
twenty thousand livres a year. I shall
not earn them."

"I desire that you shall keep open
house; I desire that you should keep a
liberal table; I desire that my captain
of musketeers should be a personage."

"And I," said D'Artagnan, bluntly; "I do
not like easily found money; I like
money won! Your majesty gives me an idle
trade, which the first comer would
perform for four thousand livres."

Louis XIV. began to laugh. "You are a
true Gascon, Monsieur d'Artagnan; you
will draw my heart's secret from me."

"Bah! has your majesty a secret, then?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well! then I accept the twenty thousand
livres, for I will keep that secret, and
discretion is above all price, in these
times. Will your majesty speak now?"

"Boot yourself, Monsieur d'Artagnan, and
to horse!"

"Directly, sire."

"Within two days."

"That is well, sire: for I have my
affairs to settle before I set out;
particularly if it is likely there
should be any blows stirring."

"That may happen."

"We can receive them! But, sire, you
have addressed yourself to avarice, to
ambition; you have addressed yourself to
the heart of M. d'Artagnan, but you have
forgotten one thing."

"What is that?"

"You have said nothing to his vanity,
when shall I be a knight of the king's
orders?"

"Does that interest you?"

"Why, yes, sire. My friend Athos is
quite covered with orders, and that
dazzles me."

"You shall be a knight of my order a
month after you have taken your
commission of captain."

"Ah! ah!" said the officer,
thoughtfully, "after the expedition."

"Precisely."

"Where is your majesty going to send
me?"

"Are you"acquainted with Bretagne?"

"Have you any friends there?"

"In Bretagne? No, ma foi!"

"So much the better. Do you know
anything about fortifications?"

"I believe I do, sire," said D'Artagnan,
smiling.

"That is to say you can readily
distinguish a fortress from a simple
fortification, such as is allowed to
chatelains or vassals?"

"I distinguish a fort from a rampart as
I distinguish a cuirass from a raised
pie-crust, sire. Is that sufficient?"

"Yes, monsieur. You will set out then."

"For Bretagne?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Absolutely alone. That is to say, you
must not even take a lackey with you."

"May I ask your majesty for what
reason?"

"Because, monsieur, it will be necessary
to disguise yourself sometimes, as the
servant of a good family. Your face is
very well known in France, M.
d'Artagnan."

"And then, sire?"

"And then you will travel slowly through
Bretagne, and will examine carefully the
fortifications of that country."

"The coasts?"

"Yes, and the isles, commencing by
Belle-Isle-en-Mer."

"Ah! which belongs to M. Fouquet!" said
D'Artagnan, in a serious tone, raising
his intelligent eye to Louis XIV.

"I fancy you are right, monsieur, and
that Belle-Isle does belong to M.
Fouquet, in fact."

"Then your majesty wishes me to
ascertain if Belle-Isle is a strong
place?"

"Yes."

"If the fortifications of it are new or
old?"

"Precisely."

"And if the vassals of M. Fouquet are
sufficiently numerous to form a
garrison?"

"That is what I want to know; you have
placed your finger on the question."

"And if they are not fortifying, sire?"

"You will travel about Bretagne,
listening and judging."

"Then I am a king's spy?" said
D'Artagnan, bluntly, twisting his
mustache.

"No, monsieur."

"Your pardon, sire; I spy on your
majesty's account."

"You start on a voyage of discovery,
monsieur. Would you march at the head of
your musketeers, with your sword in your
hand, to observe any spot whatever, or
an enemy's position?"

At this word D'Artagnan started.

"Do you," continued the king, "imagine
yourself to be a spy?"

"No, no," said D'Artagnan, but
pensively; "the thing changes its face
when one observes an enemy; one is but a
soldier. And if they are fortifying
Belle-Isle?" added he, quickly.

"You will take an exact plan of the
fortifications."

"Will they permit me to enter?"

"That does not concern me; that is your
affair. Did you not understand that I
reserved for you a supplement of twenty
thousand livres per annum, if you wished
it?"

"Yes, sire; but if they are not
fortifying?"

"You will return quietly, without
fatiguing your horse."

"Sire, I am ready."

"You will begin to-morrow by going to
monsieur le surintendant's to take the
first quarter of the pension I give you.
Do you know M. Fouquet?"

"Very little, sire; but I beg your
majesty to observe that I don't think it
immediately necessary that I should know
him."

"Your pardon, monsieur; for he will
refuse you the money I wish you to take;
and it is that refusal I look for."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan. "Then, sire?"

"The money being refused, you will go
and seek it at M. Colbert's. A propos,
have you a good horse?"

"An excellent one, sire."

"How much did it cost you?"

"A hundred and fifty pistoles."

"I will buy it of you. Here is a note
for two hundred pistoles."

"But I want my horse for my journey,
sire."

"Well!"

"Well, and you take mine from me."

"Not at all. On the contrary, I give it
you. Only as it is now mine and not
yours, I am sure you will not spare it."

"Your majesty is in a hurry, then?"

"A great hurry."

"Then what compels me to wait two days?"

"Reasons known to myself."

"That's a different affair. The horse
may make up the two days, in the eight
he has to travel; and then there is the
post."

"No, no, the post compromises, Monsieur
d'Artagnan. Begone and do not forget you
are my servant."

"Sire, it is not my duty to forget it!
At what hour to-morrow shall I take my
leave of your majesty?"

"Where do you lodge?"

"I must henceforward lodge at the
Louvre."

"That must not be now -- keep your
lodgings in the city: I will pay for
them. As to your departure, it must take
place at night; you must set out without
being seen by any one, or, if you are
seen, it must not be known that you
belong to me. Keep your mouth shut,
monsieur."

"Your majesty spoils all you have said
by that single word."

"I asked you where you lodged, for I
cannot always send to M. le Comte de la
Fere to seek you."

"I lodge with M. Planchet, a grocer, Rue
des Lombards, at the sign of the Pilon
d'Or."

"Go out but little, show yourself less,
and await my orders."

"And yet, sire, I must go for the
money."

"That is true, but when going to the
superintendence, where so many people
are constantly going, you must mingle
with the crowd."

"I want the notes, sire, for the money."

"Here they are." The king signed them,
and D'Artagnan looked on, to assure
himself of their regularity.

"Adieu! Monsieur d'Artagnan," added the
king; "I think you have perfectly
understood me."

"I? I understand that your majesty sends
me to Belle-Isle-en-Mer, that is all."

"To learn?"

"To learn how M. Fouquet's works are
going on; that is all."

"Very well: I admit you may be taken."

"And I do not admit it," replied the
Gascon, boldly.

"I admit you may be killed," continued
the king.

"That is not probable, sire."

"In the first case, you must not speak;
in the second there must be no papers
found upon you."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders
without ceremony, and took leave of the
king, saying to himself: -- "The English
shower continues -- let us remain under
the spout!"




CHAPTER 54

The Houses of M. Fouquet



Whilst D'Artagnan was returning to
Planchet's house, his head aching and
bewildered with all that had happened to
him, there was passing a scene of quite
a different character, and which,
nevertheless is not foreign to the
conversation our musketeer had just had
with the king; only this scene took
place out of Paris, in a house possessed
by the superintendent Fouquet in the
village of Saint-Mande. The minister had
just arrived at this country-house,
followed by his principal clerk, who
carried an enormous portfolio full of
papers to be examined, and others
waiting for signature. As it might be
about five o'clock in the afternoon, the
masters had dined: supper was being
prepared for twenty subaltern guests.
The superintendent did not stop: on
alighting from his carriage, he, at the
same bound, sprang through the doorway,
traversed the apartments and gained his
cabinet, where he declared he would shut
himself up to work, commanding that he
should not be disturbed for anything but
an order from the king. As soon as this
order was given, Fouquet shut himself
up, and two footmen were placed as
sentinels at his door. Then Fouquet
pushed a bolt which displaced a panel
that walled up the entrance, and
prevented everything that passed in this
apartment from being either seen or
heard. But, against all probability, it
was only for the sake of shutting
himself up that Fouquet shut himself up
thus, for he went straight to a bureau,
seated himself at it, opened the
portfolio, and began to make a choice
amongst the enormous mass of papers it
contained. It was not more than ten
minutes after he had entered, and taken
all the precautions we have described,
when the repeated noise of several
slight equal knocks struck his ear, and
appeared to fix his utmost attention.
Fouquet raised his head, turned his ear,
and listened.

The strokes continued. Then the worker
arose with a slight movement of
impatience and walked straight up to a
glass behind which the blows were struck
by a hand, or by some invisible
mechanism. It was a large glass let into
a panel. Three other glasses, exactly
similar to it, completed the symmetry of
the apartment. Nothing distinguished
that one from the others. Without doubt,
these reiterated knocks were a signal;
for, at the moment Fouquet approached
the glass listening, the same noise was
renewed, and in the same measure. "Oh!
oh!" murmured the intendent, with
surprise, "who is yonder? I did not
expect anybody to-day." And, without
doubt, to respond to that signal, he
pulled out a gilded nail near the glass,
and shook it thrice. Then returning to
his place, and seating himself again,
"Ma foi! let them wait," said he. And
plunging again into the ocean of papers
unrolled before him, he appeared to
think of nothing now but work. In fact
with incredible rapidity and marvelous
lucidity, Fouquet deciphered the largest
papers and most complicated writings,
correcting them, annotating them with a
pen moved as if by a fever, and the work
melting under his hands, signatures,
figures, references, became multiplied
as if ten clerks -- that is to say, a
hundred fingers and ten brains had
performed the duties, instead of the
five fingers and single brain of this
man. From time to time, only, Fouquet,
absorbed by his work, raised his head to
cast a furtive glance upon a clock
placed before him. The reason of this
was, Fouquet set himself a task, and
when this task was once set, in one
hour's work he, by himself, did what
another would not have accomplished in a
day; always certain, consequently,
provided he was not disturbed, of
arriving at the close in the time his
devouring activity had fixed. But in the
midst of his ardent labor, the soft
strokes upon the little bell placed
behind the glass sounded again, hasty,
and, consequently, more urgent.

"The lady appears to be impatient," said
Fouquet. "Humph! a calm! That must be
the comtesse; but, no, the comtesse is
gone to Rambouillet for three days. The
presidente, then? Oh! no, the presidente
would not assume such grand airs; she
would ring very humbly, then she would
wait my good pleasure. The greatest
certainty is, that I do not know who it
can be, but that I know who it cannot
be. And since it is not you, marquise,
since it cannot be you, deuce take the
rest!" And he went on with his work in
spite of the reiterated appeals of the
bell. At the end of a quarter of an
hour, however, impatience prevailed over
Fouquet in his turn: he might be said to
consume, rather than to complete the
rest of his work; he thrust his papers
into his portfolio, and giving a glance
at the mirror, whilst the taps continued
faster than ever: "Oh! oh!" said he,
"whence comes all this racket? What has
happened, and who can the Ariadne be who
expects me so impatiently. Let us see!"

He then applied the tip of his finger to
the nail parallel to the one he had
drawn. Immediately the glass moved like
a folding-door and discovered a secret
closet, rather deep, in which the
superintendent disappeared as if going
into a vast box. When there, he touched
another spring, which opened, not a
board, but a block of the wall, and he
went out by that opening, leaving the
door to shut of itself. Then Fouquet
descended about a score of steps which
sank, winding, underground, and came to
a long, subterranean passage, lighted by
imperceptible loopholes. The walls of
this vault were covered with slabs or
tiles, and the floor with carpeting.
This passage was under the street
itself, which separated Fouquet's house
from the Park of Vincennes. At the end
of the passage ascended a winding
staircase parallel with that by which
Fouquet had entered. He mounted these
other stairs, entered by means of a
spring placed in a closet similar to
that in his cabinet, and from this
closet an untenanted chamber furnished
with the utmost elegance. As soon as he
entered, he examined carefully whether
the glass closed without leaving any
trace, and, doubtless satisfied with his
observation, he opened by means of a
small gold key the triple fastenings of
a door in front of him. This time the
door opened upon a handsome cabinet
sumptuously furnished, in which was
seated upon cushions a lady of
surpassing beauty, who at the sound of
the lock sprang towards Fouquet. "Ah!
good heavens!" cried the latter,
starting back with astonishment. "Madame
la Marquise de Belliere, you here?"

"Yes," murmured la marquise. "Yes; it is
I, monsieur."

"Marquise! dear marquise!" added
Fouquet, ready to prostrate himself.
"Ah! my God! how did you come here? And
I, to keep you waiting!"

"A long time, monsieur; yes, a very long
time!"

"I am happy in thinking this waiting has
appeared long to you, marquise!"

"Oh! an eternity, monsieur; oh! I rang
more than twenty times. Did you not hear
me?"

"Marquise, you are pale, you tremble."

"Did you not hear, then, that you were
summoned?"

"Oh, yes; I heard plainly enough,
madame; but I could not come. After your
rigors and your refusals, how could I
dream it was you? If I could have had
any suspicion of the happiness that
awaited me, believe me, madame, I would
have quitted everything to fall at your
feet, as I do at this moment."

"Are we quite alone, monsieur?" asked
the marquise, looking round the room.

"Oh, yes, madame, I can assure you of
that."

"Really?" said the marquise, in a
melancholy tone.

"You sigh!" said Fouquet.

"What mysteries! what precautions!" said
the marquise, with a slight bitterness
of expression; "and how evident it is
that you fear the least suspicion of
your amours to escape."

"Would you prefer their being made
public?"

"Oh, no; you act like a delicate man,"
said the marquise, smiling.

"Come, dear marquise, punish me not with
reproaches, I implore you."

"Reproaches! Have I a right to make you
any?"

"No, unfortunately, no; but tell me,
you, who during a year I have loved
without return or hope ---- "

"You are mistaken -- without hope it is
true, but not without return."

"What! for me, of my love! there is but
one proof, and that proof I still want."

"I am here to bring it, monsieur."

Fouquet wished to clasp her in his arms,
but she disengaged herself with a
gesture.

"You persist in deceiving yourself,
monsieur, and never will accept of me
the only thing I am willing to give
you -- devotion."

"Ah, then, you do not love me? Devotion
is but a virtue, love is a passion."

"Listen to me, I implore you: I should
not have come hither without a serious
motive: you are well assured of that,
are you not?"

"The motive is of very little
consequence, so that you are but here --
so that I see you -- so that I speak to
you!"

"You are right; the principal thing is
that I am here without any one having
seen me, and that I can speak to
you." -- Fouquet sank on his knees
before her. "Speak! speak, madame!" said
he, "I listen to you."

The marquise looked at Fouquet, on his
knees at her feet, and there was in the
looks of the woman a strange mixture of
love and melancholy. "Oh!" at length
murmured she, "would that I were she who
has the right of seeing you every
minute, of speaking to you every
instant! would that I were she who might
watch over you, she who would have no
need of mysterious springs, to summon
and cause to appear, like a sylph, the
man she loves, to look at him for an
hour, and then see him disappear in the
darkness of a mystery, still more
strange at his going out than at his
coming in. Oh! that would be to live a
happy woman!"

"Do you happen, marquise," said Fouquet,
smiling, "to be speaking of my wife?"

"Yes, certainly, of her I spoke."

"Well, you need not envy her lot,
marquise; of all the women with whom I
have any relations, Madame Fouquet is
the one I see the least of, and who has
the least intercourse with me."

"At least, monsieur, she is not reduced
to place, as I have done, her hand upon
the ornament of a glass to call you to
her; at least you do not reply to her by
the mysterious, alarming sound of a
bell, the spring of which comes from I
don't know where; at least you have not
forbidden her to endeavor to discover
the secret of these communications under
pain of breaking off forever your
connections with her, as you have
forbidden all who have come here before
me, and all who will come after me."

"Dear marquise, how unjust you are, and
how little do you know what you are
doing in thus exclaiming against
mystery; it is with mystery alone we can
love without trouble; it is with love
without trouble alone that we can be
happy. But let us return to ourselves,
to that devotion of which you were
speaking, or rather let me labor under a
pleasing delusion, and believe that this
devotion is love."

"Just now," repeated the marquise,
passing over her eyes a hand that might
have been a model for the graceful
contours of antiquity; "just now I was
prepared to speak, my ideas were clear
and bold, now I am quite confused, quite
troubled; I fear I bring you bad news."

"If it is to that bad news I owe your
presence, marquise, welcome be even that
bad news! or rather, marquise, since you
allow that I am not quite indifferent to
you, let me hear nothing of the bad
news, but speak of yourself."

"No, no, on the contrary, demand it of
me; require me to tell it to you
instantly, and not to allow myself to be
turned aside by any feeling whatever.
Fouquet, my friend! it is of immense
importance!"

"You astonish me, marquise; I will even
say you almost frighten me. You, so
serious, so collected; you who know the
world we live in so well. Is it, then
important?"

"Oh! very important."

"In the first place, how did you come
here?"

"You shall know that presently; but
first to something of more consequence."

"Speak, marquise, speak! I implore you,
have pity on my impatience."

"Do you know that Colbert is made
intendant of the finances?"

"Bah! Colbert, little Colbert."

"Yes, Colbert, little Colbert."

"Mazarin's factotum?"

"The same."

"Well! what do you see so terrific in
that, dear marquise? little Colbert is
intendant; that is astonishing, I
confess, but is not terrific."

"Do you think the king has given,
without a pressing motive, such a place
to one you call a little cuistre?"

"In the first place, is it positively
true that the king has given it to him?"

"It is so said."

"Ay, but who says so?"

"Everybody."

"Everybody, that's nobody; mention some
one likely to be well informed who says
so."

"Madame Vanel."

"Ah! now you begin to frighten me in
earnest," said Fouquet, laughing; "if
any one is well informed, or ought to be
well informed, it is the person you
name."

"Do not speak ill of poor Marguerite,
Monsieur Fouquet, for she still loves
you."

"Bah! indeed? That is scarcely credible.
I thought little Colbert, as you said
just now, had passed over that love, and
left the impression upon it of a spot of
ink or a stain of grease."

"Fouquet! Fouquet! Is this the way you
always treat the poor creatures you
desert?"

"Why, you surely are not going to
undertake the defense of Madame Vanel?"

"Yes, I will undertake it: for, I
repeat, she loves you still, and the
proof is she saves you."

"But your interposition, marquise; that
is very cunning on her part. No angel
could be more agreeable to me, or could
lead me more certainly to salvation.
But, let me ask you do you know
Marguerite?"

"She was my convent friend."

"And you say that she has informed you
that Monsieur Colbert was named
intendant?"

"Yes, she did."

"Well, enlighten me, marquise; granted
Monsieur Colbert is intendant -- so be
it. In what can an intendant, that is to
say my subordinate, my clerk, give me
umbrage or injure me, even if he is
Monsieur Colbert?"

"You do not reflect, monsieur,
apparently," replied the marquise.

"Upon what?"

"This: that Monsieur Colbert hates you."

"Hates me?" cried Fouquet. "Good
heavens! marquise, whence do you come?
where can you live? Hates me! why all
the world hates me, he, of course as
others do."

"He more than others."

"More than others -- let him."

"He is ambitious."

"Who is not, marquise?"

"'Yes, but with him ambition has no
bounds."

"I am quite aware of that, since he made
it a point to succeed me with Madame
Vanel."

"And obtained his end; look at that."

"Do you mean to say he has the
presumption to hope to pass from
intendant to superintendent?"

"Have you not yourself already had the
same fear?"

"Oh! oh!" said Fouquet, "to succeed with
Madame Vanel is one thing, to succeed me
with the king is another. France is not
to be purchased so easily as the wife of
a maitre des comptes."

"Eh! monsieur, everything is to be
bought; if not by gold, by intrigue."

"Nobody knows to the contrary better
than you, madame, you to whom I have
offered millions."

"Instead of millions, Fouquet, you
should have offered me a true, only and
boundless love: I might have accepted
that. So you see, still, everything is
to be bought, if not in one way, by
another."

"So, Colbert, in your opinion, is in a
fair way of bargaining for my place of
superintendent. Make yourself easy on
that head, my dear marquise; he is not
yet rich enough to purchase it."

"But if he should rob you of it?"

"Ah! that is another thing.
Unfortunately, before he can reach me,
that is to say, the body of the place,
he must destroy, must make a breach in
the advanced works, and I am devilishly
well fortified, marquise."

"What you call your advanced works are
your creatures, are they not -- your
friends?"

"Exactly so."

"And is M. d'Eymeris one of your
creatures?"

"Yes, he is."

"Is M. Lyodot one of your friends?"

"Certainly."

"M. de Vanin?"

"M. de Vanin! ah! they may do what they
like with him, but ---- "

"But ---- "

"But they must not touch the others!"

"Well, if you are anxious they should
not touch MM. d'Eymeris and Lyodot, it
is time to look about you."

"Who threatens them?"

"Will you listen to me now?"

"Attentively, marquise."

"Without interrupting me?"

"Speak."

"Well, this morning Marguerite sent for
me."

"And what did she want with you?"

"`I dare not see M. Fouquet myself,'
said she."

"Bah! why should she think I would
reproach her? Poor woman, she vastly
deceives herself."

"`See him yourself,' said she, `and tell
him to beware of M. Colbert.'"

"What! she warned me to beware of her
lover?"

"I have told you she still loves you."

"Go on, marquise."

"`M. Colbert,' she added, `came to me
two hours ago, to inform me he was
appointed intendant.'"

"I have already told you marquise, that
M. Colbert would only be the more in my
power for that."

"Yes, but that is not all: Marguerite is
intimate, as you know, with Madame
d'Eymeris and Madame Lyodot."

"I know it."

"Well, M. Colbert put many questions to
her, relative to the fortunes of those
two gentlemen, and as to the devotion
they had for you."

"Oh, as to those two, I can answer for
them; they must be killed before they
will cease to be mine."

"Then, as Madame Vanel was obliged to
quit M. Colbert for an instant to
receive a visitor, and as M. Colbert is
industrious, scarcely was the new
intendant left alone, before he took a
pencil from his pocket, and as there was
paper on the table, began to make
notes."

"Notes concerning d'Eymeris and Lyodot?"

"Exactly."

"I should like to know what those notes
were about."

"And that is just what I have brought
you."

"Madame Vanel has taken Colbert's notes
and sent them to me?"

"No, but by a chance which resembles a
miracle, she has a duplicate of those
notes."

"How could she get that?"

"Listen; I told you that Colbert found
paper on the table."

"Yes."

"That he took a pencil from his pocket."

"Yes."

"And wrote upon that paper."

"Yes."

"Well, this pencil was a lead-pencil,
consequently hard; so it marked in black
upon the first sheet, and in white upon
the second."

"Go on."

"Colbert, when tearing off the first
sheet, took no notice of the second."

"Well?"

"Well, on the second was to be read what
had been written on the first, Madame
Vanel read it, and sent for me."

"Yes, yes."

"Then, when she was assured I was your
devoted friend, she gave me the paper,
and told me the secret of this house."

"And this paper?" said Fouquet, in some
degree of agitation.

"Here it is, monsieur -- read it," said
the marquise.

Fouquet read:

"Names of the farmers of revenue to be
condemned by the Chamber of Justice:
D'Eymeris, friend of M. F.; Lyodot,
friend of M. F.; De Vanin, indif."

"D'Eymeris and Lyodot!" cried Fouquet,
reading the paper eagerly again.

"Friends of M. F.," pointed the marquise
with her finger.

"But what is the meaning of these words:
`To be condemned by the Chamber of
Justice'?"

"Dame!" said the marquise, "that is
clear enough, I think. Besides, that is
not all. Read on, read on;" and Fouquet
continued, ---"The two first to death,
the third to be dismissed, with MM.
d'Hautemont and de la Vallette, who will
only have their property confiscated."

"Great God!" cried Fouquet, "to death,
to death! Lyodot and D'Eymeris. But even
if the Chamber of Justice should condemn
them to death, the king will never
ratify their condemnation, and they
cannot be executed without the king's
signature."

"The king has made M. Colbert
intendant."

"Oh!" cried Fouquet, as if he caught a
glimpse of the abyss that yawned beneath
his feet, "impossible! impossible! But
who passed a pencil over the marks made
by Colbert?"

"I did. I was afraid the first would be
effaced."

"Oh! I will know all."

"You will know nothing, monsieur; you
despise your enemy too much for that."

"Pardon me, my dear marquise; excuse me;
yes, M. Colbert is my enemy, I believe
him to be so; yes, M. Colbert is a man
to be dreaded, I admit. But I! I have
time, and as you are here, as you have
assured me of your devotion, as you have
allowed me to hope for your love, as we
are alone ---- "

"I came here to save you, Monsieur
Fouquet, and not to ruin myself," said
the marquise, rising -- "therefore,
beware! ---- "

"Marquise, in truth you terrify yourself
too much at least, unless this terror is
but a pretext ---- "

"He is very deep, very deep; this M.
Colbert: beware!"

Fouquet, in his turn, drew himself up.
"And I?" asked he.

"And you, you have only a noble heart.
Beware! beware!"

"So?"

"I have done what was right, my friend,
at the risk of my reputation. Adieu!"

"Not adieu, au revoir!"

"Perhaps," said the marquise, giving her
hand to Fouquet to kiss, and walking
towards the door with so firm a step,
that he did not dare to bar her passage.
As to Fouquet, he retook, with his head
hanging down and a fixed cloud on his
brow, the path of the subterranean
passage along which ran the metal wires
that communicated from one house to the
other, transmitting, through two
glasses, the wishes and signals of
hidden correspondents.




CHAPTER 55

The Abbe Fouquet



Fouquet hastened back to his apartment
by the subterranean passage, and
immediately closed the mirror with the
spring. He was scarcely in his closet,
when he heard some one knocking
violently at the door, and a well-known
voice crying: -- "Open the door,
monseigneur, I entreat you, open the
door!" Fouquet quickly restored a little
order to everything that might have
revealed either his absence or his
agitation: he spread his papers over the
desk, took up a pen, and, to gain time,
said, through the closed door, -- "Who
is there?"

"What, monseigneur, do you not know me?"
replied the voice.

"Yes, yes," said Fouquet to himself,
"yes, my friend I know you well enough."
And then, aloud: "Is it not Gourville?"

"Why, yes, monseigneur."

Fouquet arose, cast a last look at one
of his glasses, went to the door, pushed
back the bolt, and Gourville entered.
"Ah, monseigneur! monseigneur!" cried
he, "what cruelty!"

"In what?"

"I have been a quarter of an hour
imploring you to open the door, and you
would not even answer me."

"Once for all, you know that I will not
be disturbed when I am busy. Now,
although I might make you an exception,
Gourville, I insist upon my orders being
respected by others."

"Monseigneur, at this moment, orders,
doors, bolts, locks, and walls, I could
have broken, forced and overthrown!"

"Ah! ah! it relates to some great event,
then?" asked Fouquet.

"Oh! I assure you it does, monseigneur,"
replied Gourville.

"And what is this event?" said Fouquet,
a little troubled by the evident
agitation of his most intimate
confidant.

"There is a secret chamber of justice
instituted, monseigneur."

"I know there is, but do the members
meet, Gourville?"

"They not only meet, but they have
passed a sentence, monseigneur."

"A sentence?" said the superintendent,
with a shudder and pallor he could not
conceal. "A sentence! -- and on whom?"

"Two of your best friends."

"Lyodot and D'Eymeris, do you mean? But
what sort of a sentence?"

"Sentence of death."

"Passed? Oh! you must be mistaken,
Gourville; that is impossible."

"Here is a copy of the sentence which
the king is to sign to-day, if he has
not already signed it."

Fouquet seized the paper eagerly, read
it, and returned it to Gourville. "The
king will never sign that," said he.

Gourville shook his head.

"Monseigneur, M. Colbert is a bold
councilor: do not be too confident!"

"Monsieur Colbert again!" cried Fouquet.
"How is it that that name rises upon all
occasions to torment my ears, during the
last two or three days? Thou make so
trifling a subject of too much
importance, Gourville. Let M. Colbert
appear, I will face him; let him raise
his head, I will crush him; but you
understand, there must be an outline
upon which my look may fall, there must
be a surface upon which my feet may be
placed."

"Patience, monseigneur, for you do not
know what Colbert is -- study him
quickly; it is with this dark financier
as it is with meteors, which the eye
never sees completely before their
disastrous invasion; when we feel them
we are dead."

"Oh! Gourville, this is going too far,"
replied Fouquet, smiling; "allow me, my
friend, not to be so easily frightened;
M. Colbert a meteor! Corbleu, we
confront the meteor. Let us see acts,
and not words. What has he done?"

"He has ordered two gibbets of the
executioner of Paris," answered
Gourville.

Fouquet raised his head, and a flash
gleamed from his eyes. "Are you sure of
what you say?" cried he.

"Here is the proof, monseigneur." And
Gourville held out to the superintendent
a note communicated by a certain
secretary of the Hotel de Ville, who was
one of Fouquet's creatures.

"Yes, that is true," murmured the
minister; "the scaffold may be prepared,
but the king has not signed; Gourville,
the king will not sign."

"I shall soon know," said Gourville.

"How?"

"If the king has signed, the gibbets
will be sent this evening to the Hotel
de Ville, in order to be got up and
ready by to-morrow morning."

"Oh! no, no!" cried the superintendent
once again; "you are all deceived, and
deceive me in my turn; Lyodot came to
see me only the day before yesterday;
only three days ago I received a present
of some Syracuse wine from poor
D'Eymeris."

"What does that prove?" replied
Gourville, "except that the chamber of
justice has been secretly assembled, has
deliberated in the absence of the
accused, and that the whole proceeding
was complete when they were arrested."

"What! are they, then, arrested?"

"No doubt they are."

"But where, when, and how have they been
arrested?"

"Lyodot, yesterday at daybreak;
D'Eymeris, the day before yesterday, in
the evening, as he was returning from
the house of his mistress; their
disappearance had disturbed nobody; but
at length M. Colbert all at once raised
the mask, and caused the affair to be
published; it is being cried by sound of
trumpet, at this moment in Paris, and,
in truth, monseigneur, there is scarcely
anybody but yourself ignorant of the
event."

Fouquet began to walk about his chamber
with an uneasiness that became more and
more serious.

"What do you decide upon, monseigneur?"
said Gourville.

"If it really were as you say, I would
go to the king," cried Fouquet. "But as
I go to the Louvre, I will pass by the
Hotel de Ville. We shall see if the
sentence is signed."

"Incredulity! thou art the pest of all
great minds," said Gourville, shrugging
his shoulders.

"Gourville!"

"Yes," continued he, "and incredulity!
thou ruinest, as contagion destroys the
most robust health, that is to say, in
an instant."

"Let us go," cried Fouquet; "desire the
door to be opened, Gourville."

"Be cautious," said the latter, "the
Abbe Fouquet is there."

"Ah! my brother," replied Fouquet, in a
tone of annoyance, "he is there, is he?
he knows all the ill news, then, and is
rejoiced to bring it to me, as usual.
The devil! if my brother is there, my
affairs are bad, Gourville; why did you
not tell me that sooner: I should have
been the more readily convinced."

"'Monseigneur calumniates him," said
Gourville, laughing, "if he is come, it
is not with a bad intention."

"What, do you excuse him?" cried
Fouquet; "a fellow without a heart,
without ideas; a devourer of wealth."

"He knows you are rich."

"And would ruin me."

"No, but he would like to have your
purse. That is all."

"Enough! enough! A hundred thousand
crowns per month, during two years.
Corbleu! it is I that pay, Gourville,
and I know my figures." Gourville
laughed in a silent, sly manner. "Yes,
yes, you mean to say it is the king
pays," said the superintendent. "Ah,
Gourville, that is a vile joke; this is
not the place."

"Monseigneur, do not be angry."

"Well, then, send away the Abbe Fouquet;
I have not a sou." Gourville made a step
towards the door. "He has been a month
without seeing me," continued Fouquet,
"why could he not be two months?"

"Because he repents of living in bad
company," said Gourville, "and prefers
you to all his bandits."

"Thanks for the preference! You make a
strange advocate, Gourville, to-day --
the advocate of the Abbe Fouquet!"

"Eh! but everything and every man has a
good side -- their useful side,
monseigneur."

"The bandits whom the abbe keeps in pay
and drink have their useful side, have
they? Prove that, if you please."

"Let the circumstance arise,
monseigneur, and you will be very glad
to have these bandits under your hand."

"You advise me, then, to be reconciled
to the abbe?" said Fouquet, ironically.

"I advise you, monseigneur, not to
quarrel with a hundred or a hundred and
twenty loose fellows, who, by putting
their rapiers end to end, would form a
cordon of steel capable of surrounding
three thousand men."

Fouquet darted a searching glance at
Gourville, and passing before him, --
"That is all very well, let M. l'Abbe
Fouquet be introduced," said he to the
footman. "You are right, Gourville."

Two minutes after, the Abbe Fouquet
appeared in the doorway, with profound
reverences. He was a man of from forty
to forty-five years of age, half
churchman half soldier, -- a spadassin,
grafted upon an abbe; upon seeing that
he had not a sword by his side, you
might be sure he had pistols. Fouquet
saluted him more as an elder brother
than as a minister.

"What can I do to serve you, monsieur
l'abbe?" said he.

"Oh! oh! how coldly you speak to me,
brother!"

"I speak like a man who is in a hurry,
monsieur."

The abbe looked maliciously at
Gourville, and anxiously at Fouquet, and
said, "I have three hundred pistoles to
pay to M. de Bregi this evening. A play
debt, a sacred debt."

"What next?" said Fouquet bravely, for
he comprehended that the Abbe Fouquet
would not have disturbed him for such a
want.

"A thousand to my butcher, who will
supply no more meat."

"Next?"

"Twelve hundred to my tailor," continued
the abbe; "the fellow has made me take
back seven suits of my people's, which
compromises my liveries, and my mistress
talks of replacing me by a farmer of the
revenue, which would be a humiliation
for the church."

"What else?" said Fouquet.

"You will please to remark," said the
abbe, humbly, "that I have asked nothing
for myself."

"That is delicate, monsieur," replied
Fouquet; "so, as you see, I wait."

"And I ask nothing, oh! no, -- it is not
for want of need, though, I assure you."

The minister reflected a minute. "Twelve
hundred pistoles to the tailor; that
seems a great deal for clothes," said
he.

"I maintain a hundred men," said the
abbe, proudly; "that is a charge, I
believe."

"Why a hundred men?" said Fouquet. "Are
you a Richelieu or a Mazarin, to require
a hundred men as a guard? What use do
you make of these men? -- speak."

"And do you ask me that?" cried the Abbe
Fouquet; "ah! how can you put such a
question, -- why I maintain a hundred
men? Ah!"

"Why, yes, I do put that question to
you. What have you to do with a hundred
men? -- answer."

"Ingrate!" continued the abbe, more and
more affected.

"Explain yourself."

"Why, monsieur the superintendent, I
only want one valet de chambre, for my
part, and even if I were alone, could
help myself very well; but you, you who
have so many enemies -- a hundred men
are not enough for me to defend you
with. A hundred men! -- you ought to
have ten thousand. I maintain, then,
these men in order that in public
places, in assemblies, no voice may be
raised against you, and without them,
monsieur, you would be loaded with
imprecations, you would be torn to
pieces, you would not last a week; no,
not a week, do you understand?"

"Ah! I did not know you were my champion
to such an extent, monsieur l'abbe."

"You doubt it!" cried the abbe. "Listen,
then, to what happened, no longer ago
than yesterday, in the Rue de la
Hochette. A man was cheapening a fowl."

"Well, how could that injure me, abbe?"

"This way. The fowl was not fat. The
purchaser refused to give eighteen sous
for it, saying that he could not afford
eighteen sous for the skin of a fowl
from which M. Fouquet had sucked all the
fat."

"Go on."

"The joke caused a deal of laughter,"
continued the abbe; "laughter at your
expense, death to the devils! and the
canaille were delighted. The joker
added, `Give me a fowl fed by M.
Colbert, if you like! and I will pay all
you ask.' And immediately there was a
clapping of hands. A frightful scandal!
you understand; a scandal which forces a
brother to hide his face."

Fouquet colored. "And you veiled it?"
said the superintendent.

"No, for it so happened I had one of my
men in the crowd; a new recruit from the
provinces, one M. Menneville, whom I
like very much. He made his way through
the press, saying to the joker: `Mille
barbes! Monsieur the false joker, here's
a thrust for Colbert!' `And one for
Fouquet,' replied the joker. Upon which
they drew in front of the cook's shop,
with a hedge of the curious round them,
and five hundred as curious at the
windows."

"Well?" said Fouquet.

"Well, monsieur, my Menneville spitted
the joker, to the great astonishment of
the spectators, and said to the cook: --
`Take this goose, my friend, it is
fatter than your fowl.' That is the way,
monsieur," ended the abbe, triumphantly,
"in which I spend my revenues; I
maintain the honor of the family,
monsieur." Fouquet hung his head. "And I
have a hundred as good as he," continued
the abbe.

"Very well," said Fouquet, "give the
account to Gourville, and remain here
this evening."

"Shall we have supper?"

"Yes, there will be supper."

"But the chest is closed."

"Gourville will open it for you. Leave
us, monsieur l'abbe, leave us."

"Then we are friends?" said the abbe,
with a bow.

Oh yes. friends. Come Gourville."

"Are you going out? You will not stay to
supper, then?"

"I shall be back in an hour; rest easy,
abbe." Then aside to Gourville -- "Let
them put to my English horses," said he,
"and direct the coachman to stop at the
Hotel de Ville de Paris."




CHAPTER 56

M. de la Fontaine's Wine



Carriages were already bringing the
guests of Fouquet to Saint-Mande;
already the whole house was getting warm
with the preparations for supper, when
the superintendent launched his fleet
horses upon the road to Paris, and going
by the quays, in order to meet fewer
people on the way, soon reached the
Hotel de Ville. It wanted a quarter to
eight. Fouquet alighted at the corner of
the Rue de Long-pont, and, on foot,
directed his course towards the Place de
Greve, accompanied by Gourville. At the
turning of the Place they saw a man
dressed in black and violet, of
dignified mien, who was preparing to get
into a hired carriage, and told the
coachman to stop at Vincennes. He had
before him a large hamper filled with
bottles, which he had just purchased at
the cabaret with the sign of
"L'Image-de-Notre-Dame."

"Eh, but! that is Vatel! my maitre
d'hotel!" said Fouquet to Gourville.

"Yes, monseigneur," replied the latter.

"What can he have been doing at the sign
of L'Image-de-Notre-Dame?"

"Buying wine, no doubt."

"What! buy wine for me, at a cabaret?"
said Fouquet. "My cellar, then, must be
in a miserable condition!" and he
advanced towards the maitre d'hotel who
was arranging his bottles in the
carriage with the most minute care.

"Hola! Vatel," said he, in the voice of
a master.

"Take care, monseigneur!" said
Gourville, "you will be recognized."

"Very well! Of what consequence? --
Vatel!

The man dressed in black and violet
turned round. He had a good and mild
countenance, without expression -- a
mathematician minus the pride. A certain
fire sparkled in the eyes of this
personage, a rather sly smile played
round his lips; but the observer might
soon have remarked that this fire and
this smile applied to nothing,
enlightened nothing. Vatel laughed like
an absent man, and amused himself like a
child. At the sound of his master's
voice he turned round, exclaiming: "Oh!
monseigneur!"

"Yes, it is I. What the devil are you
doing here, Vatel? Wine! You are buying
wine at a cabaret in the Place de
Greve!"

"But, monseigneur," said Vatel, quietly,
after having darted a hostile glance at
Gourville, "why am I interfered with
here? Is my cellar kept in bad order?"

"No, certes, Vatel, no, but ---- "

"But what?" replied Vatel. Gourville
touched Fouquet's elbow.

"Don't be angry, Vatel, I thought my
cellar -- your cellar -- sufficiently
well stocked for us to be able to
dispense with recourse to the cellar of
L'Image de-Notre-Dame."

"Eh, monsieur," said Vatel, shrinking
from monseigneur to monsieur with a
degree of disdain: "your cellar is so
well stocked that when certain of your
guests dine with you they have nothing
to drink."

Fouquet, in great surprise, looked at
Gourville. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that your butler had not wine
for all tastes, monsieur; and that M. de
la Fontaine, M. Pellisson, and M.
Conrart, do not drink when they come to
the house -- these gentlemen do not like
strong wine. What is to be done, then?"

"Well, and therefore?"

"Well, then, I have found here a vin de
Joigny, which they like. I know they
come once a week to drink at the
Image-de-Notre-Dame. That is the reason
I am making this provision."

Fouquet had no more to say; he was
convinced. Vatel, on his part, had much
more to say, without doubt, and it was
plain he was getting warm. "It is just
as if you would reproach me,
monseigneur, for going to the Rue
Planche Milbray, to fetch, myself, the
cider M. Loret drinks when he comes to
dine at your house."

"Loret drinks cider at my house!" cried
Fouquet, laughing.

"Certainly he does, monsieur, and that
is the reason why he dines there with
pleasure."

"Vatel," cried Fouquet, pressing the
hand of his maitre d'hotel, "you are a
man! I thank you, Vatel, for having
understood that at my house M. de la
Fontaine, M. Conrart, and M. Loret, are
as great as dukes and peers, as great as
princes, greater than myself. Vatel, you
are a good servant, and I double your
salary."

Vatel did not even thank his master, he
merely shrugged his shoulders a little,
murmuring this superb sentiment: "To be
thanked for having done one's duty is
humiliating."

"He is right," said Gourville, as he
drew Fouquet's attention, by a gesture,
to another point. He showed him a
low-built tumbrel, drawn by two horses,
upon which rocked two strong gibbets,
bound together, back to back, by chains,
whilst an archer, seated upon the
cross-beam, suffered, as well as he
could, with his head cast down, the
comments of a hundred vagabonds, who
guessed the destination of the gibbets,
and were escorting them to the Hotel de
Ville. Fouquet started. "It is decided,
you see," said Gourville.

"But it is not done," replied Fouquet.

"Oh, do not flatter yourself,
monseigneur; if they have thus lulled
your friendship and suspicions -- if
things have gone so far, you will be
able to undo nothing."

"But I have not given my sanction."

"M. de Lyonne has ratified for you."

"I will go to the Louvre."

"Oh, no, you will not."

"Would you advise such baseness?" cried
Fouquet, "would you advise me to abandon
my friends? would you advise me, whilst
able to fight, to throw the arms I hold
in my hand to the ground?"

"I do not advise you to do anything of
the kind, monseigneur. Are you in a
position to quit the post of
superintendent at this moment?"

"No."

"Well, if the king wishes to displace
you ---- "

"He will displace me absent as well as
present."

"Yes, but you will not have insulted
him."

"Yes, but I shall have been base; now I
am not willing that my friends should
die; and they shall not die!"

"For that it is necessary you should go
to the Louvre, is it not?"

"Gourville!"

"Beware! once at the Louvre, you will be
forced to defend your friends openly,
that is to say, to make a profession of
faith; or you will be forced to abandon
them irrevocably."

"Never!"

"Pardon me, -- the king will propose the
alternative to you, rigorously, or else
you will propose it to him yourself."

"That is true."

"That is the reason why conflict must be
avoided. Let us return to Saint-Mande,
monseigneur."

"Gourville, I will not stir from this
place, where the crime is to be carried
out, where my disgrace is to be
accomplished; I will not stir, I say,
till I have found some means of
combating my enemies."

"Monseigneur," replied Gourville, "you
would excite my pity, if I did not know
you for one of the great spirits of this
world. You possess a hundred and fifty
millions, you are equal to the king in
position, and a hundred and fifty
millions his superior in money. M.
Colbert has not even had the wit to have
the will of Mazarin accepted. Now, when
a man is the richest person in a
kingdom, and will take the trouble to
spend the money, if things are done he
does not like it is because he is a poor
man. Let us return to Saint-Mande, I
say."

"To consult with Pellisson? -- we will."

"So be it," said Fouquet, with angry
eyes; -- "yes, to Saint-Mande!" He got
into his carriage again and Gourville
with him. Upon their road, at the end of
the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, they
overtook the humble equipage of Vatel,
who was quietly conveying home his vin
de Joigny. The black horses, going at a
swift pace, alarmed as they passed, the
timid hack of the maitre d'hotel, who,
putting his head out at the window,
cried, in a fright, "Take care of my
bottles!"




CHAPTER 57

The Gallery of Saint-Mande



Fifty persons were waiting for the
superintendent. He did not even take the
time to place himself in the hands of
his valet de chambre for a minute, but
from the perron went straight into the
premier salon. There his friends were
assembled in full chat. The intendant
was about to order supper to be served,
but, above all, the Abbe Fouquet watched
for the return of his brother, and was
endeavoring to do the honors of the
house in his absence. Upon the arrival
of the superintendent, a murmur of joy
and affection was heard; Fouquet, full
of affability, good humor, and
munificence, was beloved by his poets,
his artists, and his men of business.
His brow, upon which his little court
read, as upon that of a god, all the
movements of his soul, and thence drew
rules of conduct, -- his brow, upon
which affairs of state never impressed a
wrinkle, was this evening paler than
usual, and more than one friendly eye
remarked that pallor. Fouquet placed
himself at the head of the table, and
presided gayly during supper. He
recounted Vatel's expedition to La
Fontaine, related the history of
Menneville and the skinny fowl to
Pellisson, in such a manner that all the
table heard it. A tempest of laughter
and jokes ensued, which was only checked
by a serious and even sad gesture from
Pellisson. The Abbe Fouquet, not being
able to comprehend why his brother
should have led the conversation in that
direction, listened with all his ears,
and sought in the countenance of
Gourville, or in that of his brother, an
explanation which nothing afforded him.
Pellisson took up the matter: -- "Did
they mention M. Colbert, then?" said he.

"Why not?" replied Fouquet; "if true, as
it is said to be, that the king has made
him his intendant?" Scarcely had Fouquet
uttered these words, with a marked
intention, than an explosion broke forth
among the guests.

"The miser!" said one.

"The mean, pitiful fellow!" said
another.

"The hypocrite!" said a third.

Pellisson exchanged a meaning look with
Fouquet. "Messieurs," said he, "in truth
we are abusing a man whom no one knows:
it is neither charitable nor reasonable;
and here is monsieur le surintendant,
who, I am sure, agrees with me."

"Entirely," replied Fouquet. "Let the
fat fowls of M. Colbert alone; our
business to-day is with the faisans
truffes of M. Vatel." This speech
stopped the dark cloud which was
beginning to throw its shade over the
guests. Gourville succeeded so well in
animating the poets with the vin de
Joigny; the abbe, intelligent as a man
who stands in need of his host's money,
so enlivened the financiers and the men
of the sword, that, amidst the vapors of
this joy and the noise of conversation,
inquietudes disappeared completely. The
will of Cardinal Mazarin was the text of
the conversation at the second course
and dessert; then Fouquet ordered bowls
of sweetmeats and fountains of liquors
to be carried into the salon adjoining
the gallery. He led the way thither
conducting by the hand a lady, the
queen, by his preference, of the
evening. The musicians then supped, and
the promenades in the gallery and the
gardens commenced, beneath a spring sky,
mild and flower-scented. Pellisson then
approached the superintendent, and said:
"Something troubles monseigneur?"

"Greatly," replied the minister, "ask
Gourville to tell you what it is."
Pellisson, on turning round, found La
Fontaine treading upon his heels. He was
obliged to listen to a Latin verse,
which the poet had composed upon Vatel.
La Fontaine had, for an hour, been
scanning this verse in all corners,
seeking some one to pour it out upon
advantageously. He thought he had caught
Pellisson, but the latter escaped him;
he turned towards Sorel, who had,
himself, just composed a quatrain in
honor of the supper, and the Amphytrion.
La Fontaine in vain endeavored to gain
attention to his verses; Sorel wanted to
obtain a hearing for his quatrain. He
was obliged to retreat before M. le
Comte de Chanost whose arm Fouquet had
just taken. L'Abbe Fouquet perceived
that the poet, absent-minded, as usual,
was about to follow the two talkers, and
he interposed. La Fontaine seized upon
him, and recited his verses. The abbe,
who was quite innocent of Latin, nodded
his head, in cadence, at every roll
which La Fontaine impressed upon his
body, according to the undulations of
the dactyls and spondees. While this was
going on, behind the confiture-basins,
Fouquet related the event of the day to
his son-in-law, M. de Chanost. "We will
send the idle and useless to look at the
fireworks," said Pellisson to Gourville,
"whilst we converse here."

"So be it," said Gourville, addressing
four words to Vatel. The latter then led
towards the gardens the major part of
the beaux, the ladies and the
chatterers, whilst the men walked in the
gallery, lighted by three hundred
wax-lights, in the sight of all; the
admirers of fireworks all ran away
towards the garden. Gourville approached
Fouquet, and said: "Monsieur, we are
here."

"All!" said Fouquet.

"Yes, -- count." The superintendent
counted; there were eight persons.
Pellisson and Gourville walked arm in
arm, as if conversing upon vague and
frivolous subjects. Sorel and two
officers imitated them, in an opposite
direction. The Abbe Fouquet walked
alone. Fouquet, with M. de Chanost,
walked as if entirely absorbed in the
conversation of his son-in-law.
"Messieurs," said he, "let no one of you
raise his head as he walks, or appear to
pay attention to me; continue walking,
we are alone, listen to me."

A perfect silence ensued, disturbed only
by the distant cries of the joyous
guests, from the groves whence they
beheld the fireworks. It was a whimsical
spectacle this, of these men walking in
groups, as if each one was occupied
about something, whilst lending
attention really to only one amongst
them, who, himself, seemed to be
speaking only to his companion.
"Messieurs," said Fouquet, "you have,
without doubt, remarked the absence of
two of my friends this evening, who were
with us on Wednesday. For God's sake,
abbe, do not stop, -- it is not
necessary to enable you to listen; walk
on, carrying your head in a natural way,
and as you have an excellent sight,
place yourself at the window, and if any
one returns towards the gallery, give us
notice by coughing."

The abbe obeyed.

"I have not observed their absence,"
said Pellisson, who, at this moment, was
turning his back to Fouquet and walking
the other way.

"I do not see M. Lyodot," said Sorel,
"who pays me my pension."

"And I," said the abbe, at the window,
"do not see M. d'Eymeris, who owes me
eleven hundred livres from our last game
at Brelan."

"Sorel," continued Fouquet, walking
bent, and gloomily, "you will never
receive your pension any more from M.
Lyodot; and you, abbe, will never be
paid your eleven hundred livres by M.
d'Eymeris, for both are doomed to die."

"To die!" exclaimed the whole assembly,
arrested, in spite of themselves, in the
comedy they were playing, by that
terrible word.

"Recover yourselves, messieurs," said
Fouquet, "for perhaps we are watched --
I said: to die!"

"To die!" repeated Pellisson; "what, the
men I saw six days ago, full of health,
gayety, and the spirit of the future!
What then is man, good God! that disease
should thus bring him down, all at
once!"

"It is not a disease," said Fouquet.

"Then there is a remedy," said Sorel.

"No remedy. Messieurs de Lyodot and
D'Eymeris are on the eve of their last
day."

"Of what are these gentlemen dying,
then?" asked an officer.

"Ask of him who kills them," replied
Fouquet.

"Who kills them? Are they being killed,
then?" cried the terrified chorus.

"They do better still; they are hanging
them," murmured Fouquet, in a sinister
voice, which sounded like a funeral
knell in that rich gallery, splendid
with pictures, flowers, velvet, and
gold. Involuntarily every one stopped;
the abbe quitted his window; the first
fusees of the fireworks began to mount
above the trees. A prolonged cry from
the gardens attracted the superintendent
to enjoy the spectacle. He drew near to
a window, and his friends placed
themselves behind him, attentive to his
least wish. "Messieurs," said he, "M.
Colbert has caused to be arrested, tried
and will execute my two friends; what
does it become me to do?"

"Mordieu!" exclaimed the abbe, the first
one to speak, "run M. Colbert through
the body."

"Monseigneur," said Pellisson, "you must
speak to his majesty."

"The king, my dear Pellisson, himself
signed the order for the execution."

"Well!" said the Comte de Chanost, "the
execution must not take place, then;
that is all."

"Impossible," said Gourville, "unless we
could corrupt the jailers."

"Or the governor," said Fouquet.

"This night the prisoners might be
allowed to escape."

"Which of you will take charge of the
transaction?"

"I," said the abbe, "will carry the
money."

"And I," said Pellisson, "will be the
bearer of the words."

"Words and money," said Fouquet, "five
hundred thousand livres to the governor
of the conciergerie, that is sufficient,
nevertheless, it shall be a million, if
necessary."

"A million!" cried the abbe; "why, for
less than half, I would have half Paris
sacked."

"There must be no disorder," said
Pellisson. "The governor being gained,
the two prisoners escape; once clear of
the fangs of the law, they will call
together the enemies of Colbert, and
prove to the king that his young
justice, like all other monstrosities,
is not infallible."

"Go to Paris, then, Pellisson," said
Fouquet, "and bring hither the two
victims; to-morrow we shall see."

Gourville gave Pellisson the five
hundred thousand livres." Take care the
wind does not carry you away," said the
abbe; "what a responsibility. Peste! Let
me help you a little."

"Silence!" said Fouquet, "somebody is
coming. Ah! the fireworks are producing
a magical effect." At this moment a
shower of sparks fell rustling among the
branches of the neighboring trees.
Pellisson and Gourville went out
together by the door of the gallery;
Fouquet descended to the garden with the
five last plotters.




CHAPTER 58

Epicureans



As Fouquet was giving, or appearing to
give, all his attention to the brilliant
illuminations, the languishing music of
the violins and hautboys, the sparkling
sheaves of the artificial fires, which,
inflaming the heavens with glowing
reflections, marked behind the trees the
dark profile of the donjon of Vincennes;
as, we say, the superintendent was
smiling on the ladies and the poets the
fete was every whit as gay as usual; and
Vatel, whose restless, even jealous
look, earnestly consulted the aspect of
Fouquet, did not appear dissatisfied
with the welcome given to the ordering
of the evening's entertainment. The
fireworks over, the company dispersed
about the gardens and beneath the marble
porticoes with the delightful liberty
which reveals in the master of the house
so much forgetfulness of greatness, so
much courteous hospitality, so much
magnificent carelessness. The poets
wandered about, arm in arm, through the
groves; some reclined upon beds of moss,
to the great damage of velvet clothes
and curled heads, into which little
dried leaves and blades of grass
insinuated themselves. The ladies, in
small numbers, listened to the songs of
the singers and the verses of the poets;
others listened to the prose, spoken
with much art, by men who were neither
actors nor poets, but to whom youth and
solitude gave an unaccustomed eloquence,
which appeared to them better than
everything else in the world. "Why,"
said La Fontaine, "does not our master
Epicurus descend into the garden?
Epicurus never abandoned his pupils, the
master is wrong."

"Monsieur," said Conrart, "you yourself
are in the wrong persisting in
decorating yourself with the name of an
Epicurean; indeed, nothing here reminds
me of the doctrine of the philosopher of
Gargetta."

"Bah!" said La Fontaine, "is it not
written that Epicurus purchased a large
garden and lived in it tranquilly with
his friends?"

"That is true."

"Well, has not M. Fouquet purchased a
large garden at Saint-Mande, and do we
not live here very tranquilly with him
and his friends?"

"Yes, without doubt; unfortunately it is
neither the garden nor the friends which
constitute the resemblance. Now, what
likeness is there between the doctrine
of Epicurus and that of M. Fouquet?"

"This -- pleasure gives happiness."

"Next?"

"Well, I do not think we ought to
consider ourselves unfortunate, for my
part, at least. A good repast -- vin de
Foigny, which they have the delicacy to
go and fetch for me from my favorite
cabaret -- not one impertinence heard
during a supper an hour long, in spite
of the presence of ten millionaires and
twenty poets."

"I stop you there. You mentioned vin de
Foigny, and a good repast, do you
persist in that?"

"I persist, -- anteco, as they say at
Port Royal."

"Then please to recollect that the great
Epicurus lived, and made his pupils
live, upon bread, vegetables, and
water."

"That is not certain," said La Fontaine;
"and you appear to me to be confounding
Epicurus with Pythagoras, my dear
Conrart."

"Remember, likewise, that the ancient
philosopher was rather a bad friend of
the gods and the magistrates."

"Oh! that is what I will not admit,"
replied La Fontaine. "Epicurus was like
M. Fouquet."

"Do not compare him to monsieur le
surintendant," said Conrart, in an
agitated voice, "or you would accredit
the reports which are circulated
concerning him and us."

"What reports?"

"That we are bad Frenchmen, lukewarm
with regard to the king, deaf to the
law."

"I return, then, to my text," said La
Fontaine. "Listen, Conrart, this is the
morality of Epicurus, whom, besides, I
consider, if I must tell you so, as a
myth. Antiquity is mostly mythical.
Jupiter, if we give a little attention
to it, is life. Alcides is strength. The
words are there to bear me out; Zeus,
that is, zen, to live. Alcides, that is,
alce, vigor. Well, Epicurus, that is
mild watchfulness, that is protection;
now who watches better over the state,
or who protects individuals better than
M. Fouquet does?"

"You talk etymology and not morality; I
say that we modern Epicureans are
indifferent citizens."

"Oh!" cried La Fontaine, "if we become
bad citizens, it is not through
following the maxims of our master.
Listen to one of his principal
aphorisms."

"I -- will."

"Pray for good leaders."

"Well?"

"Well! what does M. Fouquet say to us
every day? `When shall we be governed?'
Does he say so? Come, Conrart, be
frank."

"He says so, that is true."

"Well, that is a doctrine of Epicurus."

"Yes; but that is a little seditious,
observe."

"What! seditious to wish to be governed
by good heads or leaders?"

"Certainly, when those who govern are
bad."

"Patience, I have a reply for all."

"Even for what I have just said to you?"

"Listen! would you submit to those who
govern ill? Oh! it is written: Cacos
politeuousi. You grant me the text?"

"Pardieu! I think so. Do you know, you
speak Greek as well as AEsop did, my
dear La Fontaine."

"Is there any wickedness in that, my
dear Conrart?"

"God forbid I should say so."

"Then let us return to M. Fouquet. What
did he repeat to us all the day? Was it
not this? `What a cuistre is that
Mazarin! what an ass! what a leech! We
must, however, submit to the fellow.'
Now, Conrart, did he say so, or did he
not?"

"I confess that he said it, and even
perhaps too often."

"Like Epicurus, my friend, still like
Epicurus; I repeat, we are Epicureans,
and that is very amusing."

"Yes, but I am afraid there will rise
up, by the side of us, a sect like that
of Epictetus, you know him well; the
philosopher of Hieropolis, he who called
bread luxury, vegetables prodigality,
and clear water drunkenness; he who,
being beaten by his master, said to him,
grumbling a little it is true, but
without being angry, `I will lay a wager
you have broken my leg!' -- and who won
his wager."

"He was a goose, that fellow Epictetus."

"Granted, but he might easily become the
fashion by only changing his name into
that of Colbert."

"Bah!" replied La Fontaine, "that is
impossible. Never will you find Colbert
in Epictetus."

"You are right, I shall find -- Coluber
there, at the most."

"Ah! you are beaten, Conrart; you are
reduced to a play upon words. M. Arnaud
pretends that I have no logic; I have
more than M. Nicolle."

"Yes," replied Conrart, "you have logic,
but you are a Jansenist."

This peroration was hailed with a
boisterous shout of laughter; by degrees
the promenaders had been attracted by
the exclamations of the two disputants
around the arbor under which they were
arguing. The discussion had been
religiously listened to, and Fouquet
himself, scarcely able to suppress his
laughter, had given an example of
moderation. But with the denouement of
the scene he threw off all restraint,
and laughed aloud. Everybody laughed as
he did, and the two philosophers were
saluted with unanimous felicitations. La
Fontaine, however, was declared
conqueror, on account of his profound
erudition and his irrefragable logic.
Conrart obtained the compensation due to
an unsuccessful combatant; he was
praised for the loyalty of his
intentions, and the purity of his
conscience.

At the moment when this jollity was
manifesting itself by the most lively
demonstrations, when the ladies were
reproaching the two adversaries with not
having admitted women into the system of
Epicurean happiness, Gourville was seen
hastening from the other end of the
garden, approaching Fouquet, and
detaching him, by his presence alone,
from the group. The superintendent
preserved on his face the smile and
character of carelessness; but scarcely
was he out of sight than he threw off
the mask.

"Well!" said he, eagerly, "where is
Pellisson! What is he doing?"

"Pellisson has returned from Paris."

"Has he brought back the prisoners?"

"He has not even seen the concierge of
the prison."

"What! did he not tell him he came from
me?"

"He told him so, but the concierge sent
him this reply: `If any one came to me
from M. Fouquet, he would have a letter
from M. Fouquet.'"

"Oh!" cried the latter, "if a letter is
all he wants ---- "

"It is useless, monsieur!" said
Pellisson, showing himself at the corner
of the little wood, "useless! Go
yourself, and speak in your own name."

"You are right. I will go in, as if to
work; let the horses remain harnessed,
Pellisson. Entertain my friends,
Gourville."

"One last word of advice, monseigneur,"
replied the latter.

"Speak, Gourville."

"Do not go to the concierge save at the
last minute; it is brave, but it is not
wise. Excuse me, Monsieur Pellisson, if
I am not of the same opinion as you; but
take my advice, monseigneur, send again
a message to this concierge, -- he is a
worthy man, but do not carry it
yourself."

"I will think of it," said Fouquet;
"besides, we have all the night before
us."

"Do not reckon too much on time; were
the hours we have twice as many as they
are, they would not be too much,"
replied Pellisson; "it is never a fault
to arrive too soon."

"Adieu!" said the superintendent; "come
with me, Pellisson. Gourville, I commend
my guests to your care." And he set off.
The Epicureans did not perceive that the
head of the school had left them; the
violins continued playing all night
long.




CHAPTER 59

A Quarter of an Hour's Delay



Fouquet, on leaving his house for the
second time that day, felt himself less
heavy and less disturbed than might have
been expected. He turned towards
Pellisson, who was meditating in the
corner of the carriage some good
arguments against the violent
proceedings of Colbert.

"My dear Pellisson," said Fouquet, "it
is a great pity you are not a woman."

"I think, on the contrary, it is very
fortunate," replied Pellisson, "for,
monseigneur, I am excessively ugly."

"Pellisson! Pellisson!" said the
superintendent, laughing: "you repeat
too often you are `ugly,' not to leave
people to believe that it gives you much
pain."

"In fact it does, monseigneur, much
pain; there is no man more unfortunate
than I: I was handsome, the smallpox
rendered me hideous; I am deprived of a
great means of attraction; now, I am
your principal clerk or something of
that sort; I take great interest in your
affairs, and if, at this moment, I were
a pretty woman, I could render you an
important service."

"What?"

"I would go and find the concierge of
the Palais. I would seduce him, for he
is a gallant man, extravagantly partial
to women; then I would get away our two
prisoners."

"I hope to be able to do so myself,
although I am not a pretty woman,"
replied Fouquet.

"Granted, monseigneur; but you are
compromising yourself very much."

"Oh!" cried Fouquet, suddenly, with one
of those secret transports which the
generous blood of youth, or the
remembrance of some sweet emotion,
infuses into the heart. "Oh! I know a
woman who will enact the personage we
stand in need of, with the
lieutenant-governor of the
conciergerie."

"And, on my part, I know fifty,
monseigneur; fifty trumpets, which will
inform the universe of your generosity,
of your devotion to your friends, and,
consequently, will ruin you sooner or
later in ruining themselves."

"I do not speak of such women,
Pellisson, I speak of a noble and
beautiful creature who joins to the
intelligence and wit of her sex the
valor and coolness of ours; I speak of a
woman, handsome enough to make the walls
of a prison bow down to salute her,
discreet enough to let no one suspect by
whom she has been sent."

"A treasure!" said Pellisson, "you would
make a famous present to monsieur the
governor of the conciergerie! Peste!
monseigneur, he might have his head cut
off; but he would, before dying, have
had such happiness as no man had enjoyed
before him."

"And I add," said Fouquet, "that the
concierge of the Palais would not have
his head cut off, for he would receive
of me my horses to effect his escape,
and five hundred thousand livres
wherewith to live comfortably in
England: I add, that this lady, my
friend, would give him nothing but the
horses and the money. Let us go and seek
her, Pellisson."

The superintendent reached forth his
hand towards the gold and silken cord
placed in the interior of his carriage,
but Pellisson stopped him.
"Monseigneur," said he, "you are going
to lose as much time in seeking this
lady as Columbus took to discover the
new world. Now, we have but two hours in
which we can possibly succeed; the
concierge once gone to bed, how shall we
get at him without making a disturbance?
When daylight dawns, how can we conceal
our proceedings? Go, go yourself,
monseigneur, and do not seek either
woman or angel to-night."

"But, my dear Pellisson, here we are
before her door."

"What! before the angel's door?"

"Why, yes!"

"This is the hotel of Madame de
Belliere!"

"Hush!"

"Ah! Good Lord!" exclaimed Pellisson.

"What have you to say against her?"

"Nothing, alas! and it is that which
causes my despair. Nothing, absolutely
nothing. Why can I not, on the contrary,
say ill enough of her to prevent your
going to her?"

But Fouquet had already given orders to
stop, and the carriage was motionless.
"Prevent me!" cried Fouquet; "why, no
power on earth should prevent my going
to pay my compliments to Madame de
Plessis-Belliere, besides, who knows
that we shall not stand in need of her!"

"No, monseigneur no!"

"But I do not wish you to wait for me,
Pellisson," replied Fouquet, sincerely
courteous.

"The more reason I should, monseigneur;
knowing that you are keeping me waiting,
you will, perhaps, stay a shorter time.
Take care! You see there is a carriage
in the courtyard: she has some one with
her." Fouquet leant towards the steps of
the carriage. "One word more," cried
Pellisson; "do not go to this lady till
you have been to the concierge, for
Heaven's sake!"

"Eh! five minutes, Pellisson," replied
Fouquet, alighting at the steps of the
hotel, leaving Pellisson in the
carriage, in a very ill-humor. Fouquet
ran upstairs, told his name to the
footman, which excited an eagerness and
a respect that showed the habit the
mistress of the house had of honoring
that name in her family. "Monsieur le
surintendant," cried the marquise,
advancing, very pale, to meet him; "what
an honor! what an unexpected pleasure!"
said she. Then, in a low voice, "Take
care!" added the marquise, "Marguerite
Vanel is here!"

"Madame," replied Fouquet, rather
agitated, "I came on business. One
single word, and quickly, if you
please!" And he entered the salon.
Madame Vanel had risen, paler, more
livid, than Envy herself. Fouquet in
vain addressed her, with the most
agreeable, most pacific salutation; she
only replied by a terrible glance darted
at the marquise and Fouquet. This keen
glance of a jealous woman is a stiletto
which pierces every cuirass; Marguerite
Vanel plunged it straight into the
hearts of the two confidants. She made a
courtesy to her friend, a more profound
one to Fouquet, and took leave, under
pretense of having a number of visits to
make, without the marquise trying to
prevent her, or Fouquet, a prey to
anxiety, thinking further about her. She
was scarcely out of the room, and
Fouquet left alone with the marquise,
before he threw himself on his knees,
without saying a word. "I expected you,"
said the marquise, with a tender sigh.

"Oh! no," cried he, "or you would have
sent away that woman."

"She has been here little more than half
an hour, and I had no expectation she
would come this evening."

"You love me just a little, then,
marquise?"

"That is not the question now; it is of
your danger; how are your affairs going
on?"

"I am going this evening to get my
friends out of the prisons of the
Palais."

"How will you do that?"

"By buying and bribing the governor."

"He is a friend of mine; can I assist
you, without injuring you?"

"Oh! marquise, it would be a signal
service; but how can you be employed
without your being compromised? Now,
never shall my life, my power, or even
my liberty, be purchased at the expense
of a single tear from your eyes, or of
one frown of pain upon your brow."

"Monseigneur, no more such words, they
bewilder me; I have been culpable in
trying to serve you, without calculating
the extent of what I was doing. I love
you in reality, as a tender friend; and
as a friend, I am grateful for your
delicate attentions -- but, alas! --
alas! you will never find a mistress in
me."

"Marquise!" cried Fouquet, in a tone of
despair; "why not?"

"Because you are too much beloved," said
the young woman, in a low voice;
"because you are too much beloved by too
many people -- because the splendor of
glory and fortune wound my eyes, whilst
the darkness of sorrow attracts them;
because, in short, I, who have repulsed
you in your proud magnificence; I who
scarcely looked at you in your splendor,
I came, like a mad woman, to throw
myself, as it were, into your arms, when
I saw a misfortune hovering over your
head. You understand me now,
monseigneur? Become happy again, that I
may remain chaste in heart and in
thought; your misfortune entails my
ruin."

"Oh! madame," said Fouquet, with an
emotion he had never before felt; "were
I to fall to the lowest degree of human
misery, and hear from your mouth that
word which you now refuse me, that day,
madame, you will be mistaken in your
noble egotism; that day you will fancy
you are consoling the most unfortunate
of men, and you will have said, I love
you, to the most illustrious, the most
delighted, the most triumphant of the
happy beings of this world."

He was still at her feet, kissing her
hand, when Pellisson entered
precipitately, crying, in very
ill-humor, "Monseigneur! madame! for
Heaven's sake! excuse me. Monseigneur,
you have been here half an hour. Oh! do
not both look at me so reproachfully.
Madame, pray who is that lady who left
your house soon after monseigneur came
in?"

"Madame Vanel," said Fouquet.

"Ha!" cried Pellisson, "I was sure of
that."

"Well! what then?"

"Why, she got into her carriage, looking
deadly pale."

"What consequence is that to me?"

"Yes, but what she said to her coachman
is of consequence to you."

"Kind heaven!" cried the marquise, "what
was that?"

"To M. Colbert's!" said Pellisson, in a
hoarse voice.

"Bon Dieu! -- begone, begone,
monseigneur!" replied the marquise,
pushing Fouquet out of the salon, whilst
Pellisson dragged him by the hand.

"Am I, then, indeed," said the
superintendent, "become a child, to be
frightened by a shadow?"

"You are a giant," said the marquise,
"whom a viper is trying to bite in the
heel."

Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet to
the carriage. "To the Palais at full
speed!" cried Pellisson to the coachman.
The horses set off like lightning; no
obstacle relaxed their pace for an
instant. Only, at the arcade Saint-Jean,
as they were coming out upon the Place
de Greve, a long file of horsemen,
barring the narrow passage, stopped the
carriage of the superintendent. There
was no means of forcing this barrier; it
was necessary to wait till the mounted
archers of the watch, for it was they
who stopped the way, had passed with the
heavy carriage they were escorting, and
which ascended rapidly towards the Place
Baudoyer. Fouquet and Pellisson took no
further account of this circumstance
beyond deploring the minute's delay they
had thus to submit to. They entered the
habitation of the concierge du Palais
five minutes after. That officer was
still walking about in the front court.
At the name of Fouquet, whispered in his
ear by Pellisson, the governor eagerly
approached the carriage, and, hat in his
hand, was profuse in his attentions.
"What an honor for me, monseigneur,"
said he.

"One word, monsieur le gouverneur, will
you take the trouble to get into my
carriage?" The officer placed himself
opposite Fouquet in the coach.

"Monsieur," said Fouquet, "I have a
service to ask of you."

"Speak, monseigneur."

"A service that will be compromising for
you, monsieur, but which will assure to
you forever my protection and my
friendship."

"Were it to cast myself into the fire
for you, monseigneur, I would do it."

"That is well," said Fouquet; "what I
require is much more simple."

"That being so, monseigneur, what is
it?"

"To conduct me to the chamber of
Messieurs Lyodot and D'Eymeris."

"Will monseigneur have the kindness to
say for what purpose?"

"I will tell you in their presence,
monsieur; at the same time that I will
give you ample means of palliating this
escape."

"Escape! Why, then, monseigneur does not
know?"

"What?"

"That Messieurs Lyodot and D'Eymeris are
no longer here."

"Since when?" cried Fouquet, in great
agitation.

"About a quarter of an hour."

"Whither have they gone, then?"

"To Vincennes -- to the donjon."

"Who took them from here?"

"An order from the king."

"Oh! woe! woe!" exclaimed Fouquet,
striking his forehead. "Woe!" and
without saying a single word more to the
governor, he threw himself back in his
carriage, despair in his heart, and
death on his countenance.

"Well!" said Pellisson, with great
anxiety.

"Our friends are lost. Colbert is
conveying them to the donjon. They
crossed our very path under the arcade
Saint-Jean."

Pellisson, struck as by a thunderbolt,
made no reply. With a single reproach he
would have killed his master. "Where is
monseigneur going?" said the footman.

"Hone -- to Paris. You, Pellisson,
return to Saint-Mande, and bring the
Abbe Fouquet to me within an hour.
Begone!"




CHAPTER 60

Plan of Battle



The night was already far advanced when
the Abbe Fouquet joined his brother.
Gourville had accompanied him. These
three men, pale with dread of future
events, resembled less three powers of
the day than three conspirators, united
by one single thought of violence.
Fouquet walked for a long time, with his
eyes fixed upon the floor, striking his
hands one against the other. At length,
taking courage, in the midst of a deep
sigh: "Abbe," said he, "you were
speaking to me only to-day of certain
people you maintain."

"Yes, monsieur," replied the abbe.

"Tell me precisely who are these
people." The abbe hesitated.

"Come! no fear, I am not threatening; no
romancing, for I am not joking."

"Since you demand the truth,
monseigneur, here it is: -- I have a
hundred and twenty friends or companions
of pleasure, who are sworn to me as the
thief is to the gallows."

"And you think you can depend upon
them?"

"Entirely."

"And you will not compromise yourself?"

"I will not even make my appearance."

"And are they men of resolution?"

"They would burn Paris, if I promised
them they should not be burnt in turn."

"The thing I ask of you, abbe," said
Fouquet, wiping the sweat which fell
from his brow, "is to throw your hundred
and twenty men upon the people I will
point out to you, at a certain moment
given -- is it possible?"

"It will not be the first time such a
thing has happened to them,
monseigneur."

"That is well: but would these bandits
attack an armed force?"

"They are used to that."

"Then get your hundred and twenty men
together, abbe."

"Directly. But where?"

"On the road to Vincennes, to-morrow, at
two o'clock precisely."

"To carry off Lyodot and D'Eymeris?
There will be blows to be got!"

"A number, no doubt; are you afraid?"

"Not for myself, but for you."

"Your men will know, then, what they
have to do?"

"They are too intelligent not to guess
it. Now, a minister who gets up a riot
against his king -- exposes himself ----
"

"Of what importance is that to you, I
pray? Besides, if I fall, you fall with
me."

"It would then be more prudent,
monsieur, not to stir in the affair, and
leave the king to take this little
satisfaction."

"Think well of this, abbe, Lyodot and
D'Eymeris at Vincennes are a prelude of
ruin for my house. I repeat it -- I
arrested, you will be imprisoned -- I
imprisoned, you will be exiled."

"Monsieur, I am at your orders; have you
any to give me?"

"What I told you -- I wish that,
to-morrow, the two financiers of whom
they mean to make victims, whilst there
remain so many criminals unpunished,
should be snatched from the fury of my
enemies. Take your measures accordingly.
Is it possible?"

"It is possible."

"Describe your plan."

"It is of rich simplicity. The ordinary
guard at executions consists of twelve
archers."

"There will be a hundred to-morrow."

"I reckon so. I even say more -- there
will be two hundred."

"Then your hundred and twenty men will
not be enough."

"Pardon me. In every crowd composed of a
hundred thousand spectators, there are
ten thousand bandits or cut-purses --
only they dare not take the initiative."

"Well?"

"There will then be, to-morrow, on the
Place de Greve, which I choose as my
battle-field, ten thousand auxiliaries
to my hundred and twenty men. The attack
commenced by the latter, the others will
finish it."

"That all appears feasible. But what
will be done with regard to the
prisoners upon the Place de Greve?"

"This: they must be thrust into some
house -- that will make a siege
necessary to get them out again. And
stop! here is another idea, more sublime
still: certain houses have two issues --
one upon the Place, and the other into
the Rue de la Mortellerie, or la
Vennerie, or la Texeranderie. The
prisoners entering by one door will go
out at another."

"Yes, but fix upon something positive."

"I am seeking to do so."

"And I," cried Fouquet, "I have found
it. Listen to what has occurred to me at
this moment."

"I am listening."

Fouquet made a sign to Gourville, who
appeared to understand. "One of my
friends lends me sometimes the keys of a
house which he rents, Rue Baudoyer, the
spacious gardens of which extend behind
a certain house on the Place de Greve."

"That is the place for us," said the
abbe. "What house?"

"A cabaret, pretty well frequented,
whose sign represents the image of Notre
Dame."

"I know it," said the abbe.

"This cabaret has windows opening upon
the Place, a place of exit into the
court, which must abut upon the gardens
of my friend by a door of
communication."

"Good!" said the abbe.

"Enter by the cabaret, take the
prisoners in; defend the door while you
enable them to fly by the garden and the
Place Baudoyer."

"That is all plain. Monsieur, you would
make an excellent general, like monsieur
le prince."

"Have you understood me?"

"Perfectly well."

"How much will it amount to, to make
your bandits all drunk with wine, and to
satisfy them with gold?"

"Oh, monsieur, what an expression! Oh!
monsieur, if they heard you: some of
them are very susceptible."

"I mean to say they must be brought no
longer to know the heavens from the
earth; for I shall to-morrow contend
with the king; and when I fight I mean
to conquer -- please to understand."

"It shall be done, monsieur. Give me
your other ideas."

"That is your business."

"Then give me your purse."

"Gourville, count a hundred thousand
livres for the abbe."

"Good! and spare nothing, did you not
say?"

"Nothing."

"That is well."

"Monseigneur," objected Gourville, "if
this should be known, we should lose our
heads."

"Eh! Gourville," replied Fouquet, purple
with anger, "you excite my pity. Speak
for yourself, if you please. My head
does not shake in that manner upon my
shoulders. Now, abbe, is everything
arranged?"

"Everything."

"At two o'clock to-morrow."

"At twelve, because it will be necessary
to prepare our auxiliaries in a secret
manner."

"That is true; do not spare the wine of
the cabaretier."

"I will spare neither his wine nor his
house," replied the abbe, with a
sneering laugh. "I have my plan, I tell
you; leave me to set it in operation,
and you shall see."

"Where shall you be yourself?"

"Everywhere; nowhere."

"And how shall I receive information?"

"By a courier whose horse shall be kept
in the very garden of your friend. A
propos, the name of your friend?"

Fouquet looked again at Gourville. The
latter came to the succor of his master,
saying, "Accompanying monsieur l'abbe
for several reasons, only the house is
easily to be known, the
`Image-de-Notre-Dame' in the front, a
garden, the only one in the quarter,
behind."

"Good, good! I will go and give notice
to my soldiers."

"Accompany him, Gourville," said
Fouquet, "and count him down the money.
One moment, abbe -- one moment,
Gourville -- what name will be given to
this carrying off?"

"A very natural one, monsieur -- the
Riot."

"The riot on account of what? For, if
ever the people of Paris are disposed to
pay their court to the king, it is when
he hangs financiers."

"I will manage that," said the abbe.

"Yes; but you may manage it badly, and
people will guess."

"Not at all, -- not at all. I have
another idea."

"What is that?"

"My men shall cry out, `Colbert, vive
Colbert!' and shall throw themselves
upon the prisoners as if they would tear
them in pieces, and shall force them
from the gibbets, as too mild a
punishment."

"Ah! that is an idea," said Gourville.
"Peste! monsieur l'abbe, what an
imagination you have!"

"Monsieur, we are worthy of our family,"
replied the abbe, proudly.

"Strange fellow," murmured Fouquet. Then
he added, "That is ingenious. Carry it
out, but shed no blood."

Gourville and the abbe set off together,
with their heads full of the meditated
riot. The superintendent laid himself
down upon some cushions, half valiant
with respect to the sinister projects of
the morrow, half dreaming of love.




CHAPTER 61

The Cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame



At two o'clock the next day fifty
thousand spectators had taken their
position upon the Place, around the two
gibbets which had been elevated between
the Quai de la Greve and the Quai
Pelletier; one close to the other, with
their backs to the embankment of the
river. In the morning also, all the
sworn criers of the good city of Paris
had traversed the quarters of the city,
particularly the halles and the
faubourgs, announcing with their hoarse
and indefatigable voices, the great
justice done by the king upon two
speculators, two thieves, devourers of
the people. And these people, whose
interests were so warmly looked after,
in order not to fail in respect for
their king quitted shops, stalls, and
ateliers to go and evince a little
gratitude to Louis XIV., absolutely like
invited guests, who feared to commit an
impoliteness in not repairing to the
house of him who had invited them.
According to the tenor of the sentence,
which the criers read aloud and
incorrectly, two farmers of the
revenues, monopolists of money,
dilapidators of the royal provisions,
extortioners, and forgers, were about to
undergo capital punishment on the Place
de Greve, with their names blazoned over
their heads, according to their
sentence. As to those names, the
sentence made no mention of them. The
curiosity of the Parisians was at its
height, and, as we have said, an immense
crowd waited with feverish impatience
the hour fixed for the execution. The
news had already spread that the
prisoners, transferred to the Chateau of
Vincennes, would be conducted from that
prison to the Place de Greve.
Consequently, the faubourg and the Rue
Saint Antoine were crowded, for the
population of Paris in those days of
great executions was divided into two
categories: those who came to see the
condemned pass -- these were of timid
and mild hearts, but philosophically
curious -- and those who wished to see
the condemned die -- these had hearts
that hungered for sensation. On this day
M. d'Artagnan received his last
instructions from the king, and made his
adieus to his friends, the number of
whom was, at the moment, reduced to
Planchet, traced the plan of his day, as
every busy man whose moments are counted
ought to do because he appreciates their
importance.

"My departure is to be," said he, "at
break of day, three o'clock in the
morning; I have then fifteen hours
before me. Take from them the six hours
of sleep which are indispensable for
me -- six; one hour for repasts --
seven; one hour for a farewell visit to
Athos -- eight; two hours for chance
circumstances ---total, ten. There are
then five hours left. One hour to get my
money, -- that is, to have payment
refused by M. Fouquet; another hour to
go and receive my money of M. Colbert,
together with his questions and
grimaces; one hour to look over my
clothes and arms, and get my boots
cleaned. I have still two hours left.
Mordioux! how rich I am!" And so saying,
D'Artagnan felt a strange joy, a joy of
youth, a perfume of those great and
happy years of former times mount into
his brain and intoxicate him. "During
these two hours I will go," said the
musketeer, "and take my quarter's rent
of the Image-de-Notre-Dame. That will be
pleasant. Three hundred and seventy-five
livres. Mordioux! but that is
astonishing! If the poor man who has but
one livre in his pocket, found a livre
and twelve deniers, that would be
justice, that would be excellent; but
never does such a godsend fall to the
lot of the poor man. The rich man, on
the contrary, makes himself revenues
with his money, which he does not even
touch. Here are three hundred and
seventy-five livres which fall to me
from heaven. I will go then to the
Image-de-Notre-Dame, and drink a glass
of Spanish wine with my tenant, which he
cannot fail to offer me. But order must
be observed, Monsieur d'Artagnan, order
must be observed! Let us organize our
time, then, and distribute the
employment of it! Art. 1st, Athos; Art.
2d, the Image-de-Notre-Dame; Art. 3d, M.
Fouquet, Art. 4th, M. Colbert; Art. 5th,
supper; Art. 6th, clothes, boots, horse,
portmanteau; Art. 7th and last, sleep."

In consequence of this arrangement,
D'Artagnan went straight to the Comte de
la Fere, to whom modestly and
ingenuously he related a part of his
fortunate adventures. Athos had not been
without uneasiness on the subject of
D'Artagnan's visit to the king; but few
words sufficed for an explanation of
that. Athos divined that Louis had
charged D'Artagnan with some important
mission, and did not even make an effort
to draw the secret from him. He only
recommended him to take care of himself,
and offered discreetly to accompany him
if that were desirable.

"But, my dear friend," said D'Artagnan,
"I am going nowhere."

"What! you come and bid me adieu, and
are going nowhere?"

"Oh! yes, yes," replied D'Artagnan,
coloring a little, "I am going to make
an acquisition."

"That is quite another thing. Then I
change my formula. Instead of `Do not
get yourself killed,' I will say, -- `Do
not get yourself robbed.'"

"My friend, I will inform you if I set
eyes on any property that pleases me,
and shall expect you will favor me with
your opinion."

"Yes, yes," said Athos, too delicate to
permit himself even the consolation of a
smile. Raoul imitated the paternal
reserve. But D'Artagnan thought it would
appear too mysterious to leave his
friends under a pretense, without even
telling them the route he was about to
take.

"I have chosen Le Mans," said he to
Athos. "Is it a good country?"

"Excellent, my friend," replied the
count, without making him observe that
Le Mans was in the same direction as La
Touraine, and that by waiting two days,
at most, he might travel with a friend.
But D'Artagnan, more embarrassed than
the count, dug, at every explanation,
deeper into the mud, into which he sank
by degrees. "I shall set out to-morrow
at daybreak," said he at last. "Till
that time, will you come with me,
Raoul?"

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier," said the
young man, "if monsieur le comte does
not want me."

"No, Raoul I am to have an audience
to-day of Monsieur, the king's brother;
that is all I have to do."

Raoul asked Grimaud for his sword, which
the old man brought him immediately.
"Now then," added D'Artagnan, opening
his arms to Athos, "adieu, my dear
friend!" Athos held him in a long
embrace, and the musketeer, who knew his
discretion so well, murmured in his
ear -- "An affair of state," to which
Athos only replied by a pressure of the
hand, still more significant. They then
separated. Raoul took the arm of his old
friend, who led him along the
Rue-Saint-Honore. "I am conducting you
to the abode of the god Plutus," said
D'Artagnan to the young man; "prepare
yourself. The whole day you will witness
the piling up of crowns. Heavens! how I
am changed!"

"Oh! what numbers of people there are in
the street!" said Raoul.

"Is there a procession to-day?" asked
D'Artagnan of a passer-by.

"Monsieur, it is a hanging," replied the
man.

"What! a hanging at the Greve?" said
D'Artagnan.

"Yes, monsieur."

"The devil take the rogue who gets
himself hung the day I want to go and
take my rent!" cried D'Artagnan. "Raoul,
did you ever see anybody hung?"

"Never, monsieur -- thank God!"

"Oh! how young that sounds! If you were
on guard in the trenches, as I was, and
a spy! But, pardon me, Raoul, I am
doting -- you are quite right, it is a
hideous sight to see a person hung! At
what hour do they hang them, monsieur,
if you please?"

"Monsieur," replied the stranger
respectfully, delighted at joining
conversation with two men of the sword,
"it will take place about three
o'clock."

"Aha! it is now only half-past one; let
us step out, we shall be there in time
to touch my three hundred and
seventy-five livres, and get away before
the arrival of the malefactor."

"Malefactors, monsieur," continued the
bourgeois; "there are two of them."

"Monsieur, I return you many thanks,"
said D'Artagnan, who, as he grew older,
had become polite to a degree. Drawing
Raoul along, he directed his course
rapidly in the direction of La Greve.
Without that great experience musketeers
have of a crowd, to which were joined an
irresistible strength of wrist, and an
uncommon suppleness of shoulders, our
two travelers would not have arrived at
their place of destination. They
followed the line of the Quai, which
they had gained on quitting the Rue
Saint-Honore, where they left Athos.
D'Artagnan went first; his elbow, his
wrist, his shoulder formed three wedges
which he knew how to insinuate with
skill into the groups, to make them
split and separate like firewood. He
made use sometimes of the hilt of his
sword as an additional help: introducing
it between ribs that were too
rebellious, making it take the part of a
lever or crowbar, to separate husband
from wife, uncle from nephew, and
brother from brother. And all this was
done so naturally, and with such
gracious smiles, that people must have
had ribs of bronze not to cry thank you
when the wrist made its play, or hearts
of diamond not to be enchanted when such
a bland smile enlivened the lips of the
musketeer. Raoul, following his friend,
cajoled the women who admired his
beauty, pushed back the men who felt the
rigidity of his muscles, and both
opened, thanks to these maneuvers, the
compact and muddy tide of the populace.
They arrived in sight of the two
gibbets, from which Raoul turned away
his eyes in disgust. As for D'Artagnan,
he did not even see them; his house with
its gabled roof, its windows crowded
with the curious, attracted and even
absorbed all the attention he was
capable of. He distinguished in the
Place and around the houses a good
number of musketeers on leave, who, some
with women, others with friends, awaited
the crowning ceremony. What rejoiced him
above all was to see that his tenant,
the cabaretier, was so busy he hardly
knew which way to turn. Three lads could
not supply the drinkers. They filled the
shop, the chambers, and the court, even.
D'Artagnan called Raoul's attention to
this concourse, adding: "The fellow will
have no excuse for not paying his rent.
Look at those drinkers, Raoul, one would
say they were jolly companions.
Mordioux! why, there is no room
anywhere!" D'Artagnan, however,
contrived to catch hold of the master by
the corner of his apron, and to make
himself known to him.

"Ah, monsieur le chevalier," said the
cabaretier, half distracted, "one minute
if you please. I have here a hundred mad
devils turning my cellar upside down."

"The cellar, if you like, but not the
money-box."

"Oh, monsieur, your thirty-seven and a
half pistoles are all counted out ready
for you, upstairs in my chamber, but
there are in that chamber thirty
customers, who are sucking the staves of
a little barrel of Oporto which I tapped
for them this very morning. Give me a
minute, -- only a minute."

"So be it; so be it."

"I will go," said Raoul, in a low voice,
to D'Artagnan; "this hilarity is vile!"

"Monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, sternly,
"you will please to remain where you
are. The soldier ought to familiarize
himself with all kinds of spectacles.
There are in the eye, when it is young,
fibers which we must learn how to
harden; and we are not truly generous
and good save from the moment when the
eye has become hardened, and the heart
remains tender. Besides, my little
Raoul, would you leave me alone here?
That would be very wrong of you. Look,
there is yonder in the lower court a
tree, and under the shade of that tree
we shall breathe more freely than in
this hot atmosphere of spilt wine."

From the spot on which they had placed
themselves the two new guests of the
Image-de-Notre-Dame heard the
ever-increasing hubbub of the tide of
people, and lost neither a cry nor a
gesture of the drinkers, at tables in
the cabaret, or disseminated in the
chambers. If D'Artagnan had wished to
place himself as a vidette for an
expedition, he could not have succeeded
better. The tree under which he and
Raoul were seated covered them with its
already thick foliage; it was a low,
thick chestnut-tree, with inclined
branches, that cast their shade over a
table so dilapidated the drinkers had
abandoned it. We said that from this
post D'Artagnan saw everything. He
observed the goings and comings of the
waiters; the arrival of fresh drinkers;
the welcome, sometimes friendly,
sometimes hostile, given to the
newcomers by others already installed.
He observed all this to amuse himself,
for the thirty-seven and a half pistoles
were a long time coming. Raoul recalled
his attention to it. "Monsieur," said
he, "you do not hurry your tenant, and
the condemned will soon be here. There
will then be such a press we shall not
be able to get out."

"You are right," said the musketeer;
"Hola! oh! somebody there! Mordioux!"
But it was in vain he cried and knocked
upon the wreck of the old table, which
fell to pieces beneath his fist; nobody
came.

D'Artagnan was preparing to go and seek
the cabaretier himself, to force him to
a definite explanation, when the door of
the court in which he was with Raoul, a
door which communicated with the garden
situated at the back, opened, and a man
dressed as a cavalier, with his sword in
the sheath, but not at his belt, crossed
the court without closing the door; and
having cast an oblique glance at
D'Artagnan and his companion, directed
his course towards the cabaret itself,
looking about in all directions with his
eyes capable of piercing walls of
consciences. "Humph!" said D'Artagnan,
"my tenants are communicating. That, no
doubt, now, is some amateur in hanging
matters." At the same moment the cries
and disturbance in the upper chambers
ceased. Silence, under such
circumstances, surprises more than a
twofold increase of noise. D'Artagnan
wished to see what was the cause of this
sudden silence. He then perceived that
this man, dressed as a cavalier, had
just entered the principal chamber, and
was haranguing the tipplers, who all
listened to him with the greatest
attention. D'Artagnan would perhaps have
heard his speech but for the dominant
noise of the popular clamors, which made
a formidable accompaniment to the
harangue of the orator. But it was soon
finished, and all the people the cabaret
contained came out, one after the other,
in little groups, so that there only
remained six in the chamber; one of
these six, the man with the sword, took
the cabaretier aside, engaging him in
discourse more or less serious, whilst
the others lit a great fire in the
chimney-place -- a circumstance rendered
strange by the fine weather and the
heat.

"It is very singular," said D'Artagnan
to Raoul, "but I think I know those
faces yonder."

"Don't you think you can smell the smoke
here?" said Raoul

"I rather think I can smell a
conspiracy," replied D'Artagnan.

He had not finished speaking, when four
of these men came down into the court,
and without the appearance of any bad
design, mounted guard at the door of
communication, casting, at intervals,
glances at D'Artagnan, which signified
many things.

"Mordioux!" said D'Artagnan, in a low
voice, "there is something going on. Are
you curious, Raoul?"

"According to the subject, chevalier."

"Well, I am as curious as an old woman.
Come a little more in front; we shall
get a better view of the place. I would
lay a wager that view will be something
curious."

"But you know, monsieur le chevalier,
that I am not willing to become a
passive and indifferent spectator of the
death of the two poor devils."

"And I, then -- do you think I am a
savage? We will go in again, when it is
time to do so. Come along!" And they
made their way towards the front of the
house, and placed themselves near the
window which, still more strangely than
the rest, remained unoccupied. The two
last drinkers, instead of looking out at
this window, kept up the fire. On seeing
D'Artagnan and his friend enter: -- "Ah!
ah! a reinforcement," murmured they.

D'Artagnan jogged Raoul's elbow. "Yes,
my braves, a reinforcement," said he;
"cordieu! there is a famous fire. Whom
are you going to cook?"

The two men uttered a shout of jovial
laughter, and, instead of answering,
threw on more wood. D'Artagnan could not
take his eyes off them.

"I suppose," said one of the
fire-makers, "they sent you to tell us
the time -- did not they?"

"Without doubt they have," said
D'Artagnan, anxious to know what was
going on; "why should I be here else, if
it were not for that?"

"Then place yourself at the window, if
you please, and observe." D'Artagnan
smiled in his mustache, made a sign to
Raoul, and placed himself at the window.




CHAPTER 62

Vive Colbert!



The spectacle which the Greve now
presented was a frightful one. The
heads, leveled by the perspective,
extended afar, thick and agitated as the
ears of corn in a vast plain. From time
to time a fresh report, or a distant
rumor, made the heads oscillate and
thousands of eyes flash. Now and then
there were great movements. All those
ears of corn bent, and became waves more
agitated than those of the ocean, which
rolled from the extremities to the
center, and beat, like the tides,
against the hedge of archers who
surrounded the gibbets. Then the handles
of the halberds were let fall upon the
heads and shoulders of the rash
invaders; at times, also, it was the
steel as well as the wood, and, in that
case, a large empty circle was formed
around the guard; a space conquered upon
the extremities, which underwent, in
their turn the oppression of the sudden
movement, which drove them against the
parapets of the Seine. From the window,
that commanded a view of the whole
Place, D'Artagnan saw, with interior
satisfaction, that such of the
musketeers and guards as found
themselves involved in the crowd, were
able, with blows of their fists and the
hilts of their swords, to keep room. He
even remarked that they had succeeded,
by that esprit de corps which doubles
the strength of the soldier, in getting
together in one group to the amount of
about fifty men; and that, with the
exception of a dozen stragglers whom he
still saw rolling here and there, the
nucleus was complete, and within reach
of his voice. But it was not the
musketeers and guards only that drew the
attention of D'Artagnan. Around the
gibbets, and particularly at the
entrances to the arcade of Saint Jean,
moved a noisy mass, a busy mass; daring
faces, resolute demeanors were to be
seen here and there, mingled with silly
faces and indifferent demeanors; signals
were exchanged, hands given and taken.
D'Artagnan remarked among the groups,
and those groups the most animated, the
face of the cavalier whom he had seen
enter by the door of communication from
his garden, and who had gone upstairs to
harangue the drinkers. That man was
organizing troops and giving orders.

"Mordioux!" said D'Artagnan to himself,
"I was not deceived; I know that man, --
it is Menneville. What the devil is he
doing here?"

A distant murmur, which became more
distinct by degrees, stopped this
reflection, and drew his attention
another way. This murmur was occasioned
by the arrival of the culprits; a strong
picket of archers preceded them, and
appeared at the angle of the arcade. The
entire crowd now joined as if in one
cry; all the cries united formed one
immense howl. D'Artagnan saw Raoul was
becoming pale, and he slapped him
roughly on the shoulder. The
fire-keepers turned round on hearing the
great cry, and asked what was going on.
"The condemned are arrived," said
D'Artagnan. "That's well," replied they,
again replenishing the fire. D'Artagnan
looked at them with much uneasiness; it
was evident that these men who were
making such a fire for no apparent
purpose had some strange intentions. The
condemned appeared upon the Place. They
were walking, the executioner before
them, whilst fifty archers formed a
hedge on their right and their left.
Both were dressed in black; they
appeared pale, but firm. They looked
impatiently over the people's heads,
standing on tip-toe at every step.
D'Artagnan remarked this. "Mordioux!"
cried he, "they are in a great hurry to
get a sight of the gibbet!" Raoul drew
back, without, however, having the power
to leave the window. Terror even has its
attractions.

"To the death! to the death!" cried
fifty thousand voices.

"Yes; to the death!" howled a hundred
frantic others, as if the great mass had
given them the reply.

"To the halter! to the halter!" cried
the great whole; "Vive le roi!"

"Well," said D'Artagnan, "this is droll;
I should have thought it was M. Colbert
who had caused them to be hung."

There was, at this moment, a great
rolling movement in the crowd, which
stopped for a moment the march of the
condemned. The people of a bold and
resolute mien, whom D'Artagnan had
observed, by dint of pressing, pushing,
and lifting themselves up, had succeeded
in almost touching the hedge of archers.
The cortege resumed its march. All at
once, to cries of "Vive Colbert!" those
men, of whom D'Artagnan never lost
sight, fell upon the escort, which in
vain endeavored to stand against them.
Behind these men was the crowd. Then
commenced, amidst a frightful tumult, as
frightful a confusion. This time there
was something more than cries of
expectation or cries of joy, there were
cries of pain. Halberds struck men down,
swords ran them through, muskets were
discharged at them. The confusion became
then so great that D'Artagnan could no
longer distinguish anything. Then, from
this chaos, suddenly surged something
like a visible intention, like a will
pronounced. The condemned had been torn
from the hands of the guards, and were
being dragged towards the house of
L'Image-de-Notre-Dame. Those who dragged
them shouted, "Vive Colbert!" The people
hesitated, not knowing which they ought
to fall upon, the archers or the
aggressors. What stopped the people was,
that those who cried "Vive Colbert!"
began to cry, at the same time, "No
halter! no halter! to the fire! to the
fire! burn the thieves! burn the
extortioners!" This cry, shouted with an
ensemble, obtained enthusiastic success.
The populace had come to witness an
execution, and here was an opportunity
offered them of performing one
themselves. It was this that must be
most agreeable to the populace:
therefore, they ranged, themselves
immediately on the party of the
aggressors against the archers, crying
with the minority, which had become,
thanks to them, the most compact
majority: "Yes, yes: to the fire with
the thieves! Vive Colbert!"

"Mordioux!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, "this
begins to look serious."

One of the men who remained near the
chimney approached the window, a
firebrand in his hand. "Ah, ah!" said
he, "it gets warm." Then, turning to his
companion: "There is the signal," added
he; and he immediately applied the
burning brand to the wainscoting. Now,
this cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame
was not a very newly-built house, and
therefore did not require much
entreating to take fire. In a second the
boards began to crackle, and the flames
arose sparkling to the ceiling. A
howling from without replied to the
shouts of the incendiaries. D'Artagnan,
who had not seen what passed, from being
engaged at the window, felt, at the same
time, the smoke which choked him and the
fire that scorched him. "Hola!" cried
he, turning round, "is the fire here?
Are you drunk or mad, my masters?"

The two men looked at each other with an
air of astonishment. "In what?" asked
they of D'Artagnan; "was it not a thing
agreed upon?"

"A thing agreed upon that you should
burn my house!" vociferated D'Artagnan,
snatching the brand from the hand of the
incendiary, and striking him with it
across the face. The second wanted to
assist his comrade, but Raoul, seizing
him by the middle, threw him out of the
window, whilst D'Artagnan pushed his man
down the stairs. Raoul, first
disengaged, tore the burning wainscoting
down, and threw it flaming into the
chamber. At a glance D'Artagnan saw
there was nothing to be feared from the
fire, and sprang to the window. The
disorder was at its height. The air was
filled with simultaneous cries of "To
the fire!" "To the death!" "To the
halter!" "To the stake!" "Vive Colbert!"
"Vive le roi!" The group which had
forced the culprits from the hands of
the archers had drawn close to the
house, which appeared to be the goal
towards which they dragged them.
Menneville was at the head of this
group, shouting louder than all the
others, "To the fire! to the fire! Vive
Colbert!" D'Artagnan began to comprehend
what was meant. They wanted to burn the
condemned, and his house was to serve as
a funeral pile.

"Halt, there!" cried he, sword in hand,
and one foot upon the window.
"Menneville, what do you want to do?"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," cried the latter;
"give way, give way!"

"To the fire! to the fire with the
thieves! Vive Colbert!"

These cries exasperated D'Artagnan.
"Mordioux!" said he. "What! burn the
poor devils who are only condemned to be
hung? that is infamous!"

Before the door, however, the mass of
anxious spectators, rolled back against
the walls, had become more thick, and
closed up the way. Menneville and his
men, who were dragging along the
culprits, were within ten paces of the
door.

Menneville made a last effort. "Passage!
passage!" cried he, pistol in hand.

"Burn them! burn them!" repeated the
crowd. "The Image-de-Notre-Dame is on
fire! Burn the thieves! burn the
monopolists in the Image-de-Notre-Dame!"

There now remained no doubt, it was
plainly D'Artagnan's house that was
their object. D'Artagnan remembered the
old cry, always so effective from his
mouth:

"A moi! mousquetaires!" shouted he, with
the voice of a giant, with one of those
voices which dominate over cannon, the
sea, the tempest. "A moi!
mousquetaires!" And suspending himself
by the arm from the balcony, he allowed
himself to drop amidst the crowd, which
began to draw back from a house that
rained men. Raoul was on the ground as
soon as he, both sword in hand. All the
musketeers on the Place heard that
challenging cry -- all turned round at
that cry, and recognized D'Artagnan. "To
the captain, to the captain!" cried
they, in their turn. And the crowd
opened before them as though before the
prow of a vessel. At that moment
D'Artagnan and Menneville found
themselves face to face. "Passage,
passage!" cried Menneville, seeing that
he was within an arm's length of the
door.

"No one passes here," said D'Artagnan.

"Take that, then!" said Menneville,
firing his pistol, almost within arm's
length. But before the cock fell,
D'Artagnan had struck up Menneville's
arm with the hilt of his sword and
passed the blade through his body.

"I told you plainly to keep yourself
quiet," said D'Artagnan to Menneville,
who rolled at his feet.

"Passage! passage!" cried the companions
of Menneville, at first terrified, but
soon recovering, when they found they
had only to do with two men. But those
two men were hundred-armed giants, the
swords flew about in their hands like
the burning glaive of the archangel.
They pierce with its point, strike with
the flat, cut with the edge, every
stroke brings down a man. "For the
king!" cried D'Artagnan, to every man he
struck at, that is to say, to every man
that fell. This cry became the charging
word for the musketeers, who guided by
it, joined D'Artagnan. During this time
the archers, recovering from the panic
they had undergone, charge the
aggressors in the rear, and regular as
mill strokes, overturn or knock down all
that oppose them. The crowd, which sees
swords gleaming, and drops of blood
flying in the air -- the crowd falls
back and crushes itself. At length cries
for mercy and of despair resound; that
is, the farewell of the vanquished. The
two condemned are again in the hands of
the archers. D'Artagnan approaches them,
seeing them pale and sinking: "Console
yourselves, poor men," said he, "you
will not undergo the frightful torture
with which these wretches threatened
you. The king has condemned you to be
hung: you shall only be hung. Go on,
hang them, and it will be over."

There is no longer anything going on at
the Image-de-Notre-Dame. The fire has
been extinguished with two tuns of wine
in default of water. The conspirators
have fled by the garden. The archers
were dragging the culprits to the
gibbets. From this moment the affair did
not occupy much time. The executioner,
heedless about operating according to
the rules of art, made such haste that
he dispatched the condemned in a couple
of minutes. In the meantime the people
gathered around D'Artagnan, -- they
felicitated, they cheered him. He wiped
his brow, streaming with sweat, and his
sword, streaming with blood. He shrugged
his shoulders at seeing Menneville
writhing at his feet in the last
convulsions. And, while Raoul turned
away his eyes in compassion, he pointed
to the musketeers the gibbets laden with
their melancholy fruit. "Poor devils!"
said he, "I hope they died blessing me,
for I saved them with great difficulty."
These words caught the ear of Menneville
at the moment when he himself was
breathing his last sigh. A dark,
ironical smile flitted across his lips,
he wished to reply, but the effort
hastened the snapping of the chord of
life -- he expired.

"Oh! all this is very frightful!"
murmured Raoul: "let us begone, monsieur
le chevalier."

"You are not wounded?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Not at all, thank you."

"That's well! Thou art a brave fellow,
mordioux! The head of the father, and
the arm of Porthos. Ah! if he had been
here, good Porthos, you would have seen
something worth looking at." Then as if
by way of remembrance --

"But where the devil can that brave
Porthos be?" murmured D'Artagnan.

"Come, chevalier, pray come away," urged
Raoul.

"One minute, my friend, let me take my
thirty-seven and a half pistoles and I
am at your service. The house is a good
property," added D'Artagnan, as he
entered the Image-de-Notre-Dame, "but
decidedly, even if it were less
profitable, I should prefer its being in
another quarter."




CHAPTER 63

How M. d'Eymeris's Diamond passed into
the Hands of M. D'Artagnan.



Whilst this violent, noisy, and bloody
scene was passing on the Greve, several
men, barricaded behind the gate of
communication with the garden, replaced
their swords in their sheaths, assisted
one among them to mount a ready saddled
horse which was waiting in the garden,
and like a flock of startled birds, fled
in all directions, some climbing the
walls, others rushing out at the gates
with all the fury of a panic. He who
mounted the horse, and gave him the spur
so sharply that the animal was near
leaping the wall, this cavalier, we say,
crossed the Place Baudoyer, passed like
lightning before the crowd in the
streets, riding against, running over
and knocking down all that came in his
way, and, ten minutes after, arrived at
the gates of the superintendent, more
out of breath than his horse. The Abbe
Fouquet, at the clatter of the hoofs on
the pavement, appeared at a window of
the court, and before even the cavalier
had set foot to the ground, "Well!
Danecamp?" cried he, leaning half out of
the window.

"Well, it is all over," replied the
cavalier.

"All over!" cried the abbe. "Then they
are saved?"

"No, monsieur," replied the cavalier,
"they are hung."

"Hung!" repeated the abbe, turning pale.
A lateral door suddenly opened, and
Fouquet appeared in the chamber, pale,
distracted, with lips half opened,
breathing a cry of grief and anger. He
stopped upon the threshold to listen to
what was addressed from the court to the
window.

"Miserable wretches!" said the abbe.
"you did not fight, then?"

"Like lions."

"Say like cowards."

"Monsieur!"

"A hundred men accustomed to war, sword
in hand, are worth ten thousand archers
in a surprise. Where is Menneville, that
boaster, that braggart, who was to come
back either dead or a conqueror?"

"Well, monsieur, he has kept his word.
He is dead!"

"Dead! Who killed him?"

"A demon disguised as a man, a giant
armed with ten flaming swords -- a
madman, who at one blow extinguished the
fire, put down the riot, and caused a
hundred musketeers to rise up out of the
pavement of the Greve."

Fouquet raised his brow, streaming with
sweat, murmuring, "Oh! Lyodot and
D'Eymeris! dead! dead! dead! and I
dishonored."

The abbe turned round, and perceiving
his brother, despairing and livid,
"Come, come," said he, "it is a blow of
fate, monsieur; we must not lament thus.
Our attempt has failed, because God ----
"

"Be silent, abbe! be silent!" cried
Fouquet; "your excuses are blasphemies.
Order that man up here, and let him
relate the details of this terrible
event."

"But, brother ---- "

"Obey, monsieur!"

The abbe made a sign, and in half a
minute the man's step was heard upon the
stairs. At the same time Gourville
appeared behind Fouquet, like the
guardian angel of the superintendent,
pressing one finger on his lips to
enjoin observation even amidst the
bursts of his grief. The minister
resumed all the serenity that human
strength left at the disposal of a heart
half broken with sorrow. Danecamp
appeared. "Make your report," said
Gourville.

"Monsieur," replied the messenger, "we
received orders to carry off the
prisoners, and to cry `Vive Colbert!'
whilst carrying them off."

"To burn them alive, was it not, abbe?"
interrupted Gourville.

"Yes, yes, the order was given to
Menneville. Menneville knew what was to
be done, and Menneville is dead."

This news appeared rather to reassure
Gourville than to sadden him.

"Yes, certainly to burn them alive,"
said the abbe, eagerly.

"Granted, monsieur, granted," said the
man, looking into the eyes and the faces
of the two interlocutors, to ascertain
what there was profitable or
disadvantageous to himself in telling
the truth.

"Now, proceed," said Gourville.

"The prisoners," cried Danecamp, "were
brought to the Greve, and the people, in
a fury, insisted upon their being burnt
instead of being hung."

"And the people were right," said the
abbe. "Go on."

"But," resumed the man, "at the moment
the archers were broken, at the moment
the fire was set to one of the houses of
the Place destined to serve as a
funeral-pile for the guilty, this fury,
this demon, this giant of whom I told
you, and who we had been informed, was
the proprietor of the house in question,
aided by a young man who accompanied
him, threw out of the window those who
kept up the fire, called to his
assistance the musketeers who were in
the crowd, leapt himself from the window
of the first story into the Place, and
plied his sword so desperately that the
victory was restored to the archers, the
prisoners were retaken, and Menneville
killed. When once recaptured, the
condemned were executed in three
minutes." Fouquet, in spite of his
self-command, could not prevent a deep
groan escaping him.

"And this man, the proprietor of the
house, what is his name?" said the abbe.

"I cannot tell you, not having even been
able to get sight of him; my post had
been appointed in the garden, and I
remained at my post: only the affair was
related to me as I repeat it. I was
ordered, when once the affair was at an
end, to come at best speed arid announce
to you the manner in which it finished.
According to this order, I set out, full
gallop, and here I am."

"Very well, monsieur, we have nothing
else to ask of you," said the abbe, more
and more dejected, in proportion as the
moment approached for finding himself
alone with his brother.

"Have you been paid?" asked Gourville.

"Partly, monsieur," replied Danecamp.

"Here are twenty pistoles. Begone,
monsieur, and never forget to defend, as
this time has been done, the true
interests of the king."

"Yes, monsieur," said the man, bowing
and pocketing the money. After which he
went out. Scarcely had the door closed
after him when Fouquet, who had remained
motionless, advanced with a rapid step
and stood between the abbe and
Gourville. Both of them at the same time
opened their mouths to speak to him. "No
excuses," said he, "no recriminations
against anybody. If I had not been a
false friend I should not have confided
to any one the care of delivering Lyodot
and D'Eymeris. I alone am guilty; to me
alone are reproaches and remorse due.
Leave me, abbe."

"And yet, monsieur, you will not prevent
me," replied the latter, "from
endeavoring to find out the miserable
fellow who has intervened to the
advantage of M. Colbert in this so
well-arranged affair; for, if it is good
policy to love our friends dearly, I do
not believe that is bad which consists
in obstinately pursuing our enemies."

"A truce to policy, abbe; begone, I beg
of you, and do not let me hear any more
of you till I send for you; what we most
need is circumspection and silence. You
have a terrible example before you,
gentlemen: no reprisals, I forbid them."

"There are no orders," grumbled the
abbe, "which will prevent me from
avenging a family affront upon the
guilty person."

"And I," cried Fouquet, in that
imperative tone to which one feels there
is nothing to reply, "if you entertain
one thought, one single thought, which
is not the absolute expression of my
will, I will have you cast into the
Bastile two hours after that thought has
manifested itself. Regulate your conduct
accordingly, abbe."

The abbe colored and bowed. Fouquet made
a sign to Gourville to follow him, and
was already directing his steps towards
his cabinet, when the usher announced
with a loud voice: "Monsieur le
Chevalier d'Artagnan."

"Who is he?" said Fouquet, negligently,
to Gourville.

"An ex-lieutenant of his majesty's
musketeers," replied Gourville, in the
same tone. Fouquet did not even take the
trouble to reflect, and resumed his
walk. "I beg your pardon, monseigneur!"
said Gourville, "but I have remembered,
this brave man has quitted the king's
service, and probably comes to receive
an installment of some pension or
other."

"Devil take him!" said Fouquet, "why
does he choose his opportunity so ill?"

"Permit me then, monseigneur, to
announce your refusal to him; for he is
one of my acquaintance, and is a man
whom, in our present circumstances, it
would be better to have as a friend than
an enemy."

"Answer him as you please," said
Fouquet.

"Eh! good Lord!" said the abbe, still
full of malice, like an egotistical man;
"tell him there is no money,
particularly for musketeers."

But scarcely had the abbe uttered this
imprudent speech, when the partly open
door was thrown back, and D'Artagnan
appeared.

"Eh! Monsieur Fouquet," said he, "I was
well aware there was no money for
musketeers here. Therefore I did not
come to obtain any, but to have it
refused. That being done, receive my
thanks. I give you good-day, and will go
and seek it at M. Colbert's." And he
went out, making an easy bow.

"Gourville," said Fouquet, "run after
that man and bring him back." Gourville
obeyed, and overtook D'Artagnan on the
stairs.

D'Artagnan, hearing steps behind him,
turned round and perceived Gourville.
"Mordioux! my dear monsieur," said he,
"these are sad lessons which you
gentlemen of finance teach us; I come to
M. Fouquet to receive a sum accorded by
his majesty, and I am received like a
mendicant who comes to ask charity, or a
thief who comes to steal a piece of
plate."

"But you pronounced the name of M.
Colbert, my dear M. d'Artagnan; you said
you were going to M. Colbert's?"

"I certainly am going there, were it
only to ask satisfaction of the people
who try to burn houses, crying `Vive
Colbert!'"

Gourville pricked up his ears. "Oh, oh!"
said he, "you allude to what has just
happened at the Greve?"

"Yes, certainly."

"And in what did that which has taken
place concern you?"

"What! do you ask me whether it concerns
me or does not concern me, if M. Colbert
pleases to make a funeral-pile of my
house?"

"So ho, your house -- was it your house
they wanted to burn?"

"Pardieu! was it!"

"Is the cabaret of the
Image-de-Notre-Dame yours, then?"

"It has been this week."

"Well, then, are you the brave captain,
are you the valiant blade who dispersed
those who wished to burn the condemned?"

"My dear Monsieur Gourville, put
yourself in my place. I was an agent of
the public force and a landlord, too. As
a captain, it is my duty to have the
orders of the king accomplished. As a
proprietor, it is to my interest my
house should not be burnt. I have at the
same time attended to the laws of
interest and duty in replacing Messieurs
Lyodot and D'Eymeris in the hands of the
archers."

"Then it was you who threw the man out
of the window?"

"It was I, myself," replied D'Artagnan,
modestly

"And you who killed Menneville?"

"I had that misfortune," said
D'Artagnan, bowing like a man who is
being congratulated.

"It was you, then, in short, who caused
the two condemned persons to be hung?"

"Instead of being burnt, yes, monsieur,
and I am proud of it. I saved the poor
devils from horrible tortures.
Understand, my dear Monsieur de
Gourville, that they wanted to burn them
alive. It exceeds imagination!"

"Go, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, go,"
said Gourville, anxious to spare Fouquet
the sight of the man who had just caused
him such profound grief.

"No," said Fouquet, who had heard all
from the door of the ante-chamber; "not
so; on the contrary, Monsieur
d'Artagnan, come in."

D'Artagnan wiped from the hilt of his
sword a last bloody trace, which had
escaped his notice, and returned. He
then found himself face to face with
these three men, whose countenances wore
very different expressions. With the
abbe it was anger, with Gourville
stupor, with Fouquet it was dejection.

"I beg your pardon, monsieur le
ministre," said D'Artagnan, "but my time
is short; I have to go to the office of
the intendant, to have an explanation
with Monsieur Colbert, and to receive my
quarter's pension."

"But, monsieur," said Fouquet, "there is
money here." D'Artagnan looked at the
superintendent with astonishment. "You
have been answered inconsiderately,
monsieur, I know, because I heard it,"
said the minister; "a man of your merit
ought to be known by everybody."
D'Artagnan bowed. "Have you an order?"
added Fouquet.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Give it me, I will pay you myself; come
with me." He made a sign to Gourville
and the abbe, who remained in the
chamber where they were. He led
D'Artagnan into his cabinet. As soon as
the door was shut, -- "How much is due
to you, monsieur?"

"Why, something like five thousand
livres, monseigneur."

"For arrears of pay?"

"For a quarter's pay."

"A quarter consisting of five thousand
livres!" said Fouquet, fixing upon the
musketeer a searching look. Does the
king, then, give you twenty thousand
livres a year?"

"Yes, monseigneur, twenty thousand
livres a year. Do you think it is too
much?"

"I?" cried Fouquet, and he smiled
bitterly. "If I had any knowledge of
mankind, if I were -- instead of being a
frivolous, inconsequent, and vain
spirit -- of a prudent and reflective
spirit; if, in a word, I had, as certain
persons have known how, regulated my
life, you would not receive twenty
thousand livres a year, but a hundred
thousand, and you would not belong to
the king, but to me."

D'Artagnan colored slightly. There is
sometimes in the manner in which a
eulogium is given, in the voice, in the
affectionate tone, a poison so sweet,
that the strongest mind is intoxicated
by it. The superintendent terminated his
speech by opening a drawer, and taking
from it four rouleaux which he placed
before D'Artagnan. The Gascon opened
one. "Gold!" said he.

"It will be less burdensome, monsieur."

"But then, monsieur, these make twenty
thousand livres."

"No doubt they do."

"But only five are due to me."

"I wish to spare you the trouble of
coming four times to my office."

"You overwhelm me, monsieur."

"I do only what I ought to do, monsieur
le chevalier; and I hope you will not
bear me any malice on account of the
rude reception my brother gave you. He
is of a sour, capricious disposition."

"Monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "believe
me, nothing would grieve me more than an
excuse from you."

"Therefore I will make no more, and will
content myself with asking you a favor."

"Oh, monsieur."

Fouquet drew from his finger a ring
worth about a thousand pistoles.
"Monsieur," said he, "this stone was
given me by a friend of my childhood, by
a man to whom you have rendered a great
service."

"A service -- I?" said the musketeer, "I
have rendered a service to one of your
friends?"

"You cannot have forgotten it, monsieur,
for it dates this very day."

"And that friend's name was ---- "

"M. d'Eymeris."

"One of the condemned?"

"Yes, one of the victims. Well! Monsieur
d'Artagnan, in return for the service
you have rendered him, I beg you to
accept this diamond. Do so for my sake."

"Monsieur! you ---- "

"Accept it, I say. To-day is with me a
day of mourning; hereafter you will,
perhaps, learn why; to-day I have lost
one friend; well, I will try to get
another."

"But, Monsieur Fouquet ---- "

"Adieu! Monsieur d'Artagnan, adieu!"
cried Fouquet, with much emotion; "or
rather, au revoir." And the minister
quitted the cabinet, leaving in the
hands of the musketeer the ring and the
twenty thousand livres.

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, after a moment's
dark reflection. "How on earth am I to
understand what this means? Mordioux! I
can understand this much, only: he is a
gallant man! I will go and explain
matters to M. Colbert." And he went out.




CHAPTER 64

Of the Notable Difference D'Artagnan
finds between Monsieur the Intendant and
Monsieur the Superintendent



M. Colbert resided in the Rue Neuve des
Petits-Champs in a house which had
belonged to Beautru. D'Artagnan's legs
cleared the distance in a short quarter
of an hour. When he arrived at the
residence of the new favorite, the court
was full of archers and police, who came
to congratulate him, or to excuse
themselves according to whether he
should choose to praise or blame. The
sentiment of flattery is instinctive
with people of abject condition; they
have the sense of it, as the wild animal
has that of hearing and smell. These
people, or their leader, understood that
there was a pleasure to offer to M.
Colbert, in rendering him an account of
the fashion in which his name had been
pronounced during the rash enterprise of
the morning. D'Artagnan made his
appearance just as the chief of the
watch was giving his report. He stood
close to the door, behind the archers.
That officer took Colbert on one side,
in spite of his resistance and the
contraction of his bushy eyebrows. "In
case," said he, "you really desired,
monsieur, that the people should do
justice on the two traitors, it would
have been wise to warn us of it; for,
indeed, monsieur, in spite of our regret
at displeasing you, or thwarting your
views, we had our orders to execute."

"Triple fool!" replied Colbert,
furiously shaking his hair, thick and
black as a mane, "what are you telling
me? What! that I could have had an idea
of a riot! Are you mad or drunk?"

"But, monsieur, they cried, `Vive
Colbert!'" replied the trembling watch.

"A handful of conspirators ---- "

"No, no; a mass of people."

"Ah! indeed," said Colbert, expanding.
"A mass of people cried, `Vive Colbert!'
Are you certain of what you say,
monsieur?"

"We had nothing to do but open our ears,
or rather to close them, so terrible
were the cries."

"And this was from the people, the real
people?"

"Certainly, monsieur; only these real
people beat us."

"Oh! very well," continued Colbert,
thoughtfully. "Then you suppose it was
the people alone who wished to burn the
condemned?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur."

"That is quite another thing. You
strongly resisted, then?"

"We had three of our men crushed to
death, monsieur!"

"But you killed nobody yourselves?"

"Monsieur, a few of the rioters were
left upon the square, and one among them
who was not a common man."

"Who was he?"

"A certain Menneville, upon whom the
police have a long time had an eye."

"Menneville!" cried Colbert, "what, he
who killed Rue de la Huchette, a worthy
man who wanted a fat fowl?"

"Yes, monsieur; the same."

"And did this Menneville also cry, `Vive
Colbert'?"

"Louder than all the rest, like a
madman."

Colbert's brow grew dark and wrinkled. A
kind of ambitious glory which had
lighted his face was extinguished, like
the light of glow-worms we crush beneath
the grass. "Then you say," resumed the
deceived intendant, "that the initiative
came from the people? Menneville was my
enemy, I would have had him hung, and he
knew it well. Menneville belonged to the
Abbe Fouquet -- the affair originated
with Fouquet; does not everybody know
that the condemned were his friends from
childhood?"

"That is true," thought D'Artagnan, "and
thus are all my doubts cleared up. I
repeat it, Monsieur Fouquet many be
called what they please, but he is a
very gentlemanly man;"

"And," continued Colbert, "are you quite
sure Menneville is dead?"

D'Artagnan thought the time was come for
him to make his appearance. "Perfectly,
monsieur;" replied he, advancing
suddenly.

"Oh! is that you, monsieur?" said
Colbert.

"In person," replied the musketeer with
his deliberate tone; "it appears that
you had in Menneville a pretty enemy."

"It was not I, monsieur, who had an
enemy," replied Colbert; "it was the
king."

"Double brute!" thought D'Artagnan, "to
think to play the great man and the
hypocrite with me. Well," continued he
to Colbert, "I am very happy to have
rendered so good a service to the king;
will you take upon you to tell his
majesty, monsieur l'intendant?"

"What commission is this you give me,
and what do you charge me to tell his
majesty, monsieur? Be precise, if you
please," said Colbert, in a sharp voice,
tuned beforehand to hostility.

"I give you no commission," replied
D'Artagnan, with that calmness which
never abandons the banterer; "I thought
it would be easy for you to announce to
his majesty that it was I who, being
there by chance, did justice upon
Menneville and restored things to
order."

Colbert opened his eyes and interrogated
the chief of the watch with a look --
"Ah! it is very true," said the latter,
"that this gentleman saved us."

"Why did you not tell me monsieur, that
you came to relate me this?" said
Colbert with envy, "everything is
explained, and more favorably for you
than for anybody else."

"You are in error, monsieur l'intendant,
I did not at all come for the purpose of
relating that to you."

"It is an exploit, nevertheless."

"Oh!" said the musketeer carelessly,
"constant habit blunts the mind."

"To what do I owe the honor of your
visit, then?"

"Simply to this: the king ordered me to
come to you."

"Ah!" said Colbert, recovering himself
when he saw D'Artagnan draw a paper from
his pocket; "it is to demand some money
of me?"

"Precisely, monsieur.'

"Have the goodness to wait, if you
please, monsieur, till I have dispatched
the report of the watch."

D'Artagnan turned upon his heel,
insolently enough, and finding himself
face to face with Colbert, after his
first turn, he bowed to him as a
harlequin would have done; then, after a
second evolution, he directed his steps
towards the door in quick time. Colbert
was struck with this pointed rudeness,
to which he was not accustomed. In
general, men of the sword, when they
came to his office, had such a want of
money, that though their feet seemed to
take root in the marble, they hardly
lost their patience. Was D'Artagnan
going straight to the king? Would he go
and describe his rough reception, or
recount his exploit? This was a matter
for grave consideration. At all events,
the moment was badly chosen to send
D'Artagnan away, whether he came from
the king, or on his own account. The
musketeer had rendered too great a
service, and that too recently, for it
to be already forgotten. Therefore
Colbert thought it would be better to
shake off his arrogance and call
D'Artagnan back. "Ho! Monsieur
d'Artagnan," cried Colbert, "what! are
you leaving me thus?"

D'Artagnan turned round: "Why not?" said
he, quietly, "we have no more to say to
each other, have we?"

"You have, at least, money to receive,
as you have an order?"

"Who, I? Oh! not at all, my dear
Monsieur Colbert."

"But, monsieur, you have an order. And,
in the same manner as you give a
sword-thrust, when you are required, I,
on my part, pay when an order is
presented to me. Present yours."

"It is useless, my dear Monsieur
Colbert," said D'Artagnan, who inwardly
enjoyed this confusion in the ideas of
Colbert; "my order is paid."

"Paid, by whom?"

"By monsieur le surintendant."

Colbert grew pale.

"Explain yourself," said he, in a
stifled voice -- "if you are paid why do
you show me that paper?"

"In consequence of the word of order of
which you spoke to me so ingeniously
just now, dear M. Colbert; the king told
me to take a quarter of the pension he
is pleased to make me."

"Of me?" said Colbert.

"Not exactly. The king said to me: `Go
to M. Fouquet; the superintendent will,
perhaps, have no money, then you will go
and draw it of M. Colbert.'"

The countenance of M. Colbert brightened
for a moment; but it was with his
unfortunate physiognomy as with a stormy
sky, sometimes radiant, sometimes dark
as night, according as the lightning
gleams or the cloud passes. "Eh! and was
there any money in the superintendent's
coffers?" asked he.

"Why, yes, he could not be badly off for
money," replied D'Artagnan -- "it may be
believed, since M. Fouquet, instead of
paying me a quarter or five thousand
livres ---- "

"A quarter or five thousand livres!"
cried Colbert, struck, as Fouquet had
been, with the generosity of the sum for
a soldier's pension, "why, that would be
a pension of twenty thousand livres?"

"Exactly, M. Colbert. Peste! you reckon
like old Pythagoras; yes, twenty
thousand livres."

"Ten times the appointment of an
intendant of the finances. I beg to
offer you my compliments," said Colbert,
with a vicious smile.

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "the king
apologized for giving me so little; but
he promised to make it more hereafter,
when he should be rich; but I must be
gone, having much to do ---- "

"So, then, notwithstanding the
expectation of the king, the
superintendent paid you, did he?"

"In the same manner as, in opposition to
the king's expectation, you refused to
pay me."

"I did not refuse, monsieur, I only
begged you to wait. And you say that M.
Fouquet paid you your five thousand
livres?"

"Yes, as you might have done; but he did
even better than that, M. Colbert."

"And what did he do?"

"He politely counted me down the
sum-total, saying, that for the king,
his coffers were always full."

"The sum-total! M. Fouquet has given you
twenty thousand livres instead of five
thousand?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And what for?"

"In order to spare me three visits to
the money-chest of the superintendent,
so that I have the twenty thousand
livres in my pocket in good new coin.
You see, then, that I am able to go away
without standing in need of you, having
come here only for form's sake." And
D'Artagnan slapped his hand upon his
pocket, with a laugh which disclosed to
Colbert thirty-two magnificent teeth, as
white as teeth of twenty-five years old
and which seemed to say in their
language: "Serve up to us thirty-two
little Colberts, and we will chew them
willingly." The serpent is as brave as
the lion, the hawk as courageous as the
eagle, that cannot be contested. It can
only be said of animals that are
decidedly cowardly, and are so called,
that they will be brave only when they
have to defend themselves. Colbert was
not frightened at the thirty-two teeth
of D'Artagnan. He recovered, and
suddenly, -- "Monsieur," said he,
"monsieur le surintendant has done what
he had no right to do."

"What do you mean by that?" replied
D'Artagnan.

"I mean that your note -- will you let
me see your note, if you please?"

"Very willingly; here it is."

Colbert seized the paper with an
eagerness which the musketeer did not
remark without uneasiness, and
particularly without a certain degree of
regret at having trusted him with it.
"Well, monsieur, the royal order says
this: -- `At sight, I command that there
be paid to M. d'Artagnan the sum of five
thousand livres, forming a quarter of
the pension I have made him.'"

"So, in fact, it is written," said
D'Artagnan, affecting calmness.

"Very well; the king only owed you five
thousand livres; why has more been given
to you?"

"Because there was more; and M. Fouquet
was willing to give me more; that does
not concern anybody."

"It is natural," said Colbert, with a
proud ease, "that you should be ignorant
of the usages of state-finance; but,
monsieur, when you have a thousand
livres to pay, what do you do?"

"I never have a thousand livres to pay,"
replied D'Artagnan.

"Once more," said Colbert, irritated --
"once more, if you had any sum to pay,
would you not pay what you ought?"

"That only proves one thing," said
D'Artagnan; "and that is, that you have
your particular customs in finance, and
M. Fouquet has his own."

"Mine, monsieur, are the correct ones."

"I do not say they are not."

"And you have accepted what was not due
to you."

D'Artagnan's eyes flashed. "What is not
due to me yet, you meant to say, M.
Colbert; for if I had received what was
not due to me at all, I should have
committed a theft."

Colbert made no reply to this subtlety.
"You then owe fifteen thousand livres to
the public chest," said he, carried away
by his jealous ardor.

"Then you must give me credit for them,"
replied D'Artagnan, with his
imperceptible irony.

"Not at all, monsieur."

"Well! what will you do, then? You will
not take my rouleaux from me, will you?"

"You must return them to my chest."

"I! Oh! Monsieur Colbert, don't reckon
upon that."

"The king wants his money, monsieur."

"And I, monsieur, I want the king's
money."

"That may be but you must return this."

"Not a sou. I have always understood
that in matters of comptabilite, as you
call it, a good cashier never gives back
or takes back."

"Then, monsieur, we shall see what the
king will say about it. I will show him
this note, which proves that M. Fouquet
not only pays what he does not owe, but
that he does not even take care of
vouchers for the sums that he has paid."

"Ah! now I understand why you have taken
that paper, M. Colbert!"

Colbert did not perceive all that there
was of a threatening character in his
name pronounced in a certain manner.
"You shall see hereafter what use I will
make of it," said he, holding up the
paper in his fingers.

"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, snatching the
paper from him with a rapid movement; "I
understand it perfectly well, M.
Colbert; I have no occasion to wait for
that." And he crumpled up in his pocket
the paper he had so cleverly seized.

"Monsieur, monsieur!" cried Colbert,
"this is violence!"

"Nonsense! You must not be particular
about a soldier's manners!" replied
D'Artagnan. "I kiss your hands, my dear
M. Colbert." And he went out, laughing
in the face of the future minister.

"That man, now," muttered he, "was about
to grow quite friendly; it is a great
pity I was obliged to cut his company so
soon."






CHAPTER 65

Philosophy of the Heart and Mind



For a man who had seen so many much more
dangerous ones, the position of
D'Artagnan with respect to M. Colbert
was only comic. D'Artagnan, therefore,
did not deny himself the satisfaction of
laughing at the expense of monsieur
l'intendant, from the Rue des
Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards.
It was a great while since D'Artagnan
had laughed so long together. He was
still laughing when Planchet appeared,
laughing likewise, at the door of his
house; for Planchet, since the return of
his patron, since the entrance of the
English guineas, passed the greater part
of his life in doing what D'Artagnan had
only done from Rue-Neuve des
Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards.

"You are home, then, my dear master?"
said Planchet.

"No, my friend," replied the musketeer,
"I am off and that quickly. I will sup
with you, go to bed, sleep five hours,
and at break of day leap into my saddle.
Has my horse had an extra feed?"

"Eh! my dear master," replied Planchet,
"you know very well that your horse is
the jewel of the family; that my lads
are caressing it all day, and cramming
it with sugar, nuts, and biscuits. You
ask me if he has had an extra feed of
oats; you should ask if he has not had
enough to burst him."

"Very well, Planchet, that is all right.
Now, then, I pass to what concerns me --
my supper?"

"Ready. A smoking roast joint, white
wine, crayfish and fresh-gathered
cherries. All ready, my master."

"You are a capital fellow, Planchet;
come on, then, let us sup, and I will go
to bed."

During supper D'Artagnan observed that
Planchet kept rubbing his forehead, as
if to facilitate the issue of some idea
closely pent within his brain. He looked
with an air of kindness at this worthy
companion of former adventures and
misadventures, and, clinking glass
against glass, "Come, Planchet," said
he, "let us see what it is that gives
you so much trouble to bring forth.
Mordioux! Speak freely, and quickly."

"Well, this is it," replied Planchet:
"you appear to me to be going on some
expedition or other."

"I don't say that I am not."

"Then you have some new idea?"

"That is possible, too, Planchet."

"Then there will be fresh capital to be
ventured? I will lay down fifty thousand
livres upon the idea you are about to
carry out." And so saying, Planchet
rubbed his hands one against the other
with a rapidity evincing great delight.

"Planchet," said D'Artagnan, "there is
but one misfortune in it."

"And what is that?"

"That the idea is not mine. I can risk
nothing upon it."

These words drew a deep sigh from the
heart of Planchet. That Avarice is an
ardent counselor; she carries away her
man, as Satan did Jesus, to the
mountain, and when once she has shown to
an unfortunate all the kingdoms of the
earth, she is able to repose herself,
knowing full well that she has left her
companion, Envy, to gnaw his heart.
Planchet had tasted of riches easily
acquired, and was never afterwards
likely to stop in his desires; but, as
he had a good heart in spite of his
covetousness, as he adored D'Artagnan,
he could not refrain from making him a
thousand recommendations, each more
affectionate than the others. He would
not have been sorry, nevertheless, to
have caught a little hint of the secret
his master concealed so well; tricks,
turns, counsels and traps were all
useless, D'Artagnan let nothing
confidential escape him. The evening
passed thus. After supper the
portmanteau occupied D'Artagnan, he took
a turn to the stable, patted his horse,
and examined his shoes and legs, then,
having counted over his money, he went
to bed, sleeping as if only twenty,
because he had neither inquietude nor
remorse; he closed his eyes five minutes
after he had blown out his lamp. Many
events might, however, have kept him
awake. Thought boiled in his brain,
conjectures abounded, and D'Artagnan was
a great drawer of horoscopes; but, with
that imperturbable phlegm which does
more than genius for the fortune and
happiness of men of action, he put off
reflection till the next day, for fear,
he said, not to be fresh when he wanted
to be so.

The day came. The Rue des Lombards had
its share of the caresses of Aurora with
the rosy fingers, and D'Artagnan arose
like Aurora. He did not awaken anybody,
he placed his portmanteau under his arm,
descended the stairs without making one
of them creak and without disturbing one
of the sonorous snorings in every story
from the garret to the cellar, then,
having saddled his horse, shut the
stable and house doors, he set off, at a
foot-pace, on his expedition to
Bretagne. He had done quite right not to
trouble himself with all the political
and diplomatic affairs which solicited
his attention; for, in the morning, in
freshness and mild twilight, his ideas
developed themselves in purity and
abundance. In the first place, he passed
before the house of Fouquet, and threw
in a large gaping box the fortunate
order which, the evening before, he had
had so much trouble to recover from the
hooked fingers of the intendant. Placed
in an envelope, and addressed to
Fouquet, it had not even been divined by
Planchet, who in divination was equal to
Calchas or the Pythian Apollo.
D'Artagnan thus sent back the order to
Fouquet, without compromising himself,
and without having thenceforward any
reproaches to make himself. When he had
effected this proper restitution, "Now,"
said he to himself, "let us inhale much
maternal air, much freedom from cares,
much health, let us allow the horse
Zephyr, whose flanks puff as if he had
to respire an atmosphere to breathe, and
let us be very ingenious in our little
calculations. It is time," said
D'Artagnan, "to form a plan of the
campaign, and, according to the method
of M. Turenne, who has a large head full
of all sorts of good counsels, before
the plan of the campaign it is advisable
to draw a striking portrait of the
generals to whom we are opposed. In the
first place, M. Fouquet presents
himself. What is M. Fouquet? M.
Fouquet," replied D'Artagnan to himself,
"is a handsome man, very much beloved by
the women, a generous man very much
beloved by the poets; a man of wit, much
execrated by pretenders. Well, now I am
neither woman, poet, nor pretender: I
neither love nor hate monsieur le
surintendant. I find myself, therefore,
in the same position in which M. de
Turenne found himself when opposed to
the Prince de Conde at Jargeau, Gien and
the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. He did not
execrate monsieur le prince, it is true,
but he obeyed the king. Monsieur le
prince is an agreeable man, but the king
is king. Turenne heaved a deep sigh,
called Conde `My cousin,' and swept away
his army. Now what does the king wish?
That does not concern me. Now, what does
M. Colbert wish? Oh, that's another
thing. M. Colbert wishes all that M.
Fouquet does not wish. Then what does M.
Fouquet wish? Oh, that is serious. M.
Fouquet wishes precisely for all which
the king wishes."

This monologue ended, D'Artagnan began
to laugh, whilst making his whip whistle
in the air. He was already on the high
road, frightening the birds in the
hedges, listening to the livres chinking
and dancing in his leather pocket, at
every step; and, let us confess it,
every time that D'Artagnan found himself
in such conditions tenderness was not
his dominant vice. "Come," said he, "I
cannot think the expedition a very
dangerous one; and it will fall out with
my voyage as with that piece M. Monk
took me to see in London, which was
called, I think, `Much Ado about
Nothing.'"




CHAPTER 66

The Journey



It was perhaps the fiftieth time since
the day on which we open this history,
that this man. with a heart of bronze
and muscles of steel, had left house and
friends, everything, in short, to go in
search of fortune and death. The one --
that is to say. death -- had constantly
retreated before him, as if afraid of
him; the other -- that is to say,
fortune -- for a month past only had
really made an alliance with him.
Although he was not a great philosopher,
after the fashion of either Epicurus or
Socrates, he was a powerful spirit,
having knowledge of life, and endowed
with thought. No one is as brave, as
adventurous, or as skillful as
D'Artagnan, without being at the same
time inclined to be a dreamer. He had
picked up, here and there, some scraps
of M. de la Rochefoucauld, worthy of
being translated into Latin by MM. de
Port Royal, and he had made a
collection, en passant, in the society
of Athos and Aramis, of many morsels of
Seneca and Cicero, translated by them,
and applied to the uses of common life.
That contempt of riches which our Gascon
had observed as an article of faith
during the thirty-five first years of
his life, had for a long time been
considered by him as the first article
of the code of bravery. "Article first,"
said he, "A man is brave because he has
nothing. A man has nothing because he
despises riches." Therefore, with these
principles, which, as we have said had
regulated the thirty-five first years of
his life, D'Artagnan was no sooner
possessed of riches, than he felt it
necessary to ask himself if, in spite of
his riches, he were still brave. To
this, for any other but D'Artagnan, the
events of the Place de Greve might have
served as a reply. Many consciences
would have been satisfied with them, but
D'Artagnan was brave enough to ask
himself sincerely and conscientiously if
he were brave. Therefore to this: --

"But it appears to me that I drew
promptly enough and cut and thrust
pretty freely on the Place de Greve to
be satisfied of my bravery," D'Artagnan
had himself replied. "Gently, captain,
that is not an answer. I was brave that
day, because they were burning my house,
and there are a hundred, and even a
thousand, to speak against one, that if
those gentlemen of the riots had not
formed that unlucky idea, their plan of
attack would have succeeded, or, at
least, it would not have been I who
would have opposed myself to it. Now,
what will be brought against me? I have
no house to be burnt in Bretagne; I have
no treasure there that can be taken from
me. -- No; but I have my skin; that
precious skin of M. d'Artagnan, which to
him is worth more than all the houses
and all the treasures of the world. That
skin to which I cling above everything,
because it is, everything considered,
the binding of a body which encloses a
heart very warm and ready to fight, and,
consequently, to live. Then, I do desire
to live; and, in reality, I live much
better, more completely, since I have
become rich. Who the devil ever said
that money spoiled life! Upon my soul,
it is no such thing; on the contrary, it
seems as if I absorbed a double quantity
of air and sun. Mordioux! what will it
be then, if I double that fortune, and
if, instead of the switch I now hold in
my hand, I should ever carry the baton
of a marechal? Then I really don't know
if there will be, from that moment
enough of air and sun for me. In fact,
this is not a dream, who the devil would
oppose it, if the king made me a
marechal, as his father, King Louis
XIII., made a duke and constable of
Albert de Luynes? Am I not as brave, and
much more intelligent, than that
imbecile De Vitry? Ah! that's exactly
what will prevent my advancement: I have
too much wit. Luckily, if there is any
justice in this world, fortune owes me
many compensations. She owes me
certainly a recompense for all I did for
Anne of Austria, and an indemnification
for all she has not done for me. Then,
at the present, I am very well with a
king, and with a king who has the
appearance of determining to reign. May
God keep him in that illustrious road!
For, if he is resolved to reign he will
want me; and if he wants me, he will
give me what he has promised me --
warmth and light; so that I march,
comparatively, now, as I marched
formerly, -- from nothing to everything.
Only the nothing of to-day is the all of
former days; there has only this little
change taken place in my life. And now
let us see! let us take the part of the
heart, as I just now was speaking of it.
But in truth, I only spoke of it from
memory." And the Gascon applied his hand
to his breast, as if he were actually
seeking the place where his heart was.

"Ah! wretch!" murmured he, smiling with
bitterness. "Ah! poor mortal species!
You hoped, for an instant, that you had
not a heart, and now you find you have
one -- bad courtier as thou art, -- and
even one of the most seditious. You have
a heart which speaks to you in favor of
M. Fouquet. And what is M. Fouquet, when
the king is in question? -- A
conspirator, a real conspirator, who did
not even give himself the trouble to
conceal his being a conspirator;
therefore, what a weapon would you not
have against him, if his good grace and
his intelligence had not made a scabbard
for that weapon. An armed revolt! --
for, in fact, M. Fouquet has been guilty
of an armed revolt. Thus, while the king
vaguely suspects M. Fouquet of
rebellion, I know it -- I could prove
that M. Fouquet had caused the shedding
of the blood of his majesty's subjects.
Now, then, let us see? Knowing all that,
and holding my tongue, what further
would this heart wish in return for a
kind action of M. Fouquet's, for an
advance of fifteen thousand livres, for
a diamond worth a thousand pistoles, for
a smile in which there was as much
bitterness as kindness? -- I save his
life."

"Now, then, I hope," continued the
musketeer, "that this imbecile of a
heart is going to preserve silence, and
so be fairly quits with M. Fouquet. Now,
then, the king becomes my sun, and as my
heart is quits with M. Fouquet, let him
beware who places himself between me and
my sun! Forward, for his majesty Louis
XIV.! -- Forward!"

These reflections were the only
impediments which were able to retard
the progress of D'Artagnan. These
reflections once made, he increased the
speed of his horse. But, however perfect
his horse Zephyr might be, it could not
hold out at such a pace forever. The day
after his departure from Paris, he was
left at Chartres, at the house of an old
friend D'Artagnan had met with in an
hotelier of that city. From that moment
the musketeer travelled on post-horses.
Thanks to this mode of locomotion, he
traversed the space separating Chartres
from Chateaubriand. In the last of these
two cities, far enough from the coast to
prevent any one guessing that D'Artagnan
wished to reach the sea -- far enough
from Paris to prevent all suspicion of
his being a messenger from Louis XIV.,
whom D'Artagnan had called his sun,
without suspecting that he who was only
at present a rather poor star in the
heaven of royalty, would, one day, make
that star his emblem; the messenger of
Louis XIV., we say, quitted the post and
purchased a bidet of the meanest
appearance, -- one of those animals
which an officer of cavalry would never
choose, for fear of being disgraced.
Excepting the color, this new
acquisition recalled to the mind of
D'Artagnan the famous orange-colored
horse, with which, or rather upon which,
he had made his first appearance in the
world. Truth to say, from the moment he
crossed this new steed, it was no longer
D'Artagnan who was travelling, -- it was
a good man clothed in an iron-gray
justaucorps, brown haut-de-chausses,
holding the medium between a priest and
a layman; that which brought him nearest
to the churchman was, that D'Artagnan
had placed on his head a calotte of
threadbare velvet, and over the calotte,
a large black hat; no more sword, a
stick, hung by a cord to his wrist, but
to which, he promised himself, as an
unexpected auxiliary, to join, upon
occasion, a good dagger, ten inches
long, concealed under his cloak. The
bidet purchased at Chateaubriand
completed the metamorphosis; it was
called, or rather D'Artagnan called it,
Furet (ferret).

"If I have changed Zephyr into Furet,"
said D'Artagnan, "I must make some
diminutive or other of my own name. So,
instead of D'Artagnan, I will be Agnan,
short; that is a concession which I
naturally owe to my gray coat, my round
hat, and my rusty calotte."

Monsieur D'Artagnan traveled, then,
pretty easily upon Furet, who ambled
like a true butter-woman's pad, and who,
with his amble, managed cheerfully about
twelve leagues a day, upon four
spindle-shanks, of which the practiced
eye of D'Artagnan had appreciated the
strength and safety beneath the thick
mass of hair which covered them. Jogging
along, the traveler took notes, studied
the country, which he traversed reserved
and silent, ever seeking the most
plausible pretext for reaching
Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and for seeing
everything without arousing suspicion.
In this manner, he was enabled to
convince himself of the importance the
event assumed in proportion as he drew
near to it. In this remote country, in
this ancient duchy of Bretagne, which
was not France at that period, and is
not so even now, the people knew nothing
of the king of France. They not only did
not know him, but were unwilling to know
him. One face -- a single one -- floated
visibly for them upon the political
current. Their ancient dukes no longer
ruled them; government was a void --
nothing more. In place of the sovereign
duke, the seigneurs of parishes reigned
without control; and, above these
seigneurs, God, who has never been
forgotten in Bretagne. Among these
suzerains of chateaux and belfries, the
most powerful, the richest, and the most
popular, was M. Fouquet, seigneur of
Belle-Isle. Even in the country, even
within sight of that mysterious isle,
legends and traditions consecrate its
wonders. Every one might not penetrate
it: the isle, of an extent of six
leagues in length, and six in breadth,
was a seignorial property, which the
people had for a long time respected,
covered as it was with the name of Retz,
so redoubtable in the country. Shortly
after the erection of this seignory into
a marquisate, Belle-Isle passed to M.
Fouquet. The celebrity of the isle did
not date from yesterday; its name, or
rather its qualification, is traced back
to the remotest antiquity. The ancients
called it Kalonese, from two Greek
words, signifying beautiful isle. Thus
at a distance of eighteen hundred years,
it had borne, in another idiom, the same
name it still bears. There was, then,
something in itself in this property of
M. Fouquet's, besides its position of
six leagues off the coast of France; a
position which makes it a sovereign in
its maritime solitude, like a majestic
ship which disdains roads, and proudly
casts anchor in mid-ocean.

D'Artagnan learnt all this without
appearing the least in the world
astonished. He also learnt that the best
way to get intelligence was to go to La
Roche-Bernard, a tolerably important
city at the mouth of the Vilaine.
Perhaps there he could embark; if not,
crossing the salt marshes, he would
repair to Guerande-en-Croisic, to wait
for an opportunity to cross over to
Belle-Isle. He had discovered, besides,
since his departure from Chateaubriand,
that nothing would be impossible for
Furet under the impulsion of M. Agnan,
and nothing to M. Agnan through the
initiative of Furet. He prepared, then,
to sup off a teal and a tourteau, in a
hotel of La Roche-Bernard, and ordered
to be brought from the cellar, to wash
down these two Breton dishes, some
cider, which, the moment it touched his
lips, he perceived to be more Breton
still.




CHAPTER 67

How D'Artagnan became acquainted with a
Poet, who had turned Printer for the
sake of printing his own Verses



Before taking his place at table,
D'Artagnan acquired, as was his custom,
all the information he could; but it is
an axiom of curiosity, that every man
who wishes to question well and
fruitfully ought in the first place to
lay himself open to questions.
D'Artagnan sought, then, with his usual
skill, a promising questioner in the
hostelry of La Roche-Bernard. At the
moment, there were in the house, on the
first story, two travelers either
preparing for supper, or at supper
itself. D'Artagnan had seen their nags
in the stable, and their equipages in
the salle. One traveled with a lackey,
undoubtedly a person of
consideration; -- two Perche mares,
sleek, sound beasts, were suitable means
of locomotion. The other, a little
fellow, a traveler of meagre appearance,
wearing a dusty surtout, dirty linen,
and boots more worn by the pavement than
the stirrup, had come from Nantes with a
cart drawn by a horse so like Furet in
color, that D'Artagnan might have gone a
hundred miles without finding a better
match. This cart contained divers large
packets wrapped in pieces of old stuff.

"That traveler yonder," said D'Artagnan
to himself, "is the man for my money. He
will do, he suits me; I ought to do for
and suit him; M. Agnan, with the gray
doublet and the rusty calotte, is not
unworthy of supping with the gentleman
of the old boots and still older horse."

This said, D'Artagnan called the host,
and desired him to send his teal,
tourteau, and cider up to the chamber of
the gentleman of modest exterior. He
himself climbed, a plate in his hand,
the wooden staircase which led to the
chamber, and began to knock at the door.

"Come in!" said the unknown. D'Artagnan
entered, with a simper on his lips, his
plate under his arm, his hat in one
hand, his candle in the other.

"Excuse me, monsieur," said he, "I am,
as you are, a traveler; I know no one in
the hotel, and I have the bad habit of
losing my spirits when I eat alone, so
that my repast appears a bad one to me,
and does not nourish me. Your face,
which I saw just now, when you came down
to have some oysters opened, -- your
face pleased me much. Besides, I have
observed you have a horse just like
mine, and that the host, no doubt on
account of that resemblance, has placed
them side by side in the stable, where
they appear to agree amazingly well
together. I therefore, monsieur, do not
see any reason why the masters should be
separated when the horses are united.
Accordingly, I am come to request the
pleasure of being admitted to your
table. My name is Agnan, at your
service, monsieur, the unworthy steward
of a rich seigneur, who wishes to
purchase some salt-mines in this
country, and sends me to examine his
future acquisitions. In truth, monsieur,
I should be well pleased if my
countenance were as agreeable to you as
yours is to me; for, upon my honor, I am
quite at your service."

The stranger, whom D'Artagnan saw for
the first time -- for before he had only
caught a glimpse of him, -- the stranger
had black and brilliant eyes, a yellow
complexion, a brow a little wrinkled by
the weight of fifty years, bonhomie in
his features collectively, but some
cunning in his look.

"One would say," thought D'Artagnan,
"that this merry fellow has never
exercised more than the upper part of
his head, his eyes, and his brain. He
must be a man of science: his mouth,
nose, and chin signify absolutely
nothing."

"Monsieur," replied the latter, with
whose mind and person we have been
making so free, "you do me much honor;
not that I am ever ennuye, for I have,"
added he, smiling, "a company which
amuses me always; but never mind that, I
am very happy to receive you." But when
saying this, the man with the worn boots
cast an uneasy look at his table, from
which the oysters had disappeared, and
upon which there was nothing left but a
morsel of salt bacon.

"Monsieur," D'Artagnan hastened to say,
"the host is bringing me up a pretty
piece of roasted poultry and a superb
tourteau." D'Artagnan had read in the
look of his companion, however rapid it
disappeared, the fear of an attack by a
parasite: he divined justly. At this
opening, the features of the man of
modest exterior relaxed; and, as if he
had watched the moment for his entrance,
as D'Artagnan spoke, the host appeared,
bearing the announced dishes. The
tourteau and the teal were added to the
morsel of broiled bacon; D'Artagnan and
his guest bowed, sat down opposite to
each other, and, like two brothers,
shared the bacon and the other dishes.

"Monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "you must
confess that association is a wonderful
thing."

"How so?" replied the stranger, with his
mouth full.

"Well, I will tell you," replied
D'Artagnan.

The stranger gave a short truce to the
movement of his jaws, in order to hear
the better.

"In the first place," continued
D'Artagnan, "instead of one candle,
which each of us had, we have two."

"That is true!" said the stranger,
struck with the extreme lucidity of the
observation.

"Then I see that you eat my tourteau in
preference, whilst I, in preference, eat
your bacon."

"That is true again."

"And then, in addition to being better
lighted and eating what we prefer, I
place the pleasure of your company."

"Truly, monsieur, you are very jovial,"
said the unknown, cheerfully.

"Yes, monsieur; jovial, as all people
are who carry nothing on their minds,
or, for that matter, in their heads. Oh!
I can see it is quite another sort of
thing with you," continued D'Artagnan;
"I can read in your eyes all sorts of
genius."

"Oh, monsieur!"

"Come, confess one thing."

"What is that?"

"That you are a learned man."

"Ma foi! monsieur."

"Hein?"

"Almost."

"Come, then!"

"I am an author."

"There!" cried D'Artagnan, clapping his
hands, "I knew I could not be deceived!
It is a miracle!"

"Monsieur ---- "

"What, shall I have the honor of passing
the evening in the society of an author,
of a celebrated author perhaps?"

"Oh!" said the unknown, blushing,
"celebrated, monsieur, celebrated is not
the word."

"Modest!" cried D'Artagnan, transported,
"he is modest!" Then, turning towards
the stranger, with a character of blunt
bonhomie: "But tell me at least the name
of your works, monsieur; for you will
please to observe you have not told me
your name, and I have been forced to
divine your genius."

"My name is Jupenet, monsieur," said the
author.

"A fine name! a grand name! upon my
honor; and I do not know why -- pardon
me the mistake, if it be one -- but
surely I have heard that name
somewhere."

"I have made verses," said the poet
modestly.

"Ah! that is it, then, I have heard them
read."

"A tragedy."

"I must have seen it played."

The poet blushed again, and said: "I do
not think that can be the case, for my
verses have never been printed."

"Well, then, it must have been the
tragedy which informed me of your name."

"You are again mistaken, for MM. the
comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne,
would have nothing to do with it," said
the poet, with a smile, the receipt for
which certain sorts of pride alone knew
the secret. D'Artagnan bit his lips.
"Thus, then, you see, monsieur,"
continued the poet, "you are in error on
my account, and that not being at all
known to you, you have never heard tell
of me."

"Ah! that confounds me. That name,
Jupenet, appears to me, nevertheless, a
fine name, and quite as worthy of being
known as those of MM. Corneille, or
Rotrou, or Garnier. I hope, monsieur,
you will have the goodness to repeat to
me a part of your tragedy presently, by
way of dessert, for instance. That will
be sugared roast meat, -- mordioux! Ah!
pardon me, monsieur, that was a little
oath which escaped me, because it is a
habit with my lord and master. I
sometimes allow myself to usurp that
little oath, as it seems in pretty good
taste. I take this liberty only in his
absence, please to observe, for you may
understand that in his presence -- but,
in truth, monsieur, this cider is
abominable; do you not think so? And
besides, the pot is of such an irregular
shape it will not stand on the table."

"Suppose we were to make it level?"

"To be sure; but with what?"

"With this knife."

"And the teal, with what shall we cut
that up? Do you not, by chance, mean to
touch the teal?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then ---- "

"Wait."

And the poet rummaged in his pocket, and
drew out a piece of brass, oblong,
quadrangular, about a line in thickness,
and an inch and a half in length. But
scarcely had this little piece of brass
seen the light, than the poet appeared
to have committed an imprudence, and
made a movement to put it back again in
his pocket. D'Artagnan perceived this,
for he was a man that nothing escaped.
He stretched forth his hand towards the
piece of brass: "Humph! that which you
hold in your hand is pretty; will you
allow me to look at it?"

"Certainly," said the poet, who appeared
to have yielded too soon to a first
impulse. "Certainly, you may look at it:
but it will be in vain for you to look
at it," added he, with a satisfied air;
"if I were not to tell you its use, you
would never guess it."

D'Artagnan had seized as an avowal the
hesitation of the poet, and his
eagerness to conceal the piece of brass
which a first movement had induced him
to take out of his pocket. His
attention, therefore, once awakened on
this point, he surrounded himself with a
circumspection which gave him a
superiority on all occasions. Besides,
whatever M. Jupenet might say about it,
by a simple inspection of the object, he
perfectly well knew what it was. It was
a character in printing.

"Can you guess, now, what this is?"
continued the poet.

"No," said D'Artagnan, "no, ma foi!"

"Well, monsieur," said M. Jupenet, "this
little piece of metal is a printing
letter."

"Bah!

"A capital."

"Stop, stop, stop;" said D'Artagnan,
opening his eyes very innocently.

"Yes, monsieur, a capital; the first
letter of my name."

"And this is a letter, is it?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, I will confess one thing to you.

"And what is that?"

"No, I will not, I was going to say
something stupid."

"No, no," said Master Jupenet, with a
patronizing air.

"Well then, I cannot comprehend, if that
is a letter, how you can make a word."

"A word?"

"Yes, a printed word."

"Oh, that's very easy."

"Let me see."

"Does it interest you?"

"Enormously."

"Well, I will explain the thing to you.
Attend."

"I am attending."

"That is it."

"Good."

"Look attentively."

"I am looking." D'Artagnan, in fact,
appeared absorbed in observations.
Jupenet drew from his pocket seven or
eight other pieces of brass smaller than
the first.

"Ah, ah," said D'Artagnan.

"What!"

"You have, then, a whole printing-office
in your pocket. Peste! that is curious,
indeed."

"Is it not?"

"Good God, what a number of things we
learn by traveling."

"To your health!" said Jupenet, quite
enchanted.

"To yours, mordioux, to yours. But -- an
instant -- not in this cider. It is an
abominable drink, unworthy of a man who
quenches his thirst at the Hippocrene
fountain -- is not it so you call your
fountain, you poets?"

"Yes, monsieur, our fountain is so
called. That comes from two Greek
words -- hippos, which means a horse,
and ---- "

"Monsieur," interrupted D'Artagnan, "you
shall drink of a liquor which comes from
one single French word, and is none the
worse for that -- from the word grape;
this cider gives me the heartburn. Allow
me to inquire of your host if there is
not a good bottle of Beaugency, or of
the Ceran growth, at the back of the
large bins in his cellar."

The host, being sent for, immediately
attended.

"Monsieur," interrupted the poet, "take
care, we shall not have time to drink
the wine, unless we make great haste,
for I must take advantage of the tide to
secure the boat."

"What boat?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Why the boat which sets out for
Belle-Isle!"

"Ah -- for Belle-Isle," said the
musketeer, "that is good."

"Bah! you will have plenty of time,
monsieur," replied the hotelier,
uncorking the bottle, "the boat will not
leave this hour."

"But who will give me notice?" said the
poet.

"Your fellow-traveler," replied the
host.

"But I scarcely know him."

"When you hear him departing, it will be
time for you to go."

"Is he going to Belle-Isle, likewise,
then?"

"The traveler who has a lackey?" asked
D'Artagnan. "He is some gentleman, no
doubt?"

"I know nothing of him."

"What! -- know nothing of him?"

"No, all I know is, that he is drinking
the same wine as you."

"Peste! -- that is a great honor for
us," said D'Artagnan, filling his
companion's glass, whilst the host went
out.

"So," resumed the poet, returning to his
dominant ideas, "you never saw any
printing done?"

"Never."

"Well, then, take the letters thus,
which compose the word, you see: A B; ma
foi! here is an R, two E E, then a G."
And he assembled the letters with a
swiftness and skill which did not escape
the eye of D'Artagnan.

"Abrege," said he, as he ended.

"Good!" said D'Artagnan; "here are
plenty of letters got together; but how
are they kept so?" And he poured out a
second glass for the poet. M. Jupenet
smiled like a man who has an answer for
everything; then he pulled out -- still
from his pocket -- a little metal ruler,
composed of two parts, like a
carpenter's rule, against which he put
together, and in a line, the characters,
holding them under his left thumb.

"And what do you call that little metal
ruler?" said D'Artagnan, "for, I
suppose, all these things have names."

"This is called a composing-stick," said
Jupenet; "it is by the aid of this stick
that the lines are formed."

"Come, then, I was not mistaken in what
I said; you have a press in your
pocket," said D'Artagnan, laughing with
an air of simplicity so stupid, that the
poet was completely his dupe.

"No," replied he; "but I am too lazy to
write, and when I have a verse in my
head, I print it immediately. That is a
labor spared."

"Mordioux!" thought D'Artagnan to
himself, "this must be cleared up." And
under a pretext, which did not embarrass
the musketeer, who was fertile in
expedients, he left the table, went
downstairs, ran to the shed under which
stood the poet's little cart, poked the
point of his poniard into the stuff
which enveloped one of the packages,
which he found full of types, like those
which the poet had in his pocket.

"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "I do not yet
know whether M. Fouquet wishes to
fortify Belle-Isle; but, at all events,
here are some spiritual munitions for
the castle." Then, enchanted with his
rich discovery he ran upstairs again,
and resumed his place at the table.

D'Artagnan had learnt what he wished to
know. He, however, remained, none the
less, face to face with his partner, to
the moment when they heard from the next
room symptoms of a person's being about
to go out. The printer was immediately
on foot; he had given orders for his
horse to be got ready. His carriage was
waiting at the door. The second traveler
got into his saddle, in the courtyard,
with his lackey. D'Artagnan followed
Jupenet to the door; he embarked his
cart and horse on board the boat. As to
the opulent traveler, he did the same
with his two horses and servant. But all
the wit D'Artagnan employed in
endeavoring to find out his name was
lost -- he could learn nothing. Only he
took such notice of his countenance,
that it was impressed upon his mind
forever. D'Artagnan had a great
inclination to embark with the two
travelers, but an interest more powerful
than curiosity -- that of success --
repelled him from the shore, and brought
him back again to the hostelry. He
entered with a sigh and went to bed
directly in order to be ready early in
the morning with fresh ideas and the
sage counsel of sufficing sleep.




CHAPTER 68

D'Artagnan continues his Investigations



At daybreak D'Artagnan saddled Furet,
who had fared sumptuously all night,
devouring the remainder of the oats and
hay left by his companions. The
musketeer sifted all he possibly could
out of the host, whom he found cunning,
mistrustful, and devoted, body and soul,
to M. Fouquet. In order not to awaken
the suspicions of this man, he carried
on his fable of being a probable
purchaser of some salt-mines. To have
embarked for Belle-Isle at Roche-Bernard
would have been to expose himself still
further to comments which had, perhaps,
been already made, and would be carried
to the castle. Moreover, it was singular
that this traveler and his lackey should
have remained a mystery to D'Artagnan,
in spite of all the questions addressed
by him to the host, who appeared to know
him perfectly well. The musketeer then
made some inquiries concerning the
salt-mines, and took the road to the
marshes, leaving the sea on his right,
and penetrating into that vast and
desolate plain which resembles a sea of
mud, of which, here and there, a few
crests of salt silver the undulations.
Furet walked admirably, with his little
nervous legs, along the foot-wide
causeways which separate the salt-mines.
D'Artagnan, aware of the consequences of
a fall, which would result in a cold
bath, allowed him to go as he liked,
contenting himself with looking at, on
the horizon, three rocks, that rose up
like lance-blades from the bosom of the
plain, destitute of verdure. Pirial, the
bourgs of Batz and Le Croisic, exactly
resembling each other, attracted and
suspended his attention. If the traveler
turned round, the better to make his
observations, he saw on the other side
an horizon of three other steeples,
Guerande, Le Poulighen, and
Saint-Joachim, which, in their
circumference, represented a set of
skittles, of which he and Furet were but
the wandering ball. Pirial was the first
little port on his right. He went
thither, with the names of the principal
salters on his lips. At the moment he
reached the little port of Pirial, five
large barges, laden with stone, were
leaving it. It appeared strange to
D'Artagnan, that stones should be
leaving a country where none are found.
He had recourse to all the amenity of M.
Agnan to learn from the people of the
port the cause of this singular
arrangement. An old fisherman replied to
M. Agnan, that the stones very certainly
did not come from Pirial or the marshes.

"Where do they come from, then?" asked
the musketeer.

"Monsieur, they come from Nantes and
Painboeuf."

"Where are they going, then?"

"Monsieur, to Belle-Isle."

"Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan, in the same
tone he had assumed to tell the printer
that his character interested him; "are
they building at Belle-Isle, then?"

"Why, yes, monsieur, M. Fouquet has the
walls of the castle repaired every
year."

"Is it in ruins, then?"

"It is old."

"Thank you."

"The fact is," said D'Artagnan to
himself, "nothing is more natural; every
proprietor has a right to repair his own
property. It would be like telling me I
was fortifying the Image-de-Notre-Dame,
when I was simply obliged to make
repairs. In good truth, I believe false
reports have been made to his majesty,
and he is very likely to be in the
wrong."

"You must confess," continued he then,
aloud, and addressing the fisherman --
for his part of a suspicious man was
imposed upon him by the object even of
his mission -- "you must confess, my
dear monsieur, that these stones travel
in a very curious fashion."

"How so?" said the fisherman

"They come from Nantes or Painboeuf by
the Loire, do they not?"

"With the tide."

"That is convenient, -- I don't say it
is not, but why do they not go straight
from Saint-Nazaire to Belle-Isle?"

"Eh! because the chalands (barges) are
fresh-water boats, and take the sea
badly," replied, the fisherman.

"That is not sufficient reason."

"Pardon me, monsieur, one may see that
you have never been a sailor, added the
fisherman, not without a sort of
disdain.

"Explain that to me, if you please, my
good man. It appears to me that to come
from Painboeuf to Pirial, and go from
Pirial to Belle-Isle, is as if we went
from Roche-Bernard to Nantes, and from
Nantes to Pirial."

"By water that would be the nearest
way," replied the fisherman
imperturbably.

"But there is an elbow?"

The fisherman shook his head.

"The shortest road from one place to
another is a straight line," continued
D'Artagnan.

"You forget the tide, monsieur."

"Well! take the tide."

"And the wind."

"Well, and the wind."

"Without doubt, the current of the Loire
carries barks almost as far as Croisic.
If they want to lie by a little, or to
refresh the crew, they come to Pirial
along the coast; from Pirial they find
another inverse current, which carries
them to the Isle-Dumal, two leagues and
a half."

"Granted."

"There the current of the Vilaine throws
them upon another isle, the isle of
Hoedic."

"I agree with that."

"Well, monsieur, from that isle to
Belle-Isle the way is quite straight.
The sea broken both above and below,
passes like a canal -- like a mirror
between the two isles; the chalands
glide along upon it like ducks upon the
Loire; that's how it is."

"It does not signify," said the
obstinate M. Agnan; "it is a long way
round."

"Ah! yes; but M. Fouquet will have it
so," replied, as conclusive, the
fisherman, taking off his woolen cap at
the enunciation of that respected name.

A look from D'Artagnan, a look as keen
and piercing as a sword-blade, found
nothing in the heart of the old man but
simple confidence -- on his features,
nothing but satisfaction and
indifference. He said, "M. Fouquet will
have it so," as he would have said, "God
has willed it."

D'Artagnan had already advanced too far
in this direction; besides, the chalands
being gone, there remained nothing at
Pirial but a single bark -- that of the
old man, and it did not look fit for sea
without great preparation. D'Artagnan
therefore patted Furet, who as a new
proof of his charming character, resumed
his march with his feet in the
salt-mines, and his nose to the dry
wind, which bends the furze and the
broom of this country. They reached
Croisic about five o'clock.

If D'Artagnan had been a poet, it was a
beautiful spectacle: the immense strand
of a league or more, the sea covers at
high tide, and which, at the reflux,
appears gray and desolate, strewed with
polypi and seaweed, with pebbles sparse
and white, like bones in some vast old
cemetery. But the soldier, the
politician, and the ambitious man, had
no longer the sweet consolation of
looking towards heaven to read there a
hope or a warning. A red sky signifies
nothing to such people but wind and
disturbance. White and fleecy clouds
upon the azure only say that the sea
will be smooth and peaceful. D'Artagnan
found the sky blue, the breeze embalmed
with saline perfumes, and he said: "I
will embark with the first tide, if it
be but in a nutshell."

At Croisic as at Pirial, he had remarked
enormous heaps of stone lying along the
shore. These gigantic walls, diminished
every tide by the barges for Belle-Isle
were, in the eyes of the musketeer, the
consequence and the proof of what he had
well divined at Pirial. Was it a wall
that M. Fouquet was constructing? Was it
a fortification that he was erecting? To
ascertain that he must make fuller
observations. D'Artagnan put Furet into
a stable; supped, went to bed, and on
the morrow took a walk upon the port or
rather upon the shingle. Le Croisic has
a port of fifty feet, it has a look-out
which resembles an enormous brioche (a
kind of cake) elevated on a dish. The
flat strand is the dish. Hundreds of
barrowsful of earth amalgamated with
pebbles, and rounded into cones, with
sinuous. passages between, are look-outs
and brioches at the same time.

It is so now, and it was so two hundred
years ago, only the brioche was not so
large, and probably there were to be
seen no trellises of lath around the
brioche, which constitute an ornament,
planted like gardes-fous along the
passages that wind towards the little
terrace. Upon the shingle lounged three
or four fishermen talking about sardines
and shrimps. D'Artagnan, with his eyes
animated by rough gayety, and a smile
upon his lips, approached these
fishermen.

"Any fishing going on to-day?" said he.

"Yes, monsieur," replied one of them,
"we are only waiting for the tide."

"Where do you fish, my friends?"

"Upon the coasts, monsieur."

"Which are the best coasts?"

"Ah, that is all according. The tour of
the isles, for example?"

"Yes, but they are a long way off, those
isles, are they not?"

"Not very; four leagues."

"Four leagues! That is a voyage."

The fisherman laughed in M. Agnan's
face.

"Hear me, then," said the latter with an
air of simple stupidity; four leagues
off you lose sight of land, do you not?"

"Why, not always."

"Ah, it is a long way -- too long, or
else I would have asked you to take me
aboard, and to show me what I have never
seen."

"What is that?"

"A live sea-fish."

"Monsieur comes from the province?" said
a fisherman.

"Yes, I come from Paris."

The Breton shrugged his shoulders; then:

"Have you ever seen M. Fouquet in
Paris?" asked he.

"Often," replied D'Artagnan.

"Often!" repeated the fishermen, closing
their circle round the Parisian. "Do you
know him?"

"A little, he is the intimate friend of
my master."

"Ah!" said the fisherman, in
astonishment.

"And," said D'Artagnan, "I have seen all
his chateaux of Saint-Mande, of Vaux,
and his hotel in Paris."

"Is that a fine place?"

"Superb."

"It is not so fine a place as
Belle-Isle," said the fisherman.

"Bah!" cried M. d'Artagnan, breaking
into a laugh so loud that he angered all
his auditors.

"It is very plain that you have never
seen Belle-Isle," said the most curious
of the fishermen. "Do you know that
there are six leagues of it, and that
there are such trees on it as cannot be
equaled even at Nantes-sur-le-Fosse?"

"Trees in the sea!" cried D'Artagnan;
"well, I should like to see them."

"That can be easily done; we are fishing
at the Isle de Hoedic -- come with us.
From that place you will see, as a
Paradise, the black trees of Belle-Isle
against the sky; you will see the white
line of the castle, which cuts the
horizon of the sea like a blade."

"Oh," said D'Artagnan, "that must be
very beautiful. But do you know there
are a hundred belfries at M. Fouquet's
chateau of Vaux?"

The Breton raised his head in profound
admiration, but he was not convinced. "A
hundred belfries! Ah that may be, but
Belle-Isle is finer than that. Should
you like to see Belle-Isle?"

"Is that possible?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes, with permission of the governor."

"But I do not know the governor."

"As you know M. Fouquet, you can tell
your name."

"Oh, my friends, I am not a gentleman."

"Everybody enters Belle-Isle," continued
the fisherman in his strong, pure
language, "provided he means no harm to
Belle-Isle or its master."

A slight shudder crept over the body of
the musketeer.

"That is true," thought he. Then
recovering himself, "If I were sure,"
said he, "not to be sea-sick."

"What, upon her?" said the fisherman,
pointing with pride to his pretty
round-bottomed bark.

"Well, you almost persuade me," cried M.
Agnan; "I will go and see Belle-Isle,
but they will not admit me."

"We shall enter, safe enough."

"You! What for?"

"Why, dame! to sell fish to the
corsairs."

"Ha! Corsairs -- what do you mean?"

"Well, I mean that M. Fouquet is having
two corsairs built to chase the Dutch
and the English, and we sell our fish to
the crews of those little vessels."

"Come, come!" said D'Artagnan to
himself -- "better and better. A
printing-press, bastions, and corsairs!
Well, M. Fouquet is not an enemy to be
despised, as I presumed to fancy. He is
worth the trouble of traveling to see
him nearer."

"We set out at half-past five," said the
fisherman gravely.

"I am quite ready, and I will not leave
you now." So D'Artagnan saw the
fishermen haul their barks to meet the
tide with a windlass. The sea rose, M.
Agnan allowed himself to be hoisted on
board, not without sporting a little
fear and awkwardness, to the amusement
of the young beach-urchins who watched
him with their large intelligent eyes.
He laid himself down upon a folded sail,
not interfering with anything whilst the
bark prepared for sea; and, with its
large, square sail, it was fairly out
within two hours. The fishermen, who
prosecuted their occupation as they
proceeded, did not perceive that their
passenger had not become pale, neither
groaned nor suffered; that in spite of
that horrible tossing and rolling of the
bark, to which no hand imparted
direction, the novice passenger had
preserved his presence of mind and his
appetite. They fished, and their fishing
was sufficiently fortunate. To lines
bated with prawn, soles came, with
numerous gambols, to bite. Two nets had
already been broken by the immense
weight of congers and haddocks; three
sea-eels plowed the hold with their
slimy folds and their dying contortions.
D'Artagnan brought them good luck; they
told him so. The soldier found the
occupation so pleasant, that he put his
hand to the work -- that is to say, to
the lines -- and uttered roars of joy,
and mordioux enough to have astonished
his musketeers themselves every time
that a shock given to his line by the
captured fish required the play of the
muscles of his arm, and the employment
of his best dexterity. The party of
pleasure had made him forget his
diplomatic mission. He was struggling
with a very large conger, and holding
fast with one hand to the side of the
vessel, in order to seize with the other
the gaping jowl of his antagonist, when
the master said to him, "Take care they
don't see you from Belle-Isle!"

These words produced the same effect
upon D'Artagnan as the hissing of the
first bullet on a day of battle; he let
go of both line and conger, which,
dragging each other, returned again to
the water. D'Artagnan perceived, within
half a league at most, the blue and
marked profile of the rocks of
Belle-Isle, dominated by the majestic
whiteness of the castle. In the
distance, the land with its forests and
verdant plains; cattle on the grass.
This was what first attracted the
attention of the musketeer. The sun
darted its rays of gold upon the sea,
raising a shining mist round this
enchanted isle. Little could be seen of
it, owing to this dazzling light, but
the salient points; every shadow was
strongly marked, and cut with bands of
darkness the luminous fields and walls.
"Eh! eh!" said D'Artagnan, at the aspect
of those masses of black rocks, "these
are fortifications which do not stand in
need of any engineer to render a landing
difficult. How the devil can a landing
be effected on that isle which God has
defended so completely?"

"This way," replied the patron of the
bark, changing the sail, and impressing
upon the rudder a twist which turned the
boat in the direction of a pretty little
port, quite coquettish, round, and newly
battlemented.

"What the devil do I see yonder?" said
D'Artagnan.

"You see Leomaria," replied the
fisherman.

"Well, but there?"

"That is Bragos."

"And further on?"

"Sanger, and then the palace."

"Mordioux! It is a world. Ah! there are
some soldiers."

"There are seventeen hundred men in
Belle-Isle, monsieur," replied the
fisherman, proudly. "Do you know that
the least garrison is of twenty
companies of infantry?"

"Mordioux!" cried D'Artagnan, stamping
with his foot. "His Majesty was right
enough."

They landed.




CHAPTER 69

In which the Reader, no doubt, will be
as astonished as D'Artagnan was to meet
an Old Acquaintance



There is always something in a landing,
if it be only from the smallest
sea-boat -- a trouble and a confusion
which do not leave the mind the liberty
of which it stands in need in order to
study at the first glance the new
locality presented to it. The movable
bridges, the agitated sailors, the noise
of the water on the pebbles, the cries
and importunities of those who wait upon
the shores, are multiplied details of
that sensation which is summed up in one
single result -- hesitation. It was not,
then, till after standing several
minutes on the shore that D'Artagnan saw
upon the port, but more particularly in
the interior of the isle, an immense
number of workmen in motion. At his feet
D'Artagnan recognized the five chalands
laden with rough stone he had seen leave
the port of Pirial. The smaller stones
were transported to the shore by means
of a chain formed by twenty-five or
thirty peasants. The large stones were
loaded on trollies which conveyed them
in the same direction as the others,
that is to say, towards the works of
which D'Artagnan could as yet appreciate
neither the strength nor the extent.
Everywhere was to be seen an activity
equal to that which Telemachus observed
on his landing at Salentum. D'Artagnan
felt a strong inclination to penetrate
into the interior; but he could not,
under the penalty of exciting mistrust,
exhibit too much curiosity. He advanced
then little by little, scarcely going
beyond the line formed by the fishermen
on the beach, observing everything,
saying nothing, and meeting all
suspicion that might have been excited
with a half-silly question or a polite
bow. And yet, whilst his companions
carried on their trade, giving or
selling their fish to the workmen or the
inhabitants of the city, D'Artagnan had
gained ground by degrees, and, reassured
by the little attention paid to him, he
began to cast an intelligent and
confident look upon the men and things
that appeared before his eyes. And his
very first glance fell on certain
movements of earth about which the eye
of a soldier could not be mistaken. At
the two extremities of the port, in
order that their fires should converge
upon the great axis of the ellipsis
formed by the basin, in the first place,
two batteries had been raised, evidently
destined to receive flank pieces, for
D'Artagnan saw the workmen finishing the
platform and making ready the
demi-circumference in wood upon which
the wheels of the pieces might turn to
embrace every direction over the
epaulement. By the side of each of these
batteries other workmen were
strengthening gabions filled with earth,
the lining of another battery. The
latter had embrasures, and the overseer
of the works called successively men
who, with cords, tied the saucissons and
cut the lozenges and right angles of
turfs destined to retain the matting of
the embrasures. By the activity
displayed in these works, already so far
advanced, they might be considered as
finished: they were not yet furnished
with their cannons, but the platforms
had their gites and their madriers all
prepared; the earth, beaten carefully,
was consolidated; and supposing the
artillery to be on the island, in less
than two or three days the port might be
completely armed. That which astonished
D'Artagnan, when he turned his eyes from
the coast batteries to the
fortifications of the city, was to see
that Belle-Isle was defended by an
entirely new system, of which he had
often heard the Comte de la Fere speak
as a wonderful advance, but of which he
had as yet never seen the application.
These fortifications belonged neither to
the Dutch method of Marollais, nor to
the French method of the Chevalier
Antoine de Ville, but to the system of
Manesson Mallet, a skillful engineer,
who about six or eight years previously
had quitted the service of Portugal to
enter that of France. The works had this
peculiarity, that instead of rising
above the earth, as did the ancient
ramparts destined to defend a city from
escalades, they, on the contrary, sank
into it; and what created the height of
the walls was the depth of the ditches.
It did not take long to make D'Artagnan
perceive the superiority of such a
system, which gives no advantage to
cannon. Besides, as the fosses were
lower than, or on a level with the sea,
these fosses could be instantly
inundated by means of subterranean
sluices. Otherwise, the works were
almost complete, and a group of workmen,
receiving orders from a man who appeared
to be conductor of the works, were
occupied in placing the last stones. A
bridge of planks thrown over the fosses
for the greater convenience of the
maneuvers connected with the barrows,
joined the interior to the exterior.
With an air of simple curiosity
D'Artagnan asked if he might be
permitted to cross the bridge, and he
was told that no order prevented it.
Consequently he crossed the bridge, and
advanced towards the group.

This group was superintended by the man
whom D'Artagnan had already remarked,
and who appeared to be the
engineer-in-chief. A plan was lying open
before him upon a large stone forming a
table, and at some paces from him a
crane was in action. This engineer, who
by his evident importance first
attracted the attention of D'Artagnan,
wore a justaucorps, which, from its
sumptuousness was scarcely in harmony
with the work he was employed in, that
rather necessitated the costume of a
master-mason than of a noble. He was a
man of immense stature and great square
shoulders, and wore a hat covered with
feathers. He gesticulated in the most
majestic manner, and appeared, for
D'Artagnan only saw his back, to be
scolding the workmen for their idleness
and want of strength.

D'Artagnan continued to draw nearer. At
that moment the man with the feathers
ceased to gesticulate, and, with his
hands placed upon his knees, was
following, half-bent, the effort of six
workmen to raise a block of hewn stone
to the top of a piece of timber destined
to support that stone, so that the cord
of the crane might be passed under it.
The six men, all on one side of the
stone, united their efforts to raise it
to eight or ten inches from the ground,
sweating and blowing, whilst a seventh
got ready against there should be
daylight enough beneath it to slide in
the roller that was to support it. But
the stone had already twice escaped from
their hands before gaining a sufficient
height for the roller to be introduced.
There can be no doubt that every time
the stone escaped them, they bounded
quickly backwards, to keep their feet
from being crushed by the refalling
stone. Every time, the stone, abandoned
by them, sunk deeper into the damp
earth, which rendered the operation more
and more difficult. A third effort was
followed by no better success, but with
progressive discouragement. And yet,
when the six men were bent towards the
stone, the man with the feathers had
himself, with a powerful voice, given
the word of command, "Ferme!" which
regulates maneuvers of strength. Then he
drew himself up.

"Oh! oh!" said he, "what is all this
about? Have I to do with men of straw?
Corne de boeuf! stand on one side, and
you shall see how this is to be done."

"Peste!" said D'Artagnan, "will he
pretend to raise that rock? that would
be a sight worth looking at."

The workmen, as commanded by the
engineer, drew back with their ears
down, and shaking their heads, with the
exception of the one who held the plank,
who prepared to perform the office. The
man with the feathers went up to the
stone, stooped, slipped his hands under
the face lying upon the ground,
stiffened his Herculean muscles, and
without a strain, with a slow motion,
like that of a machine, he lifted the
end of the rock a foot from the ground.
The workman who held the plank profited
by the space thus given him, and slipped
the roller under the stone.

"That's the way," said the giant, not
letting the rock fall again, but placing
it upon its support.

"Mordioux!" cried D'Artagnan, "I know
but one man capable of such a feat of
strength."

"Hein!" cried the colossus, turning
round.

"Porthos!" murmured D'Artagnan, seized
with stupor, "Porthos at Belle-Isle!"

On his part, the man with the feathers
fixed his eyes upon the disguised
lieutenant, and, in spite of his
metamorphosis, recognized him.
"D'Artagnan!" cried he; and the color
mounted to his face. "Hush!" said he to
D'Artagnan.

"Hush!" in his turn, said the musketeer.
In fact if Porthos had just been
discovered by D'Artagnan, D'Artagnan had
just been discovered by Porthos. The
interest of the particular secret of
each struck them both at the same
instant. Nevertheless the first movement
of the two men was to throw their arms
around each other. What they wished to
conceal from the bystanders, was not
their friendship, but their names. But,
after the embrace, came reflection.

"What the devil brings Porthos to
Belle-Isle, lifting stones?" said
D'Artagnan; only D'Artagnan uttered that
question in a low voice. Less strong in
diplomacy than his friend, Porthos
thought aloud.

"How the devil did you come to
Belle-Isle?" asked he of D'Artagnan;
"and what do you want to do here?" It
was necessary to reply without
hesitation. To hesitate in his answer to
Porthos would have been a check, for
which the self-love of D'Artagnan would
never have consoled itself.

"Pardieu! my friend, I am at Belle-Isle
because you are."

"Ah, bah!" said Porthos, visibly
stupefied with the argument, and seeking
to account for it to himself, with the
felicity of deduction we know to be
peculiar to him.

"Without doubt," continued D'Artagnan,
unwilling to give his friend time to
recollect himself, "I have been to see
you at Pierrefonds."

"Indeed!"

"Yes."

"And you did not find me there?"

"No, but I found Mouston."

"Is he well?"

"Peste!"

"Well, but Mouston did not tell you I
was here."

"Why should he not Have I, perchance,
deserved to lose his confidence?"

"No, but he did not know it."

"Well; that is a reason at least that
does not offend my self-love."

"Then how did you manage to find me?"

"My dear friend, a great noble like you
always leaves traces behind him on his
passage; and I should think but poorly
of myself, if I were not sharp enough to
follow the traces of my friends." This
explanation, flattering as it was, did
not entirely satisfy Porthos.

"But I left no traces behind me, for I
came here disguised," said Porthos.

"Ah! You came disguised did you?" said
D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"And how?"

"As a miller."

"And do you think a great noble, like
you, Porthos, can affect common manners
so as to deceive people?"

"Well, I swear to you, my friend, that I
played my part so well that everybody
was deceived."

"Indeed! so well, that I have not
discovered and joined you?"

"Yes; but how did you discover and join
me?"

"Stop a bit. I was going to tell you
how. Do you imagine Mouston ---- "

"Ah! it was that fellow, Mouston," said
Porthos, gathering up those two
triumphant arches which served him for
eyebrows.

"But stop, I tell you -- it was no fault
of Mouston's because he was ignorant of
where you were."

"I know he was; and that is why I am in
such haste to understand ---- "

"Oh! how impatient you are, Porthos."

"When I do not comprehend, I am
terrible."

"Well, you will understand. Aramis wrote
to you at Pierrefonds, did he not?"

"Yes."

"And he told you to come before the
equinox."

"That is true."

"Well! that is it," said D'Artagnan,
hoping that this reason would mystify
Porthos. Porthos appeared to give
himself up to a violent mental labor.

"Yes, yes," said he, "I understand. As
Aramis told me to come before the
equinox, you have understood that that
was to join him. You then inquired where
Aramis was, saying to yourself, `Where
Aramis is, there Porthos will be.' You
have learnt that Aramis was in Bretagne,
and you said to yourself, `Porthos is in
Bretagne.'"

"Exactly. In good truth, Porthos I
cannot tell why you have not turned
conjurer. So you understand that
arriving at Roche-Bernard, I heard of
the splendid fortifications going on at
Belle-Isle. The account raised my
curiosity, I embarked in a fishing boat,
without dreaming that you were here: I
came, and I saw a monstrous fine fellow
lifting a stone Ajax could not have
stirred. I cried out, `Nobody but the
Baron de Bracieux could have performed
such a feat of strength.' You heard me,
you turned round, you recognized me, we
embraced; and, ma foi! if you like, my
dear friend, we will embrace again."

"Ah! now all is explained," said
Porthos; and he embraced D'Artagnan with
so much friendship as to deprive the
musketeer of his breath for five
minutes.

"Why, you are stronger than ever," said
D'Artagnan, "and still, happily, in your
arms." Porthos saluted D'Artagnan with a
gracious smile. During the five minutes
D'Artagnan was recovering his breath, he
reflected that he had a very difficult
part to play. It was necessary that he
always should question and never reply.
By the time his respiration returned, he
had fixed his plans for the campaign.




CHAPTER 70

Wherein the Ideas of D'Artagnan, at
first strangely clouded, begin to clear
up a little



D'Artagnan immediately took the
offensive. Now that I have told you all,
dear friend, or rather now you have
guessed all, tell me what you are doing
here, covered with dust and mud?"

Porthos wiped his brow, and looked
around him with pride. "Why, it
appears," said he, "that you may see
what I am doing here."

"No doubt, no doubt, you lift great
stones."

"Oh! to show these idle fellows what a
man is," said Porthos, with contempt.
"But you understand ---- "

"Yes, that it is not your place to lift
stones, although there are many whose
place it is, who cannot lift them as you
do. It was that which made me ask you,
just now, What are you doing here,
baron?"

"I am studying topography, chevalier."

"You are studying topography?"

"Yes; but you -- what are you doing in
that common dress?"

D'Artagnan perceived he had committed a
fault in giving expression to his
astonishment. Porthos had taken
advantage of it, to retort with a
question. "Why," said he, "you know I am
a bourgeois, in fact; my dress, then,
has nothing astonishing in it, since it
conforms with my condition."

"Nonsense! you are a musketeer."

"You are wrong, my friend; I have given
in my resignation."

"Bah!"

"Oh, mon Dieu! yes."

"And have you abandoned the service?"

"I have quitted it."

"You have abandoned the king?"

"Quite."

Porthos raised his arms towards heaven,
like a man who has heard extraordinary
news. "Well, that does confound me,"
said he.

"It is nevertheless true."

"And what led you to form such a
resolution?"

"The king displeased me. Mazarin had
disgusted me for a long time, as you
know; so I threw my cassock to the
nettles."

"But Mazarin is dead."

"I know that well enough, parbleu! Only,
at the period of his death, my
resignation had been given in and
accepted two months. Then, feeling
myself free, I set off for Pierrefonds,
to see my friend Porthos. I had heard
talk of the happy division you had made
of your time, and I wished, for a
fortnight, to divide mine after your
fashion."

"My friend, you know that it is not for
a fortnight my house is open to you; it
is for a year -- for ten years -- for
life."

"Thank you, Porthos."

"Ah! but perhaps you want money -- do
you?" said Porthos, making something
like fifty louis chink in his pocket.
"In that case, you know ---- "

"No, thank you, I am not in want of
anything. I placed my savings with
Planchet, who pays me the interest of
them."

"Your savings?"

"Yes, to be sure," said D'Artagnan: "why
should I not put by my savings, as well
as another, Porthos?"

"Oh, there is no reason why; on the
contrary, I always suspected you -- that
is to say, Aramis always suspected you
to have savings. For my own part, d'ye
see, I take no concern about the
management of my household; but I
presume the savings of a musketeer must
be small."

"No doubt, relative to yourself,
Porthos, who are a millionaire; but you
shall judge. I had laid by twenty-five
thousand livres."

"That's pretty well," said Porthos, with
an affable air.

"And," continued D'Artagnan, "on the
twenty-eighth of last month I added to
it two hundred thousand livres more."

Porthos opened his large eyes, which
eloquently demanded of the musketeer,
"Where the devil did you steal such a
sum as that, my dear friend?" "Two
hundred thousand livres!" cried he, at
length.

"Yes; which, with the twenty-five I had,
and twenty thousand I have about me,
complete the sum of two hundred and
forty-five thousand livres."

"But tell me, whence comes this
fortune?"

"I will tell you all about it presently,
dear friend; but as you have, in the
first place, many things to tell me
yourself, let us have my recital in its
proper order."

"Bravo!" said Porthos, "then we are both
rich. But what can I have to relate to
you?"

"You have to relate to me how Aramis
came to be named ---- "

"Ah! bishop of Vannes."

"That's it " said D'Artagnan, "bishop of
Vannes. Dear Aramis! do you know how he
succeeded so well?"

"Yes, yes; without reckoning that he
does not mean to stop there."

"What! do you mean he will not be
contented with violet stockings, and
that he wants a red hat?"

"Hush! that is promised him."

"Bah! by the king?"

"By somebody more powerful than the
king."

"Ah! the devil! Porthos: what incredible
things you tell me, my friend!"

"Why incredible? Is there not always
somebody in France more powerful than
the king?"

"Oh, yes; in the time of King Louis
XIII. it was Cardinal Richelieu; in the
time of the Regency it was Cardinal
Mazarin. In the time of Louis XIV. it is
M. ---- "

"Go on."

"It is M. Fouquet."

"Jove! you have hit it the first time."

"So, then, I suppose it is M. Fouquet
who has promised Aramis the red hat?"

Porthos assumed an air of reserve. "Dear
friend," said he, "God preserve me from
meddling with the affairs of others,
above all from revealing secrets it may
be to their interest to keep. When you
see Aramis, he will tell you all he
thinks he ought to tell you."

"You are right, Porthos; and you are
quite a padlock for safety. But, to
revert to yourself?"

"Yes," said Porthos.

"You said just now you came hither to
study topography?"

"I did so."

"Tudieu! my friend, what fine things you
will do!"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, these fortifications are
admirable."

"Is that your opinion?"

"Decidedly it is. In truth, to anything
but a regular siege, Belle-Isle is
absolutely impregnable."

Porthos rubbed his hands. "That is my
opinion," said he.

"But who the devil has fortified this
paltry little place in this manner?"

Porthos drew himself up proudly: "Did
not I tell you who?"

"No."

"Do you not suspect?"

"No; all I can say is that he is a man
who has studied all the systems, and who
appears to me to have stopped at the
best."

"Hush!" said Porthos; "consider my
modesty, my dear D'Artagnan."

"In truth," replied the musketeer, "can
it be you -- who -- oh!"

"Pray -- my dear friend ---- "

"You who have imagined, traced, and
combined between these bastions, these
redans, these curtains, these
half-moons; and are preparing that
covered way?"

"I beg you ---- "

"You who have built that lunette with
its retiring angles and its salient
angles?"

"My friend ---- "

"You who have given that inclination to
the openings of your embrasures, by
means of which you so effectively
protect the men who serve the guns?"

"Eh! mon Dieu! yes."

"Oh! Porthos, Porthos! I must bow down
before you -- I must admire you! But you
have always concealed from us this
superb, this incomparable genius. I
hope, my dear friend, you will show me
all this in detail."

"Nothing more easy. Here lies my
original sketch, my plan."

"Show it me." Porthos led D'Artagnan
towards the stone that served him for a
table, and upon which the plan was
spread. At the foot of the plan was
written, in the formidable writing of
Porthos, writing of which we have
already had occasion to speak: --

"Instead of making use of the square or
rectangle, as has been done to this
time, you will suppose your place
inclosed in a regular hexagon, this
polygon having the advantage of offering
more angles than the quadrilateral one.
Every side of your hexagon, of which you
will determine the length in proportion
to the dimensions taken upon the place,
will be divided into two parts and upon
the middle point you will elevate a
perpendicular towards the center of the
polygon, which will equal in length the
sixth part of the side. By the
extremities of each side of the polygon,
you will trace two diagonals, which will
cut the perpendicular. These will form
the precise lines of your defense."

"The devil!" said D'Artagnan, stopping
at this point of the demonstration;
"why, this is a complete system,
Porthos."

"Entirely," said Porthos. "Continue."

"No; I have read enough of it; but,
since it is you, my dear Porthos, who
direct the works, what need have you of
setting down your system so formally in
writing?"

"Oh! my dear friend, death!"

"How! death?"

"Why, we are all mortal, are we not?"

"That is true," said D'Artagnan; "you
have a reply for everything, my friend."
And he replaced the plan upon the stone.

But however short the time he had the
plan in his hands, D'Artagnan had been
able to distinguish, under the enormous
writing of Porthos, a much more delicate
hand, which reminded him of certain
letters to Marie Michon, with which he
had been acquainted in his youth. Only
the India-rubber had passed and repassed
so often over this writing that it might
have escaped a less practiced eye than
that of our musketeer.

"Bravo! my friend, bravo!" said
D'Artagnan.

"And now you know all that you want to
know, do you not?" said Porthos,
wheeling about.

"Mordioux! yes, only do me one last
favor, dear friend!"

"Speak, I am master here."

"Do me the pleasure to tell me the name
of that gentleman who is walking
yonder."

"Where, there?"

"Behind the soldiers."

"Followed by a lackey?"

"Exactly."

"In company with a mean sort of a
fellow, dressed in black?"

"Yes, I mean him."

"That is M. Getard."

"And who is Getard, my friend?"

"He is the architect of the house."

"Of what house?"

"Of M. Fouquet's house."

"Ah! ah!" cried D'Artagnan, "you are of
the household of M. Fouquet, then,
Porthos?"

"I! what do you mean by that?" said the
topographer, blushing to the top of his
ears.

"Why, you say the house, when speaking
of Belle-Isle, as if you were speaking
of the chateau of Pierrefonds."

Porthos bit his lips. "Belle-Isle, my
friend," said he, "belongs to M.
Fouquet, does it not?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"As Pierrefonds belongs to me?"

"I told you I believed so; there are no
two words to that."

"Did you ever see a man there who is
accustomed to walk about with a ruler in
his hand?"

"No; but I might have seen him there, if
he really walked there."

"Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin."

"Who is M. Boulingrin?"

"Now, we are coming to it. If, when this
gentleman is walking with a ruler in his
hand, any one should ask me, -- `Who is
M. Boulingrin?' I should reply: `He is
the architect of the house.' Well! M.
Getard is the Boulingrin of M. Fouquet.
But he has nothing to do with the
fortifications, which are my department
alone; do you understand? mine,
absolutely mine."

"Ah! Porthos," cried D'Artagnan, letting
his arms fall as a conquered man gives
up his sword; "ah! my friend, you are
not only a herculean topographer, you
are, still further, a dialectician of
the first water."

"Is it not powerfully reasoned?" said
Porthos: and he puffed and blew like the
conger which D'Artagnan had let slip
from his hand.

"And now," said D'Artagnan, "that
shabby-looking man, who accompanies M.
Getard, is he also of the household of
M. Fouquet?"

"Oh! yes," said Porthos, with contempt;
"it is one M. Jupenet, or Juponet, a
sort of poet."

"Who is come to establish himself here?"

"I believe so."

"I thought M. Fouquet had poets enough,
yonder -- Scudery, Loret, Pellisson, La
Fontaine? If I must tell you the truth,
Porthos, that poet disgraces you."

"Eh! -- my friend; but what saves us is
that he is not here as a poet."

"As what, then, is he?"

"As printer. And you make me remember, I
have a word to say to the cuistre."

"Say it, then."

Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who
perfectly recollected D'Artagnan, and
did not care to come nearer; which
naturally produced another sign from
Porthos. This was so imperative, he was
obliged to obey. As he approached, "Come
hither!" said Porthos. "You only landed
yesterday and you have begun your tricks
already."

"How so, monsieur le baron?" asked
Jupenet, trembling.

"Your press was groaning all night,
monsieur," said Porthos, "and you
prevented my sleeping, corne de boeuf!"

"Monsieur ---- " objected Jupenet,
timidly.

"You have nothing yet to print:
therefore you have no occasion to set
your press going. What did you print
last night?"

"Monsieur, a light poem of my own
composition."

"Light! no, no, monsieur; the press
groaned pitifully beneath it. Let it not
happen again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"You promise me?"

"I do, monsieur!"

"Very well; this time I pardon you.
Adieu!"

"Well, now we have combed that fellow's
head, let us breakfast."

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "let us
breakfast."

"Only," said Porthos, "I beg you to
observe, my friend, that we have only
two hours for our repast."

"What would you have? We will try to
make two hours suffice. But why have you
only two hours?"

"Because it is high tide at one o'clock,
and, with the tide, I am going to
Vannes. But, as I shall return tomorrow,
my dear friend, you can stay here; you
shall be master, I have a good cook and
a good cellar."

"No," interrupted D'Artagnan, "better
than that."

"What?"

"You are going to Vannes, you say?"

"To a certainty."

"To see Aramis?"

"Yes."

"Well! I came from Paris on purpose to
see Aramis."

"That's true."

"I will go with you then."

"Do; that's the thing."

"Only, I ought to have seen Aramis
first, and you after. But man proposes,
and God disposes. I have begun with you,
and will finish with Aramis."

"Very well!"

"And in how many hours can you go from
here to Vannes?"

"Oh! pardieu! in six hours. Three hours
by sea to Sarzeau, three hours by road
from Sarzeau to Vannes."

"How convenient that is! Being so near
to the bishopric; do you often go to
Vannes?"

"Yes; once a week. But, stop till I get
my plan."

Porthos picked up his plan, folded it
carefully, and engulfed it in his large
pocket.

"Good!" said D'Artagnan aside; "I think
I now know the real engineer who is
fortifying Belle-Isle."

Two hours after, at high tide, Porthos
and D'Artagnan set out for Sarzeau.




CHAPTER 71

A Procession at Vannes



The passage from Belle-Isle to Sarzeau
was made rapidly enough, thanks to one
of those little corsairs of which
D'Artagnan had been told during his
voyage, and which, shaped for fast
sailing and destined for the chase, were
sheltered at that time in the roadstead
of Loc-Maria, where one of them, with a
quarter of its war-crew, performed duty
between Belle-Isle and the continent.
D'Artagnan had an opportunity of
convincing himself that Porthos, though
engineer and topographer, was not deeply
versed in affairs of state. His perfect
ignorance, with any other, might have
passed for well-informed dissimulation.
But D'Artagnan knew too well all the
folds and refolds of his Porthos, not to
find a secret if there were one there;
like those regular, minute old
bachelors, who know how to find, with
their eyes shut, each book on the
shelves of their library and each piece
of linen in their wardrobe. So if he had
found nothing, our cunning D'Artagnan,
in rolling and unrolling his Porthos, it
was because, in truth, there was nothing
to be found.

"Be it so," said D'Artagnan, "I shall
get to know more at Vannes in half an
hour than Porthos has discovered at
Belle-Isle in two months. Only, in order
that I may know something, it is
important that Porthos should not make
use of the only stratagem I leave at his
disposal. He must not warn Aramis of my
arrival." All the care of the musketeer
was then, for the moment, confined to
the watching of Porthos. And let us
hasten to say, Porthos did not deserve
all this mistrust. Porthos thought of no
evil. Perhaps, on first seeing him,
D'Artagnan had inspired him with a
little suspicion, but almost immediately
D'Artagnan had reconquered in that good
and brave heart the place he had always
occupied, and not the least cloud
darkened the large eye of Porthos, fixed
from time to time with tenderness on his
friend.

On landing, Porthos inquired if his
horses were waiting, and soon perceived
them at the crossing of the road that
winds round Sarzeau, and which, without
passing through that little city, leads
towards Vannes. These horses were two in
number, one for M. de Vallon, and one
for his equerry; for Porthos had an
equerry since Mouston was only able to
use a carriage as a means of locomotion.
D'Artagnan expected that Porthos would
propose to send forward his equerry upon
one horse to bring back another, and
he -- D'Artagnan -- had made up his mind
to oppose this proposition. But nothing
D'Artagnan had expected happened.
Porthos simply told the equerry to
dismount and await his return at
Sarzeau, whilst D'Artagnan would ride
his horse; which was arranged.

"Eh! but you are quite a man of
precaution, my dear Porthos," said
D'Artagnan to his friend, when he found
himself in the saddle, upon the
equerry's horse.

"Yes, but this is a kindness on the part
of Aramis. I have not my stud here, and
Aramis has placed his stables at my
disposal."

"Good horses for bishop's horses,
mordioux!" said D'Artagnan. "It is true,
Aramis is a bishop of a peculiar kind."

"He is a holy man!" replied Porthos, in
a tone almost nasal, and with his eyes
raised towards heaven.

"Then he is much changed," said
D'Artagnan; "you and I have known him
passably profane."

"Grace has touched him," said Porthos.

"Bravo," said D'Artagnan, "that
redoubles my desire to see my dear old
friend." And he spurred his horse, which
sprang off into a more rapid pace.

"Peste!" said Porthos, "if we go on at
this rate, we shall only take one hour
instead of two."

"To go how far, do you say, Porthos?"

"Four leagues and a half."

"That will be a good pace."

"I could have embarked you on the canal,
but the devil take rowers and
boat-horses! The first are like
tortoises; the second like snails; and
when a man is able to put a good horse
between his knees, that horse is better
than rowers or any other means."

"You are right; you above all, Porthos,
who always look magnificent on
horseback."

"Rather heavy, my friend; I was weighed
the other day."

"And what do you weigh?"

"Three hundred-weight!" said Porthos,
proudly.

"Bravo!"

"So that you must perceive, I am forced
to choose horses whose loins are
straight and wide, otherwise I break
them down in two hours."

"Yes, giant's horses you must have, must
you not?"

"You are very polite, my friend,"
replied the engineer, with affectionate
majesty.

"As a case in point," replied
D'Artagnan, "your horse seems to sweat
already."

"Dame! It is hot! Ah, ah! do you see
Vannes now?"

"Yes, perfectly. It is a handsome city,
apparently."

"Charming, according to Aramis, at
least, but I think it black; but black
seems to be considered handsome by
artists: I am sorry for it."

"Why so, Porthos?"

"Because I have lately had my chateau of
Pierrefonds which was gray with age,
plastered white."

"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "and white is
more cheerful."

"Yes, but it is less august, as Aramis
tells me. Fortunately there are dealers
in black as well as white. I will have
Pierrefonds replastered in black; that's
all there is about it. If gray is
handsome, you understand, my friend,
black must be superb."

"Dame!" said D'Artagnan, "that appears
logical."

"Were you never at Vannes, D'Artagnan?"

"Never."

"Then you know nothing of the city?"

"Nothing."

"Well, look!" said Porthos, raising
himself in his stirrups, which made the
fore-quarters of his horse bend sadly --
"do you see that corner, in the sun,
yonder?"

"Yes, I see it plainly."

"Well, that is the cathedral."

"Which is called?"

"Saint-Pierre. Now look again -- in the
faubourg on the left, do you see another
cross?"

"Perfectly well."

"That is Saint-Paterne, the parish
preferred by Aramis."

"Indeed!"

"Without doubt. Saint-Paterne, you see,
passes for having been the first bishop
of Vannes. It is true that Aramis
pretends he was not. But he is so
learned that that may be only a paro --
a para ---"

"A paradox," said D'Artagnan.

"Precisely; thank you! my tongue trips,
I am so hot."

"My friend," said D'Artagnan, "continue
your interesting description, I beg.
What is that large white building with
many windows?"

"Oh! that is the college of the Jesuits.
Pardieu! you have an apt hand. Do you
see, close to the college, a large house
with steeples, turrets, built in a
handsome Gothic style, as that fool, M.
Getard, says?"

"Yes, that is plainly to be seen. Well?"

"Well, that is where Aramis resides."

"What! does he not reside at the
episcopal palace?"

"No, that is in ruins. The palace
likewise is in the city, and Aramis
prefers the faubourgs. That is why, as I
told you, he is partial to
Saint-Paterne; Saint-Paterne is in the
faubourg. Besides, there are in this
faubourg a mall, a tennis-court, and a
house of Dominicans. Look, that where
the handsome steeple rises to the
heavens."

"Well?"

"Next, you see the faubourg is like a
separate city, it has its walls, its
towers, its ditches; the quay is upon it
likewise, and the boats land at the
quay. If our little corsair did not draw
eight feet of water, we could have come
full sail up to Aramis's windows."

"Porthos, Porthos," cried D'Artagnan,
"you are a well of knowledge, a spring
of ingenious and profound reflections.
Porthos, you no longer surprise me, you
confound me."

"Here we are," said Porthos, turning the
conversation with his usual modesty.

"And high time we were," thought
D'Artagnan, "for Aramis's horse is
melting away like a steed of ice."

They entered almost at the same instant
the faubourg; but scarcely had they gone
a hundred paces when they were surprised
to find the streets strewed with leaves
and flowers. Against the old walls of
Vannes hung the oldest and the strangest
tapestries of France. From over
balconies fell long white sheets stuck
all over with bouquets. The streets were
deserted; it was plain the entire
population was assembled on one point.
The blinds were closed, and the breeze
penetrated into the houses under the
hangings, which cast long, black shades
between their places of issue and the
walls. Suddenly, at the turning of a
street, chants struck the ears of the
newly arrived travelers. A crowd in
holiday garb appeared through the vapors
of incense which mounted to the heavens
in blue fleeces, and clouds of
rose-leaves fluttered as high as the
first stories. Above all heads were to
be seen the cross and banners, the
sacred symbols of religion. Then,
beneath these crosses and banners, as if
protected by them, walked a whole world
of young girls clothed in white, crowned
with corn-flowers. At the two sides of
the street, inclosing the cortege,
marched the guards of the garrison,
carrying bouquets in the barrels of
their muskets and on the points of their
lances. This was the procession.

Whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos were
looking on with critical glances, which
disguised an extreme impatience to get
forward, a magnificent dais approached
preceded by a hundred Jesuits and a
hundred Dominicans, and escorted by two
archdeacons, a treasurer, a penitent and
twelve canons. A singer with a
thundering voice -- a man certainly
picked out from all the voices of
France, as was the drum-major of the
imperial guard from all the giants of
the empire -- escorted by four other
chanters, who appeared to be there only
to serve him as an accompaniment, made
the air resound, and the windows of the
houses vibrate. Under the dais appeared
a pale and noble countenance with black
eyes, black hair streaked with threads
of white, a delicate, compressed mouth,
a prominent and angular chin. His head,
full of graceful majesty, was covered
with the episcopal mitre, a headdress
which gave it, in addition to the
character of sovereignty, that of
asceticism and evangelic meditation.

"Aramis!" cried the musketeer,
involuntarily, as this lofty countenance
passed before him. The prelate started
at the sound of the voice. He raised his
large black eyes, with their long
lashes, and turned them without
hesitation towards the spot whence the
exclamation proceeded. At a glance, he
saw Porthos and D'Artagnan close to him.
On his part, D'Artagnan, thanks to the
keenness of his sight, had seen all,
seized all. The full portrait of the
prelate had entered his memory, never to
leave it. One thing had particularly
struck D'Artagnan. On perceiving him,
Aramis had colored, then he had
concentrated under his eyelids the fire
of the look of the master, and the
indefinable affection of the friend. It
was evident that Aramis had asked
himself this question: -- "Why is
D'Artagnan with Porthos, and what does
he want at Vannes?" Aramis comprehended
all that was passing in the mind of
D'Artagnan, on turning his look upon him
again, and seeing that he had not
lowered his eyes. He knew the acuteness
and intelligence of his friend, he
feared to let him divine the secret of
his blush and his astonishment. He was
still the same Aramis, always having a
secret to conceal. Therefore, to put an
end to his look of an inquisitor which
it was necessary to get rid of at all
events, as, at any price, a general
extinguishes a battery which annoys him,
Aramis stretched forth his beautiful
white hand, upon which sparkled the
amethyst of the pastoral ring; he cut
the air with sign of the cross, and
poured out his benediction upon his two
friends. Perhaps thoughtful and absent,
D'Artagnan, impious in spite of himself,
might not have bent beneath this holy
benediction; but Porthos saw his
distraction, and laying his friendly
hand upon the back of his companion, he
crushed him down towards the earth.
D'Artagnan was forced to give way;
indeed, he was little short of being
flat on the ground. In the meantime
Aramis had passed. D'Artagnan, like
Antaeus, had only touched the ground,
and he turned towards Porthos, almost
angry. But there was no mistaking the
intention of the brave Hercules; it was
a feeling of religious propriety that
had influenced him. Besides, speech with
Porthos, instead of disguising his
thought, always completed it.

"It is very polite of him," said he, "to
have given his benediction to us alone.
Decidedly, he is a holy man, and a brave
man." Less convinced than Porthos,
D'Artagnan made no reply.

"Observe, my friend," continued Porthos,
"he has seen us; and, instead of
continuing to walk on at the simple pace
of the procession, as he did just
now, -- see, what a hurry he is in; do
you see how the cortege is increasing
its speed? He is eager to join us and
embrace us, is that dear Aramis."

"That is true," replied D'Artagnan,
aloud. -- Then to himself: -- "It is
equally true he has seen me, the fox,
and will have time to prepare himself to
receive me."

But the procession had passed; the road
was free. D'Artagnan and Porthos walked
straight up to the episcopal palace,
which was surrounded by a numerous crowd
anxious to see the prelate return.
D'Artagnan remarked that this crowd was
composed principally of citizens and
military men. He recognized in the
nature of these partisans the address of
his friend. Aramis was not the man to
seek for a useless popularity. He cared
very little for being beloved by people
who could be of no service to him.
Women, children, and old men, that is to
say, the cortege of ordinary pastors,
was not the cortege for him.

Ten minutes after the two friends had
passed the threshold of the palace,
Aramis returned like a triumphant
conqueror; the soldiers presented arms
to him as to a superior; the citizens
bowed to him as to a friend and a
patron, rather than as a head of the
Church. There was something in Aramis
resembling those Roman senators who had
their doors always surrounded by
clients. At the foot of the prison, he
had a conference of half a minute with a
Jesuit, who, in order to speak to him
more secretly, passed his head under the
dais. He then re-entered his palace; the
doors closed slowly, and the crowd
melted away, whilst chants and prayers
were still resounding abroad. It was a
magnificent day. Earthly perfumes were
mingled with the perfumes of the air and
the sea. The city breathed happiness,
joy, and strength. D'Artagnan felt
something like the presence of an
invisible hand which had,
all-powerfully, created this strength,
this joy, this happiness, and spread
everywhere these perfumes.

"Oh! oh!" said he, "Porthos has got fat;
but Aramis is grown taller."




CHAPTER 72

The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes



Porthos and D'Artagnan had entered the
bishop's residence by a private door, as
his personal friends. Of course, Porthos
served D'Artagnan as guide. The worthy
baron comported himself everywhere
rather as if he were at home.
Nevertheless, whether it was a tacit
acknowledgment of the sanctity of the
personage of Aramis and his character,
or the habit of respecting him who
imposed upon him morally, a worthy habit
which had always made Porthos a model
soldier and an excellent companion; for
all these reasons, say we, Porthos
preserved in the palace of His Greatness
the Bishop of Vannes a sort of reserve
which D'Artagnan remarked at once, in
the attitude he took with respect to the
valets and officers. And yet this
reserve did not go so far as to prevent
his asking questions. Porthos
questioned. They learned that His
Greatness had just returned to his
apartment and was preparing to appear in
familiar intimacy, less majestic than he
had appeared with his flock. After a
quarter of an hour, which D'Artagnan and
Porthos passed in looking mutually at
each other with the white of their eyes,
and turning their thumbs in all the
different evolutions which go from north
to south, a door of the chamber opened
and His Greatness appeared, dressed in
the undress, complete, of a prelate.
Aramis carried his head high, like a man
accustomed to command: his violet robe
was tucked up on one side, and his white
hand was on his hip. He had retained the
fine mustache, and the lengthened royale
of the time of Louis XIII. He exhaled,
on entering, that delicate perfume
which, among elegant men and women of
high fashion, never changes, and appears
to be incorporated in the person, of
whom it has become the natural
emanation. In this case only, the
perfume had retained something of the
religious sublimity of incense. It no
longer intoxicated, it penetrated; it no
longer inspired desire, it inspired
respect. Aramis, on entering the chamber
did not hesitate an instant; and without
pronouncing one word, which, whatever it
might be, would have been cold on such
an occasion, he went straight up to the
musketeer, so well disguised under the
costume of M. Agnan, and pressed him in
his arms with a tenderness which the
most distrustful could not have
suspected of coldness or affectation.

D'Artagnan, on his part, embraced him
with equal ardor. Porthos pressed the
delicate hand of Aramis in his immense
hands, and D'Artagnan remarked that His
Greatness gave him his left hand,
probably from habit, seeing that Porthos
already ten times had been near injuring
his fingers covered with rings, by
pounding his flesh in the vise of his
fist. Warned by the pain, Aramis was
cautious, and only presented flesh to be
bruised, and not fingers to be crushed,
against gold or the angles of diamonds.

Between two embraces, Aramis looked
D'Artagnan in the face, offered him a
chair, sitting down himself in the
shade, observing that the light fell
full upon the face of his interlocutor.
This maneuver, familiar to diplomatists
and women, resembles much the advantage
of the guard which, according to their
skill or habit, combatants endeavor to
take on the ground at a duel. D'Artagnan
was not the dupe of this maneuver, but
he did not appear to perceive it. He
felt himself caught; but, precisely,
because he was caught he felt himself on
the road to discovery, and it little
imported to him, old condottiere as he
was, to be beaten in appearance,
provided he drew from his pretended
defeat the advantages of victory. Aramis
began the conversation.

"Ah! dear friend! my good D'Artagnan,"
said he, "what an excellent chance!"

"It is a chance, my reverend companion,"
said D'Artagnan, "that I will call
friendship. I seek you, as I always have
sought you, when I had any grand
enterprise to propose to you, or some
hours of liberty to give you."

"Ah! indeed," said Aramis, without
explosion, "you have been seeking me?"

"Eh! yes, he has been seeking you,
Aramis," said Porthos, "and the proof is
that he has unharbored me at Belle-Isle.
That is amiable, is it not?"

"Ah! yes," said Aramis, "at Belle-Isle!
certainly!"

"Good!" said D'Artagnan; "there is my
booby Porthos, without thinking of it,
has fired the first cannon of attack."

"At Belle-Isle!" said Aramis, "in that
hole, in that desert! That is kind,
indeed!"

"And it was I who told him you were at
Vannes," continued Porthos, in the same
tone.

D'Artagnan armed his mouth with a
finesse almost ironical.

"Yes, I knew, but I was willing to see,"
replied he.

"To see what?"

"If our old friendship still held out,
if, on seeing each other, our hearts,
hardened as they are by age, would still
let the old cry of joy escape, which
salutes the coming of a friend."

"Well, and you must have been
satisfied," said Aramis.

"So, so."

"How is that?"

"Yes, Porthos said hush! and you ---- "

"Well! and I?"

"And you gave me your benediction."

"What would you have, my friend?" said
Aramis, smiling; "that is the most
precious thing that a poor prelate, like
me, has to give."

"Indeed, my dear friend!"

"Doubtless."

"And yet they say at Paris that the
bishopric of Vannes is one of the best
in France."

"Ah! you are now speaking of temporal
wealth," said Aramis, with a careless
air.

"To be sure, I wish to speak of that; I
hold by it, on my part."

"In that case, let me speak of it," said
Aramis, with a smile.

"You own yourself to be one of the
richest prelates in France?"

"My friend, since you ask me to give you
an account, I will tell you that the
bishopric of Vannes is worth about
twenty thousand livres a year, neither
more nor less. It is a diocese which
contains a hundred and sixty parishes."

"That is very pretty," said D'Artagnan.

"It is superb!" said Porthos.

"And yet," resumed D'Artagnan, throwing
his eyes over Aramis, "you don't mean to
bury yourself here forever?"

"Pardon me. Only I do not admit the word
bury."

"But it seems to me, that at this
distance from Paris a man is buried, or
nearly so."

"My friend, I am getting old," said
Aramis; "the noise and bustle of a city
no longer suit me. At fifty-seven we
ought to seek calm and meditation. I
have found them here. What is there more
beautiful, and stern at the same time,
than this old Armorica. I find here,
dear D'Artagnan, all that is opposite to
what I formerly loved, and that is what
must happen at the end of life, which is
opposite to the beginning. A little of
my odd pleasure of former times still
comes to salute me here, now and then,
without diverting me from the road of
salvation. I am still of this world, and
yet every step that I take brings me
nearer to God."

"Eloquent, wise and discreet; you are an
accomplished prelate, Aramis, and I
offer you my congratulations."

"But," said Aramis, smiling, "you did
not come here only for the purpose of
paying me compliments. Speak; what
brings you hither! May it be that, in
some fashion or other, you want me?"

"Thank God, no, my friend," said
D'Artagnan, "it is nothing of that
kind. -- I am rich and free."

"Rich!" exclaimed Aramis.

"Yes, rich for me; not for you or
Porthos, understand. I have an income of
about fifteen thousand livres.

Aramis looked at him suspiciously. He
could not believe -- particularly on
seeing his friend in such humble
guise -- that he had made so fine a
fortune. Then D'Artagnan, seeing that
the hour of explanations was come,
related the history of his English
adventures. During the recital he saw,
ten times, the eyes of the prelate
sparkle, and his slender fingers work
convulsively. As to Porthos, it was not
admiration he manifested for D'Artagnan;
it was enthusiasm, it was delirium. When
D'Artagnan had finished, "Well!" said
Aramis.

"Well!" said D'Artagnan, "you see, then,
I have in England friends and property,
in France a treasure. If your heart
tells you so, I offer them to you. That
is what I came here for."

However firm was his look, he could not
this time support the look of Aramis. He
allowed, therefore, his eye to stray
upon Porthos -- like the sword which
yields to too powerful a pressure, and
seeks another road.

"At all events," said the bishop, "you
have assumed a singular traveling
costume, old friend."

"Frightful! I know it is. You may
understand why I would not travel as a
cavalier or a noble; since I became
rich, I am miserly."

"And you say, then, you came to
Belle-Isle?" said Aramis, without
transition.

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan; "I knew I
should find you and Porthos there."

"Find me!" cried Aramis. "Me! for the
last year past I have not once crossed
the sea."

"Oh," said D'Artagnan, "I should never
have supposed you such a housekeeper."

"Ah, dear friend, I must tell you that I
am no longer the Aramis of former times.
Riding on horseback is unpleasant to me;
the sea fatigues me. I am a poor, ailing
priest, always complaining, always
grumbling, and inclined to the
austerities which appear to accord with
old age, -- preliminary parlayings with
death. I linger, my dear D'Artagnan, I
linger."

"Well, that is all the better, my
friend, for we shall probably be
neighbors soon."

"Bah!" said Aramis with a degree of
surprise he did not even seek to
dissemble. "You my neighbor!"

"Mordioux! yes."

"How so?"

"I am about to purchase some very
profitable salt-mines, which are
situated between Pirial and Croisic.
Imagine, my friend, a clear profit of
twelve per cent. Never any deficiency,
never any idle expenses; the ocean,
faithful and regular, brings every
twelve hours its contingency to my
coffers. I am the first Parisian who has
dreamt of such a speculation. Do not say
anything about it, I beg of you, and in
a short time we will communicate on the
matter. I am to have three leagues of
country for thirty thousand livres."

Aramis darted a look at Porthos, as if
to ask if all this were true, if some
snare were not concealed beneath this
outward indifference. But soon, as if
ashamed of having consulted this poor
auxiliary, he collected all his forces
for a fresh assault and new defense. "I
heard that you had had some difference
with the court but that you had come out
of it as you know how to get through
everything, D'Artagnan, with the honors
of war."

"I!" said the musketeer, with a burst of
laughter that did not conceal his
embarrassment, for, from these words,
Aramis was not unlikely to be acquainted
with his last relations with the king.
"I! Oh, tell me all about that, pray,
Aramis?"

"Yes, it was related to me, a poor
bishop, lost in the middle of the
Landes, that the king had taken you as
the confidant of his amours."

"With whom?"

"With Mademoiselle de Mancini."

D'Artagnan breathed freely again. "Ah! I
don't say no to that," replied he.

"It appears that the king took you one
morning over the bridge of Blois to talk
with his lady-love."

"That's true," said D'Artagnan. "And you
know that, do you? Well, then, you must
know that the same day I gave in my
resignation!"

"What, sincerely?"

"Nothing more so."

"It was after that, then, that you went
to the Comte de la Fere's?"

"Yes."

"Afterwards to me?"

"Yes."

"And then Porthos?"

"Yes."

"Was it in order to pay us a simple
visit?"

"No, I did not know you were engaged,
and I wished to take you with me into
England."

"Yes, I understand; and then you
executed alone, wonderful man as you
are, what you wanted to propose to us
all four. I suspected you had something
to do with that famous restoration, when
I learned that you had been seen at King
Charles's receptions, and that he
appeared to treat you like a friend, or
rather like a person to whom he was
under an obligation."

"But how the devil did you learn all
that?" asked D'Artagnan, who began to
fear that the investigation of Aramis
had extended further than he wished.

"Dear D'Artagnan," said the prelate, "my
friendship resembles, in a degree, the
solicitude of that night watch whom we
have in the little tower of the mole, at
the extremity of the quay. That brave
man, every night, lights a lantern to
direct the barks that come from sea. He
is concealed in his sentry-box, and the
fishermen do not see him; but he follows
them with interest; he divines them; he
calls them; he attracts them into the
way to the port. I resemble this
watcher: from time to time some news
reaches me, and recalls to my
remembrance all those I loved. Then I
follow the friends of old days over the
stormy ocean of the world, I, a poor
watcher, to whom God has kindly given
the shelter of a sentry-box."

"Well, what did I do when I came from
England?"

"Ah! there," replied Aramis, "you get
beyond my depth. I know nothing of you
since your return. D'Artagnan, my eyes
are dim. I regretted you did not think
of me. I wept over your forgetfulness. I
was wrong. I see you again, and it is a
festival, a great festival, I assure
you, solemnly! How is Athos?"

"Very well, thank you."

"And our young pupil, Raoul?"

"He seems to have inherited the skill of
his father, Athos, and the strength of
his tutor, Porthos."

"And on what occasion have you been able
to judge of that?"

"Eh! mon Dieu! on the eve of my
departure from Paris."

"Indeed! tell me all about it!"

"Yes; there was an execution at the
Greve, and in consequence of that
execution, a riot. We happened by
accident, to be in the riot; and in this
riot we were obliged to have recourse to
our swords. And he did wonders."

"Bah! what did he do?"

"Why, in the first place, he threw a man
out of the window, as he would have
flung a sack full of flock."

"Come, that's pretty well," said
Porthos.

"Then he drew, and cut and thrust away,
as we fellows used to do in the good old
times."

"And what was the cause of this riot?"
said Porthos.

D'Artagnan remarked upon the face of
Aramis a complete indifference to this
question of Porthos. "Why," said he,
fixing his eyes upon Aramis, "on account
of two farmers of the revenues, friends
of M. Fouquet, whom the king forced to
disgorge their plunder, and then hanged
them."

A scarcely perceptible contraction of
the prelate's brow showed that he had
heard D'Artagnan's reply.

"Oh, oh!" said Porthos; "and what were
the names of these friends of M.
Fouquet?"

"MM. d'Eymeris and Lyodot," said
D'Artagnan. "Do you know those names,
Aramis?"

"No," said the prelate, disdainfully;
"they sound like the names of
financiers."

"Exactly; so they were."

"Oh! M. Fouquet allows his friends to be
hanged, then," said Porthos.

"And why not?" said Aramis. "Why, it
seems to me ---- "

"If these culprits were hanged, it was
by order of the king. Now M. Fouquet,
although superintendent of the finances,
has not, I believe, the right of life
and death."

"That may be," said Porthos; "but in the
place of M. Fouquet ---- "

Aramis was afraid Porthos was about to
say something awkward, so interrupted
him. "Come, D'Artagnan," said he; "this
is quite enough about other people, let
us talk a little about you."

"Of me you know all that I can tell you.
On the contrary let me hear a little
about you, Aramis."

"I have told you, my friend. There is
nothing of Aramis left in me."

"Nor of the Abbe d'Herblay even?"

"No, not even of him. You see a man whom
Providence has taken by the hand, whom
he has conducted to a position that he
could never have dared even to hope
for."

"Providence?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"Well, that is strange! I was told it
was M. Fouquet."

"Who told you that?" cried Aramis,
without being able, with all the power
of his will, to prevent the color rising
to his cheeks.

"Ma foi! why, Bazin!"

"The fool!"

"I do not say he is a man of genius, it
is true; but he told me so; and after
him, I repeat it to you."

"I have never seen M. Fouquet," replied
Aramis with a look as pure and calm as
that of a virgin who has never told a
lie.

"Well, but if you had seen him and known
him, there is no harm in that," replied
D'Artagnan. "M. Fouquet is a very good
sort of a man."

"Humph!"

"A great politician." Aramis made a
gesture of indifference.

"An all-powerful minister."

"I only hold to the king and the pope."

"Dame! listen then," said D'Artagnan, in
the most natural tone imaginable. "I
said that because everybody here swears
by M. Fouquet. The plain is M.
Fouquet's; the salt-mines I am about to
buy are M. Fouquet's; the island in
which Porthos studies topography is M.
Fouquet's; the galleys are M. Fouquet's.
I confess, then, that nothing would have
surprised me in your enfeoffment, or
rather in that of your diocese, to M.
Fouquet. He is a different master from
the king, that is all; but quite as
powerful as Louis."

"Thank God! I am not vassal to anybody;
I belong to nobody, and am entirely my
own master," replied Aramis, who, during
this conversation, followed with his eye
every gesture of D'Artagnan, every
glance of Porthos. But D'Artagnan was
impassible and Porthos motionless; the
thrusts aimed so skillfully were parried
by an able adversary; not one hit the
mark. Nevertheless, both began to feel
the fatigue of such a contest and the
announcement of supper was well received
by everybody. Supper changed the course
of conversation. Besides, they felt
that, upon their guard as each one had
been, they could neither of them boast
of having the advantage. Porthos had
understood nothing of what had been
meant. He had held himself motionless,
because Aramis had made him a sign not
to stir. Supper for him, was nothing but
supper; but that was quite enough for
Porthos. The supper, then, went off very
well. D'Artagnan was in high spirits.
Aramis exceeded himself in kind
affability. Porthos ate like old Pelops.
Their talk was of war, finance, the
arts, and love. Aramis played
astonishment at every word of politics.
D'Artagnan risked. This long series of
surprises increased the mistrust of
D'Artagnan, as the eternal indifference
of D'Artagnan provoked the suspicions of
Aramis. At length D'Artagnan,
designedly, uttered the name of Colbert;
he had reserved that stroke for the
last.

"Who is this Colbert?" asked the bishop.

"Oh! come," said D'Artagnan to himself,
"that is too strong! We must be careful,
mordioux! we must be careful."

And he then gave Aramis all the
information respecting M. Colbert he
could desire. The supper, or rather, the
conversation, was prolonged till one
o'clock in the morning between
D'Artagnan and Aramis. At ten o'clock
precisely, Porthos had fallen asleep in
his chair and snored like an organ. At
midnight he woke up and they sent him to
bed. "Hum!" said he, "I was near falling
asleep; but that was all very
interesting you were talking about."

At one o'clock Aramis conducted
D'Artagnan to the chamber destined for
him, which was the best in the episcopal
residence. Two servants were placed at
his command. To-morrow, at eight
o'clock," said he, taking leave of
D'Artagnan, "we will take, if agreeable
to you, a ride on horseback with
Porthos."

"At eight o'clock!" said D'Artagnan, "so
late?"

"You know that I require seven hours,
sleep." said Aramis.

"That is true."

"Good-night, dear friend!" And he
embraced the musketeer cordially.

D'Artagnan allowed him to depart; then,
as soon as the door closed, "Good!"
cried he, "at five o'clock I will be on
foot."

This determination being made, he went
to bed and quietly "put two and two
together," as people say.




CHAPTER 73

In which Porthos begins to be sorry for
having come with D'Artagnan



Scarcely had D'Artagnan extinguished his
taper, when Aramis, who had watched
through his curtains the last glimmer of
light in his friend's apartment,
traversed the corridor on tiptoe, and
went to Porthos's room. The giant, who
had been in bed nearly an hour and a
half, lay grandly stretched out on the
down bed. He was in that happy calm of
the first sleep, which, with Porthos,
resisted the noise of bells or the
report of cannon; his head swam in that
soft oscillation which reminds us of the
soothing movement of a ship. In a moment
Porthos would have begun to dream. The
door of the chamber opened softly under
the delicate pressure of the hand of
Aramis. The bishop approached the
sleeper. A thick carpet deadened the
sound of his steps, besides which
Porthos snored in a manner to drown all
noise. He laid one hand on his
shoulder -- "Rouse," said he, "wake up,
my dear Porthos." The voice of Aramis
was soft and kind, but it conveyed more
than a notice, -- it conveyed an order.
His hand was light, but it indicated a
danger. Porthos heard the voice and felt
the hand of Aramis, even in the depth of
his sleep. He started up. "Who goes
there?" cried he, in his giant's voice.

"Hush! hush! It is I," said Aramis.

"You, my friend? And what the devil do
you wake me for?"

"To tell you that you must set off
directly."

"Set off?"

"Yes."

"Where for?"

"For Paris."

Porthos bounded up in his bed, and then
sank back again, fixing his great eyes
in agitation upon Aramis.

"For Paris?"

"Yes."

"A hundred leagues?" said he.

"A hundred and four," replied the
bishop.

"Oh! mon Dieu!" sighed Porthos, lying
down again, like children who contend
with their bonne to gain an hour or two
more sleep.

"Thirty hours' riding," said Aramis,
firmly. "You know there are good
relays."

Porthos pushed out one leg, allowing a
groan to escape him.

"Come, come! my friend," insisted the
prelate with a sort of impatience.

Porthos drew the other leg out of the
bed. "And is it absolutely necessary
that I should go, at once?"

"Urgently necessary."

Porthos got upon his feet, and began to
shake both walls and floors with his
steps of a marble statue.

"Hush! hush! for the love of Heaven, my
dear Porthos!" said Aramis, "you will
wake somebody."

"Ah! that's true," replied Porthos, in a
voice of thunder, "I forgot that; but be
satisfied, I am on guard." And so
saying, he let fall a belt loaded with
his sword and pistols, and a purse, from
which the crowns escaped with a
vibrating and prolonged noise. This
noise made the blood of Aramis boil,
whilst it drew from Porthos a formidable
burst of laughter. "How droll that is!"
said he, in the same voice.

"Not so loud, Porthos, not so loud."

"True, true!" and he lowered his voice a
half-note.

"I was going to say," continued Porthos,
"that it is droll that we are never so
slow as when we are in a hurry, and
never make so much noise as when we wish
to be silent."

"Yes, that is true, but let us give the
proverb the lie, Porthos; let us make
haste, and hold our tongue."

"You see I am doing my best," said
Porthos, putting on his haut de
chausses.

"Very well."

"This is something in haste?"

"It is more than that, it is serious,
Porthos."

"Oh, oh!"

"D'Artagnan has questioned you, has he
not?"

"Questioned me?"

"Yes, at Belle-Isle?"

"Not the least in the world."

"Are you sure of that, Porthos?"

"Parbleu!"

"It is impossible. Recollect yourself."

"He asked me what I was doing, and I
told him studying topography. I would
have made use of another word which you
employed one day."

"`Castrametation'?"

"Yes, that's it, but I never could
recollect it."

"All the better. What more did he ask
you?"

"Who M. Getard was."

"Next?"

"Who M. Jupenet was."

"He did not happen to see our plan of
fortifications, did he?"

"Yes."

"The devil he did!"

"But don't be alarmed, I had rubbed out
your writing with India-rubber. It was
impossible for him to suppose you had
given me any advice in those works."

"Ay, but our friend has phenomenally
keen eyes."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I fear that everything is discovered,
Porthos; the matter is, then, to prevent
a great misfortune. I have given orders
to my people to close all the gates and
doors. D'Artagnan will not be able to
get out before daybreak. Your horse is
ready saddled; you will gain the first
relay; by five o'clock in the morning
you will have traversed fifteen leagues.
Come!"

Aramis then assisted Porthos to dress,
piece by piece, with as much celerity as
the most skillful valet de chambre could
have done. Porthos, half stupefied, let
him do as he liked, and confounded
himself in excuses. When he was ready,
Aramis took him by the hand, and led
him, making him place his foot with
precaution on every step of the stairs,
preventing him running against
doorframes, turning him this way and
that, as if Aramis had been the giant,
and Porthos the dwarf. Soul set fire to
and animated matter. A horse was
waiting, ready saddled, in the
courtyard. Porthos mounted. Then Aramis
himself took the horse by the bridle,
and led him over some dung spread in the
yard, with the evident intention of
suppressing noise. He, at the same time,
held tight the horse's nose, to prevent
him neighing. When arrived at the
outward gate, drawing Porthos towards
him, who was going off without even
asking him what for: "Now friend
Porthos, now; without drawing bridle,
till you get to Paris," whispered he in
his ears; "eat on horseback, drink on
horseback, sleep on horseback, but lose
not a minute."

"That's enough, I will not stop."

"This letter to M. Fouquet; cost what it
may, he must have it to-morrow before
mid-day."

"He shall."

"And do not forget one thing, my
friend."

"What is that?"

"That you are riding out on a hunt for
your brevet of duc and peer."

"Oh! oh!" said Porthos, with his eyes
sparkling; "I will do it in twenty-four
hours, in that case."

"Try."

"Then let go the bridle -- and forward,
Goliath!"

Aramis did let go, not the bridle, but
the horse's nose. Porthos released his
hand, clapped spurs to his horse, which
set off at a gallop. As long as he could
distinguish Porthos through the
darkness, Aramis followed him with his
eyes: when he was completely out of
sight, he re-entered the yard. Nothing
had stirred in D'Artagnan's apartment.
The valet placed on watch at the door
had neither seen any light, nor heard
any noise. Aramis closed his door
carefully, sent the lackey to bed, and
quickly sought his own. D'Artagnan
really suspected nothing, therefore
thought he had gained everything, when
he awoke in the morning, about halfpast
four. He ran to the window in his shirt.
The window looked out upon the court.
Day was dawning. The court was deserted;
the fowls, even, had not left their
roosts. Not a servant appeared. Every
door was closed.

"Good! all is still," said D'Artagnan to
himself. "Never mind: I am up first in
the house. Let us dress; that will be so
much done." And D'Artagnan dressed
himself. But, this time, he endeavored
not to give to the costume of M. Agnan
that bourgeoise and almost
ecclesiastical rigidity he had affected
before; he managed, by drawing his belt
tighter, by buttoning his clothes in a
different fashion, and by putting on his
hat a little on one side, to restore to
his person a little of that military
character, the absence of which had
surprised Aramis. This being done, he
made free, or affected to make free with
his host, and entered his chamber
without ceremony. Aramis was asleep or
feigned to be so. A large book lay open
upon his night-desk, a wax-light was
still burning in its silver sconce. This
was more than enough to prove to
D'Artagnan the quiescence of the
prelate's night, and the good intentions
of his waking. The musketeer did to the
bishop precisely as the bishop had done
to Porthos -- he tapped him on the
shoulder. Evidently Aramis pretended to
sleep; for, instead of waking suddenly,
he who slept so lightly required a
repetition of the summons.

"Ah! ah! is that you?" said he,
stretching his arms. "What an agreeable
surprise! Ma foi! Sleep had made me
forget I had the happiness to possess
you. What o'clock is it?"

"I do not know," said D'Artagnan, a
little embarrassed. "Early, I believe.
But, you know, that devil of a habit of
waking with the day sticks to me still."

"Do you wish that we should go out so
soon?" asked Aramis. "It appears to me
to be very early."

"Just as you like."

"I thought we had agreed not to get on
horseback before eight."

"Possibly; but I had so great a wish to
see you, that I said to myself, the
sooner the better."

"And my seven hours, sleep!" said
Aramis: "Take care; I had reckoned upon
them, and what I lose of them I must
make up."

"But it seems to me that, formerly, you
were less of a sleeper than that, dear
friend; your blood was alive, and you
were never to be found in bed."

"And it is exactly on account of what
you tell me that I am so fond of being
there now."

"Then you confess that it is not for the
sake of sleeping that you have put me
off till eight o'clock."

"I have been afraid you would laugh at
me, if I told you the truth."

"Tell me, notwithstanding."

"Well, from six to eight, I am
accustomed to perform my devotions."

"Your devotions?"

"Yes."

"I did not believe a bishop's exercises
were so severe."

"A bishop, my friend, must sacrifice
more to appearance than a simple
cleric."

"Mordioux! Aramis, that is a word which
reconciles me with your greatness. To
appearances! That is a musketeer's word,
in good truth! Vivent les apparences,
Aramis!"

"Instead of felicitating me upon it,
pardon me, D'Artagnan. It is a very
mundane word which I had allowed to
escape me."

"Must I leave you, then?"

"I want time to collect my thoughts, my
friend, and for my usual prayers."

"Well, I leave you to them; but on
account of that poor pagan, D'Artagnan,
abridge them for once, I beg; I thirst
for speech with you."

"Well, D'Artagnan, I promise you that
within an hour and a half ---- "

"An hour and a half of devotions! Eh! my
friend, be as reasonable with me as you
can. Let me have the best bargain
possible."

Aramis began to laugh.

"Still agreeable, still young, still
gay," said he. "You have come into my
diocese to set me quarrelling with
grace."

"Bah!"

"And you know well that I was never able
to resist your seductions; you will cost
me my salvation, D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan bit his lips.

"Well," said he, "I will take the sin on
my own head, favor me with one simple
Christian sign of the cross, favor me
with one pater, and we will part."

"Hush!" said Aramis, "we are already no
longer alone, I hear strangers coming
up."

"Well, dismiss them."

"Impossible, I made an appointment with
them yesterday; it is the principal of
the college of the Jesuits, and the
superior of the Dominicans."

"Your staff? Well, so be it."

"What are you going to do?"

"I will go and wake Porthos, and remain
in his company till you have finished
the conference."

Aramis did not stir, his brow remained
unbent, he betrayed himself by no
gesture or word; "Go," said he, as
D'Artagnan advanced to the door. "A
propos, do you know where Porthos
sleeps?"

"No, but I will inquire."

"Take the corridor, and open the second
door on the left."

"Thank you! au revoir." And D'Artagnan
departed in the direction pointed out by
Aramis.

Ten minutes had not passed away when he
came back. He found Aramis seated
between the superior of the Dominicans
and the principal of the college of the
Jesuits, exactly in the same situation
as he had found him formerly in the
auberge at Crevecoeur. This company did
not at all terrify the musketeer.

"What is it?" said Aramis, quietly. "You
have apparently something to say to me,
my friend."

"It is," replied D'Artagnan, fixing his
eyes upon Aramis, "it is that Porthos is
not in his apartment."

"Indeed," said Aramis, calmly; "are you
sure?"

"Pardieu! I came from his chamber."

"Where can he be, then?"

"That is what I am asking you."

"And have not you inquired?"

"Yes, I have."

"And what answer did you get?"

"That Porthos, often walking out in a
morning, without saying anything, had
probably gone out."

"What did you do, then?"

"I went to the stables," replied
D'Artagnan, carelessly.

"What to do?"

"To see if Porthos had departed on
horseback."

"And?" interrogated the bishop.

"Well, there is a horse missing, stall
No. 3, Goliath."

All this dialogue, it may be easily
understood, was not exempt from a
certain affectation on the part of the
musketeer, and a perfect complaisance on
the part of Aramis.

"Oh! I guess how it is," said Aramis,
after having considered for a moment,
"Porthos is gone out to give us a
surprise."

"A surprise?"

"Yes, the canal which goes from Vannes
to the sea abounds in teal and snipes;
that is Porthos's favorite sport, and he
will bring us back a dozen for
breakfast."

"Do you think so?" said D'Artagnan.

"I am sure of it. Where else can he be?
I would lay a wager he took a gun with
him."

"Well, that is possible," said
D'Artagnan.

"Do one thing, my friend. Get on
horseback, and join him."

"You are right," said D'Artagnan, "I
will."

"Shall I go with you?"

"No, thank you; Porthos is a rather
remarkable man: I will inquire as I go
along."

"Will you take an arquebuse?"

"Thank you."

"Order what horse you like to be
saddled."

"The one I rode yesterday, on coming
from Belle-Isle."

"So be it: use the horse as your own."

Aramis rang, and gave orders to have the
horse M. d'Artagnan had chosen, saddled.

D'Artagnan followed the servant charged
with the execution of this order. When
arrived at the door, the servant drew on
one side to allow M. d'Artagnan to pass;
and at that moment he caught the eye of
his master. A knitting of the brow gave
the intelligent spy to understand that
all should be given to D'Artagnan he
wished. D'Artagnan got into the saddle,
and Aramis heard the steps of his horse
on the pavement. An instant after, the
servant returned.

"Well?" asked the bishop.

"Monseigneur, he has followed the course
of the canal, and is going towards the
sea," said the servant.

"Very well!" said Aramis.

In fact, D'Artagnan, dismissing all
suspicion, hastened towards the ocean,
constantly hoping to see in the Landes,
or on the beach, the colossal profile of
Porthos. He persisted in fancying he
could trace a horse's steps in every
puddle. Sometimes he imagined he heard
the report of a gun. This illusion
lasted three hours; during two of which
he went forward in search of his
friend -- in the last he returned to the
house.

"We must have crossed," said he, "and I
shall find them waiting for me at
table."

D'Artagnan was mistaken. He no more
found Porthos at the palace than he had
found him on the sea-shore. Aramis was
waiting for him at the top of the
stairs, looking very much concerned.

"Did my people not find you, my dear
D'Artagnan?" cried he, as soon as he
caught sight of the musketeer.

"No; did you send any one after me?"

"I am deeply concerned, my friend,
deeply, to have induced you to make such
a useless search, but, about seven
o'clock, the almoner of Saint-Paterne
came here. He had met Du Vallon, who was
going away, and who being unwilling to
disturb anybody at the palace, had
charged him to tell me that, fearing M.
Getard would play him some ill turn in
his absence, he was going to take
advantage of the morning tide to make a
tour to Belle-Isle."

"But tell me, Goliath has not crossed
the four leagues of sea, I should
think."

"There are full six," said Aramis.

"That makes it less probable still."

"Therefore, my friend," said Aramis,
with one of his blandest smiles,
"Goliath is in the stable, well pleased,
I will answer for it, that Porthos is no
longer on his back." In fact, the horse
had been brought back from the relay by
the direction of the prelate, from whom
no detail escaped. D'Artagnan appeared
as well satisfied as possible with the
explanation. He entered upon a part of
dissimulation which agreed perfectly
with the suspicions that arose more and
more strongly in his mind. He
breakfasted between the Jesuit and
Aramis, having the Dominican in front of
him, and smiling particularly at the
Dominican, whose jolly, fat face pleased
him much. The repast was long and
sumptuous; excellent Spanish wine, fine
Morbihan oysters, exquisite fish from
the mouth of the Loire, enormous prawns
from Paimboeuf, and delicious game from
the moors, constituted the principal
part of it. D'Artagnan ate much, and
drank but little. Aramis drank nothing,
unless it was water. After the
repast, --

"You offered me an arquebuse," said
D'Artagnan.

"I did."

"Lend it me, then."

"Are you going shooting?"

"Whilst waiting for Porthos, it is the
best thing I can do, I think."

"Take which you like from the trophy."

"Will you not come with me?"

"I would with great pleasure; but, alas!
my friend, sporting is forbidden to
bishops."

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, "I did not know
that."

"Besides," continued Aramis, "I shall be
busy till mid-day."

"I shall go alone, then?" said
D'Artagnan.

"I am sorry to say you must; but come
back to dinner."

"Pardieu! the eating at your house is
too good to make me think of not coming
back." And thereupon D'Artagnan quitted
his host, bowed to the guests, and took
his arquebuse; but instead of shooting,
went straight to the little port of
Vannes. He looked in vain to observe if
anybody saw him; he could discern
neither thing nor person. He engaged a
little fishing boat for twenty-five
livres, and set off at half-past eleven,
convinced that he had not been followed;
and that was true, he had not been
followed; only a Jesuit brother, placed
in the top of the steeple of his church,
had not, since the morning, by the help
of an excellent glass, lost sight of one
of his steps. At three-quarters past
eleven, Aramis was informed that
D'Artagnan was sailing towards
Belle-Isle. The voyage was rapid; a good
north north-east wind drove him towards
the isle. As he approached, his eyes
were constantly fixed upon the coast. He
looked to see if, upon the shore or upon
the fortifications the brilliant dress
and vast stature of Porthos should stand
out against a slightly clouded sky; but
his search was vain. He landed without
having seen anything; and learnt from
the first soldier interrogated by him,
that M. du Vallon had not yet returned
from Vannes. Then, without losing an
instant, D'Artagnan ordered his little
bark to put its head towards Sarzeau. We
know that the wind changes with the
different hours of the day. The breeze
had veered from the north north-east to
the south-east: the wind, then, was
almost as good for the return to
Sarzeau, as it had been for the voyage
to Belle-Isle. In three hours D'Artagnan
had touched the continent, two hours
more sufficed for his ride to Vannes. In
spite of the rapidity of his passage,
what D'Artagnan endured of impatience
and anger during that short passage, the
deck alone of the vessel, upon which he
stamped backwards and forwards for three
hours, could testify. He made but one
bound from the quay whereon he landed to
the episcopal palace. He thought to
terrify Aramis by the promptitude of his
return; he wished to reproach him with
his duplicity, and yet with reserve; but
with sufficient spirit, nevertheless, to
make him feel all the consequences of
it, and force from him a part of his
secret He hoped, in short -- thanks to
that heat of expression which is to
secrets what the charge with the bayonet
is to redoubts -- to bring the
mysterious Aramis to some manifestation
or other. But he found, in the vestibule
of the palace, the valet de chambre, who
closed the passage, while smiling upon
him with a stupid air.

"Monseigneur?" cried D'Artagnan,
endeavoring to put him aside with his
hand. Moved for an instant the valet
resumed his station.

"Monseigneur?" said he.

"Yes, to be sure; do you not know me,
imbecile?"

"Yes, you are the Chevalier d'Artagnan."

"Then let me pass."

"It is of no use."

"Why of no use?"

"Because His Greatness is not at home."

"What! His Greatness is not at home?
where is he then?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes."

"Whither?"

"I don't know; but perhaps he tells
monsieur le chevalier."

"And how? where? in what fashion?"

"In this letter, which he gave me for
monsieur le chevalier." And the valet de
chambre drew a letter from his pocket.

"Give it me, then, you rascal," said
D'Artagnan, snatching it from his hand.
"Oh, yes," continued he, at the first
line, "yes, I understand; "and he
read: --



"Dear Friend, -- An affair of the most
urgent nature calls me to a distant
parish of my diocese. I hoped to see you
again before I set out; but I lose that
hope in thinking that you are going, no
doubt, to remain two or three days at
Belle-Isle, with our dear Porthos. Amuse
yourself as well as you can; but do not
attempt to hold out against him at
table. This is a counsel I might have
given even to Athos, in his most
brilliant and best days. Adieu, dear
friend; believe that I regret greatly
not having better, and for a longer
time, profited by your excellent
company."



"Mordioux!" cried D'Artagnan. "I am
tricked. Ah! blockhead, brute, triple
fool that I am! But those laugh best who
laugh last. Oh, duped, duped like a
monkey, cheated with an empty nutshell!"
And with a hearty blow bestowed upon the
nose of the smirking valet de chambre,
he made all haste out of the episcopal
palace. Furet, however good a trotter,
was not equal to present circumstances.
D'Artagnan therefore took the post, and
chose a horse which he soon caused to
demonstrate, with good spurs and a light
hand, that deer are not the swiftest
animals in nature.




CHAPTER 74

In which D'Artagnan makes all Speed,
Porthos snores, and Aramis counsels



From thirty to thirty-five hours after
the events we have just related, as M.
Fouquet, according to his custom, having
interdicted his door, was working in the
cabinet of his house at Saint-Mande,
with which we are already acquainted, a
carriage, drawn by four horses steaming
with sweat, entered the court at full
gallop. This carriage was, probably,
expected, for three or four lackeys
hastened to the door, which they opened.
Whilst M. Fouquet rose from his bureau
and ran to the window, a man got
painfully out of the carriage descending
with difficulty the three steps of the
door, leaning upon the shoulders of the
lackeys. He had scarcely uttered his
name, when the valet upon whom he was
not leaning sprang up the perron, and
disappeared in the vestibule. This man
went to inform his master; but he had no
occasion to knock at the door: Fouquet
was standing on the threshold.

"Monseigneur, the Bishop of Vannes,"
said he.

"Very well!" replied his master.

Then, leaning over the banister of the
staircase, of which Aramis was beginning
to ascend the first steps, --

"Ah, dear friend!" said he, "you, so
soon!"

"Yes; I, myself, monsieur! but bruised,
battered, as you see."

"Oh! my poor friend," said Fouquet,
presenting him his arm, on which Aramis
leant, whilst the servants drew back
respectfully.

"Bah!" replied Aramis, "it is nothing,
since I am here; the principal thing was
that I should get here, and here I am."

"Speak quickly," said Fouquet, closing
the door of the cabinet behind Aramis
and himself.

"Are we alone?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"No one observes us? -- no one can hear
us?"

"Be satisfied; nobody."

"Is M. du Vallon arrived?"

"Yes."

"And you have received my letter?"

"Yes. The affair is serious, apparently,
since it necessitates your attendance in
Paris, at a moment when your presence
was so urgent elsewhere."

"You are right, it could not be more
serious."

"Thank you! thank you! What is it about?
But, for God's sake! before anything
else, take time to breathe, dear friend.
You are so pale, you frighten me."

"I am really in great pain. But, for
Heaven's sake, think nothing about me.
Did M. du Vallon tell you nothing, when
he delivered the letter to you?"

"No; I heard a great noise; I went to
the window; I saw at the foot of the
perron, a sort of horseman of marble; I
went down, he held the letter out to me,
and his horse fell down dead."

"But he?"

"He fell with the horse; he was lifted,
and carried to an apartment. Having read
the letter, I went up to him, in hopes
of obtaining more ample information; but
he was asleep, and, after such a
fashion, that it was impossible to wake
him. I took pity on him; I gave orders
that his boots should be cut from off
his legs, and that he should be left
quite undisturbed."

"So far well; now, this is the question
in hand, monseigneur. You have seen M.
d'Artagnan in Paris, have you not?"

"Certes, and think him a man of
intelligence, and even a man of heart;
although he did bring about the death of
our dear friends, Lyodot and D'Eymeris."

"Alas! yes, I heard of that. At Tours I
met the courier who was bringing me the
letter from Gourville, and the
dispatches from Pellisson. Have you
seriously reflected on that event,
monsieur?"

"Yes."

"And in it you perceived a direct attack
upon your sovereignty?"

"And do you believe it to be so?"

"Oh, yes, I think so."

"Well, I must confess, that sad idea
occurred to me likewise."

"Do not blind yourself, monsieur, in the
name of Heaven! Listen attentively to
me, -- I return to D'Artagnan."

"I am all attention."

"Under what circumstances did you see
him?"

"He came here for money."

"With what kind of order?"

"With an order from the king."

"Direct?"

"Signed by his majesty."

"There, then! Well, D'Artagnan has been
to Belle-Isle; he was disguised; he came
in the character of some sort of an
intendant, charged by his master to
purchase salt-mines. Now, D'Artagnan has
no other master but the king: he came,
then, sent by the king. He saw Porthos."

"Who is Porthos?"

"I beg your pardon, I made a mistake. He
saw M. du Vallon at Belle-Isle; and he
knows, as well as you and I do, that
Belle-Isle is fortified."

"And you think that the king sent him
there?" said Fouquet, pensively.

"I certainly do."

"And D'Artagnan, in the hands of the
king, is a dangerous instrument?"

"The most dangerous imaginable."

"Then I formed a correct opinion of him
at the first glance."

"How so?"

"I wished to attach him to myself."

"If you judged him to be the bravest,
the most acute, and the most adroit man
in France, you judged correctly."

"He must be had then, at any price."

"D'Artagnan?"

"Is not that your opinion?"

"It may be my opinion, but you will
never get him."

"Why?"

"Because we have allowed the time to go
by. He was dissatisfied with the court,
we should have profited by that; since
that, he has passed into England; there
he powerfully assisted in the
restoration, there he gained a fortune,
and, after all, he returned to the
service of the king. Well, if he has
returned to the service of the king, it
is because he is well paid in that
service."

"We will pay him even better, that is
all."

"Oh! monsieur, excuse me; D'Artagnan has
a high respect for his word, and where
that is once engaged he keeps it."

"What do you conclude, then?" said
Fouquet, with great inquietude.

"At present, the principal thing is to
parry a dangerous blow."

"And how is it to be parried?"

"Listen."

"But D'Artagnan will come and render an
account to the king of his mission."

"Oh, we have time enough to think about
that."

"How so? You are much in advance of him,
I presume?"

"Nearly ten hours."

"Well, in ten hours ---- "

Aramis shook his pale head. "Look at
these clouds which flit across the
heavens; at these swallows which cut the
air. D'Artagnan moves more quickly than
the clouds or the birds; D'Artagnan is
the wind which carries them."

"A strange man!"

"I tell you, he is superhuman, monsieur.
He is of my own age, and I have known
him these five-and-thirty years."

"Well?"

"Well, listen to my calculation,
monsieur. I sent M. du Vallon off to you
two hours after midnight. M. du Vallon
was eight hours in advance of me, when
did M. du Vallon arrive?"

"About four hours ago."

"You see, then, that I gained four upon
him; and yet Porthos is a staunch
horseman, and he has left on the road
eight dead horses, whose bodies I came
to successively. I rode post fifty
leagues; but I have the gout, the
gravel, and what else I know not; so
that fatigue kills me. I was obliged to
dismount at Tours; since that, rolling
along in a carriage, half dead,
sometimes overturned, drawn upon the
sides, and sometimes on the back of the
carriage, always with four spirited
horses at full gallop, I have arrived --
arrived, gaining four hours upon
Porthos; but, see you, D'Artagnan does
not weigh three hundred-weight, as
Porthos does; D'Artagnan has not the
gout and gravel, as I have; he is not a
horseman, he is a centaur. D'Artagnan,
look you, set out for Belle-Isle when I
set out for Paris; and D'Artagnan,
notwithstanding my ten hours, advance,
D'Artagnan will arrive within two hours
after me."

"But, then, accidents?"

"He never meets with accidents."

"Horses may fail him."

"He will run as fast as a horse."

"Good God! what a man!"

"Yes, he is a man whom I love and
admire. I love him because he is good,
great, and loyal; I admire him because
he represents in my eyes the culminating
point of human power; but, whilst loving
and admiring him, I fear him, and am on
my guard against him. Now then, I
resume, monsieur; in two hours
D'Artagnan will be here; be beforehand
with him. Go to the Louvre, and see the
king, before he sees D'Artagnan."

"What shall I say to the king?"

"Nothing; give him Belle-Isle."

"Oh! Monsieur d'Herblay! Monsieur
d'Herblay," cried Fouquet, "what
projects crushed all at once!"

"After one project that has failed,
there is always another project that may
lead to fortune; we should never
despair. Go, monsieur, and go at once."

"But that garrison, so carefully chosen,
the king will change it directly."

"That garrison, monsieur, was the king's
when it entered Belle-Isle; it is yours
now; it is the same with all garrisons
after a fortnight's occupation. Let
things go on, monsieur. Do you see any
inconvenience in having an army at the
end of a year, instead of two regiments?
Do you not see that your garrison of
today will make you partisans at La
Rochelle, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse --
in short, wherever they may be sent to?
Go to the king, monsieur; go; time
flies, and D'Artagnan, while we are
losing time, is flying, like an arrow,
along the high-road."

"Monsieur d'Herblay, you know that each
word from you is a germ which fructifies
in my thoughts. I will go to the
Louvre."

"Instantly, will you not?"

"I only ask time to change my dress."

"Remember that D'Artagnan has no need to
pass through Saint-Mande; but will go
straight to the Louvre; that is cutting
off an hour from the advantage that yet
remains to us."

"D'Artagnan may have everything except
my English horses. I shall be at the
Louvre in twenty-five minutes." And,
without losing a second, Fouquet gave
orders for his departure.

Aramis had only time to say to him,
"Return as quickly as you go; for I
shall await you impatiently."

Five minutes after, the superintendent
was flying along the road to Paris.
During this time Aramis desired to be
shown the chamber in which Porthos was
sleeping. At the door of Fouquet's
cabinet he was folded in the arms of
Pellisson, who had just heard of his
arrival, and had left his office to see
him. Aramis received, with that friendly
dignity which he knew so well how to
assume, these caresses, respectful as
earnest; but all at once stopping on the
landing-place, "What is that I hear up
yonder?"

There was, in fact, a hoarse, growling
kind of noise, like the roar of a hungry
tiger, or an impatient lion. "Oh, that
is nothing," said Pellisson, smiling.

"Well; but ---- "

"It is M. du Vallon snoring."

"Ah! true," said Aramis. "I had
forgotten. No one but he is capable of
making such a noise. Allow me,
Pellisson, to inquire if he wants
anything."

"And you will permit me to accompany
you?"

"Oh, certainly;" and both entered the
chamber. Porthos was stretched upon the
bed; his face was violet rather than
red; his eyes were swelled; his mouth
was wide open. The roaring which escaped
from the deep cavities of his chest made
the glass of the windows vibrate. To
those developed and clearly defined
muscles starting from his face, to his
hair matted with sweat, to the energetic
heaving of his chin and shoulders, it
was impossible to refuse a certain
degree of admiration. Strength carried
to this point is semi-divine. The
Herculean legs and feet of Porthos had,
by swelling, burst his stockings; all
the strength of his huge body was
converted into the rigidity of stone.
Porthos moved no more than does the
giant of granite which reclines upon the
plains of Agrigentum. According to
Pellisson's orders, his boots had been
cut off, for no human power could have
pulled them off. Four lackeys had tried
in vain, pulling at them as they would
have pulled capstans; and yet all this
did not awaken him. They had hacked off
his boots in fragments, and his legs had
fallen back upon the bed. They then cut
off the rest of his clothes, carried him
to a bath, in which they let him soak a
considerable time. They then put on him
clean linen, and placed him in a
well-warmed bed -- the whole with
efforts and pains which might have
roused a dead man, but which did not
make Porthos open an eye, or interrupt
for a second the formidable diapason of
his snoring. Aramis wished on his part,
with his nervous nature, armed with
extraordinary courage, to outbrave
fatigue, and employ himself with
Gourville and Pellisson, but he fainted
in the chair in which he had persisted
sitting. He was carried into the
adjoining room, where the repose of bed
soon soothed his failing brain.




CHAPTER 75

In which Monsieur Fouquet acts



In the meantime Fouquet was hastening to
the Louvre, at the best speed of his
English horses. The king was at work
with Colbert. All at once the king
became thoughtful. The two sentences of
death he had signed on mounting his
throne sometimes recurred to his memory;
they were two black spots which he saw
with his eyes open; two spots of blood
which he saw when his eyes were closed.
"Monsieur," said he, rather sharply, to
the intendant; "it sometimes seems to me
that those two men you made me condemn
were not very great culprits."

"Sire, they were picked out from the
herd of the farmers of the financiers,
which wanted decimating."

"Picked out by whom?"

"By necessity, sire," replied Colbert,
coldly.

"Necessity! -- a great word," murmured
the young king.

"A great goddess, sire."

"They were devoted friends of the
superintendent, were they not?"

"Yes, sire; friends who would have given
up their lives for Monsieur Fouquet."

"They have given them, monsieur," said
the king.

"That is true; -- but uselessly, by good
luck, -- which was not their intention."

"How much money had these men
fraudulently obtained?"

"Ten millions, perhaps; of which six
have been confiscated."

"And is that money in my coffers?" said
the king with a certain air of
repugnance.

"It is there, sire; but this
confiscation, whilst threatening M.
Fouquet, has not touched him."

"You conclude, then, M. Colbert ---- "

"That if M. Fouquet has raised against
your majesty a troop of factious rioters
to extricate his friends from
punishment, he will raise an army when
he has in turn to extricate himself from
punishment."

The king darted at his confidant one of
those looks which resemble the livid
fire of a flash of lightning, one of
those looks which illuminate the
darkness of the basest consciences. "I
am astonished," said he, "that, thinking
such things of M. Fouquet, you did not
come to give me your counsels
thereupon."

"Counsels upon what, sire?"

"Tell me, in the first place, clearly
and precisely, what you think, M.
Colbert."

"Upon what subject, sire?"

"Upon the conduct of M. Fouquet."

"I think, sire, that M. Fouquet, not
satisfied with attracting all the money
to himself, as M. Mazarin did, and by
that means depriving your majesty of one
part of your power, still wishes to
attract to himself all the friends of
easy life and pleasure -- of what idlers
call poetry, and politicians,
corruption. I, think that, by holding
the subjects of your majesty in pay, he
trespasses upon the royal prerogative,
and cannot, if this continues so, be
long in placing your majesty among the
weak and the obscure."

"How would you qualify all these
projects, M. Colbert?"

"The projects of M. Fouquet, sire?"

"Yes."

"They are called crimes of lese
majeste."

"And what is done to criminals guilty of
lese majeste?"

"They are arrested, tried, and
punished."

"You are quite sure that M. Fouquet has
conceived the idea of the crime you
impute to him?"

"I can say more, sire, there is even a
commencement of the execution of it."

"Well, then, I return to that which I
was saying, M. Colbert."

"And you were saying, sire?"

"Give me counsel."

"Pardon me, sire, but in the first
place, I have something to add."

"Say -- what?"

"An evident, palpable, material proof of
treason."

"And what is that?"

"I have just learnt that M. Fouquet is
fortifying Belle-Isle."

"Ah, indeed!"

"Yes, sire."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly. Do you know, sire, what
soldiers there are in Belle-Isle?"

"No, ma foi! Do you?"

"I am ignorant, likewise, sire; I should
therefore propose to your majesty to
send somebody to Belle-Isle?"

"Who?"

"Me, for instance."

"And what would you do at Belle-Isle?"

"Inform myself whether, after the
example of the ancient feudal lords, M.
Fouquet was battlementing his walls."

"And with what purpose could he do
that?"

"With the purpose of defending himself
some day against his king."

"But, if it be thus, M. Colbert," said
Louis, "we must immediately do as you
say; M. Fouquet must be arrested."

"That is impossible."

"I thought I had already told you,
monsieur, that I suppressed that word in
my service."

"The service of your majesty cannot
prevent M. Fouquet from being
surintendant-general."

"Well?"

"That, in consequence of holding that
post, he has for him all the parliament,
as he has all the army by his largesses,
literature by his favors, and the
noblesse by his presents."

"That is to say, then, that I can do
nothing against M. Fouquet?"

"Absolutely nothing, -- at least at
present, sire."

"You are a sterile counselor, M.
Colbert."

"Oh, no, sire; for I will not confine
myself to pointing out the peril to your
majesty."

"Come, then, where shall we begin to
undermine this Colossus; let us see;"
and his majesty began to laugh bitterly.

"He has grown great by money; kill him
by money, sire."

"If I were to deprive him of his
charge?"

"A bad means, sire."

"The good -- the good, then?"

"Ruin him, sire, that is the way.

"But how?"

"Occasions will not be wanting, take
advantage of all occasions."

"Point them out to me."

"Here is one at once. His royal highness
Monsieur is about to be married; his
nuptials must be magnificent. That is a
good occasion for your majesty to demand
a million of M. Fouquet. M. Fouquet, who
pays twenty thousand livres down when he
need not pay more than five thousand,
will easily find that million when your
majesty demands it."

"That is all very well; I will demand
it," said Louis.

"If your majesty will sign the
ordonnance I will have the money got
together myself." And Colbert pushed a
paper before the king, and presented a
pen to him.

At that moment the usher opened the door
and announced monsieur le surintendant.
Louis turned pale. Colbert let the pen
fall, and drew back from the king, over
whom he extended his black wings like an
evil spirit. The superintendent made his
entrance like a man of the court, to
whom a single glance was sufficient to
make him appreciate the situation. That
situation was not very encouraging for
Fouquet, whatever might be his
consciousness of strength. The small
black eye of Colbert, dilated by envy,
and the limpid eye of Louis XIV.,
inflamed by anger, signalled some
pressing danger. Courtiers are, with
regard to court rumors, like old
soldiers, who distinguish through the
blasts of wind and bluster of leaves the
sound of the distant steps of an armed
troop. They can, after having listened,
tell pretty nearly how many men are
marching, how many arms resound, how
many cannons roll. Fouquet had then only
to interrogate the silence which his
arrival had produced; he found it big
with menacing revelations. The king
allowed him time enough to advance as
far as the middle of the chamber. His
adolescent modesty commanded this
forbearance of the moment. Fouquet
boldly seized the opportunity.

"Sire," said he, "I was impatient to see
your majesty."

"What for?" asked Louis.

"To announce some good news to you."

Colbert, minus grandeur of person, less
largeness of heart, resembled Fouquet in
many points. He had the same
penetration, the same knowledge of men;
moreover, that great power of
self-compression which gives to
hypocrites time to reflect, and gather
themselves up to take a spring. He
guessed that Fouquet was going to meet
the blow he was about to deal him. His
eyes glittered ominously.

"What news?" asked the king. Fouquet
placed a roll of papers on the table.

"Let your majesty have the goodness to
cast your eyes over this work," said he.
The king slowly unfolded the paper.

"Plans?" said he.

"Yes, sire."

"And what are these plans?"

"A new fortification, sire."

"Ah, ah!" said the king, "you amuse
yourself with tactics and strategies,
then, M. Fouquet?"

"I occupy myself with everything that
may be useful to the reign of your
majesty," replied Fouquet.

"Beautiful descriptions!" said the king,
looking at the design.

"Your majesty comprehends, without
doubt," said Fouquet, bending over the
paper; "here is the circle of the walls,
here are the forts, there the advanced
works."

"And what do I see here, monsieur?"

"The sea."

"The sea all round?"

"Yes, sire."

"And what is, then, the name of this
place of which you show me the plan?"

"Sire, it is Belle-Isle-en-Mer," replied
Fouquet with simplicity.

At this word, at this name, Colbert made
so marked a movement, that the king
turned round to enforce the necessity
for reserve. Fouquet did not appear to
be the least in the world concerned by
the movement of Colbert, or the king's
signal.

"Monsieur," continued Louis, "you have
then fortified Belle-Isle?"

"Yes, sire; and I have brought the plan
and the accounts to your majesty,"
replied Fouquet, "I have expended
sixteen hundred thousand livres in this
operation."

"What to do?" replied Louis, coldly,
having taken the initiative from a
malicious look of the intendant.

"For an aim very easy to seize,"
replied, Fouquet. "Your majesty was on
cool terms with Great Britain."

"Yes; but since the restoration of King
Charles II. I have formed an alliance
with him."

"A month since, sire, your majesty has
truly said; but it is more than six
months since the fortifications of
Belle-Isle were begun."

"Then they have become useless."

"Sire, fortifications are never useless.
I fortified Belle-Isle against MM. Monk
and Lambert and all those London
citizens who were playing at soldiers.
Belle-Isle will be ready fortified
against the Dutch, against whom either
England or your majesty cannot fail to
make war."

The king was again silent, and looked
askant at Colbert. "Belle-Isle, I
believe," added Louis, "is yours, M.
Fouquet?"

"No, sire."

"Whose then?"

"Your majesty's."

Colbert was seized with as much terror
as if a gulf had opened beneath his
feet. Louis started with admiration,
either at the genius or the devotion of
Fouquet.

"Explain yourself, monsieur," said he.

"Nothing more easy, sire; Belle-Isle is
one of my estates; I have fortified it
at my own expense. But as nothing in the
world can oppose a subject making an
humble present to his king, I offer your
majesty the proprietorship of the
estate, of which you will leave me the
usufruct. Belle-Isle, as a place of war,
ought to be occupied by the king. Your
majesty will be able, henceforth, to
keep a safe garrison there."

Colbert felt almost sinking down upon
the floor. To keep himself from falling,
he was obliged to hold by the columns of
the wainscoting.

"This is a piece of great skill in the
art of war that you have exhibited here,
monsieur," said Louis.

"Sire, the initiative did not come from
me," replied Fouquet: "many others have
inspired me with it. The plans
themselves have been made by one of the
most distinguished engineers."

"His name?"

"M. du Vallon."

"M. du Vallon?" resumed Louis, "I do not
know him. It is much to be lamented, M.
Colbert," continued he, "that I do not
know the names of the men of talent who
do honor to my reign." And while saying
these words he turned towards Colbert.
The latter felt himself crushed, the
sweat flowed from his brow, no word
presented itself to his lips, he
suffered an inexpressible martyrdom.
"You will recollect that name," added
Louis XIV.

Colbert bowed, but was paler than his
ruffles of Flemish lace. Fouquet
continued:

"The masonries are of Roman concrete;
the architects amalgamated it for me
after the best accounts of antiquity."

"And the cannon?" asked Louis.

"Oh! sire, that concerns your majesty;
it did not become me to place cannon in
my own house, unless your majesty had
told me it was yours."

Louis began to float, undetermined
between the hatred which this so
powerful man inspired him with, and the
pity he felt for the other, so cast
down, who seemed to him the counterfeit
of the former. But the consciousness of
his kingly duty prevailed over the
feelings of the man, and he stretched
out his finger to the paper.

"It must have cost you a great deal of
money to carry these plans into
execution," said he.

"I believe I had the honor of telling
your majesty the amount."

"Repeat it if you please, I have
forgotten it."

"Sixteen hundred thousand livres."

"Sixteen hundred thousand livres! you
are enormously rich, monsieur."

"It is your majesty who is rich, since
Belle-Isle is yours."

"Yes, thank you; but however rich I may
be, M. Fouquet ---- " The king stopped.

"Well, sire?" asked the superintendent.

"I foresee the moment when I shall want
money."

"You, sire? And at what moment, then?"

"To-morrow, for example."

"Will your majesty do me the honor to
explain yourself?"

"My brother is going to marry the
English Princess."

"Well, sire?"

"Well, I ought to give the bride a
reception worthy of the granddaughter of
Henry IV."

"That is but just, sire."

"Then I shall want money."

"No doubt."

"I shall want ---- " Louis hesitated.
The sum he was going to demand was the
same that he had been obliged to refuse
Charles II. He turned towards Colbert,
that he might give the blow.

"I shall want, to-morrow ---- " repeated
he, looking at Colbert.

"A million," said the latter, bluntly;
delighted to take his revenge.

Fouquet turned his back upon the
intendant to listen to the king. He did
not turn round, but waited till the king
repeated, or rather murmured, "A
million."

"Oh! sire," replied Fouquet
disdainfully, "a million! What will your
majesty do with a million?"

"It appears to me, nevertheless ---- "
said Louis XIV.

"That is not more than is spent at the
nuptials of one of the most petty
princes of Germany."

"Monsieur!"

"Your majesty must have two millions at
least. The horses alone would run away
with five hundred thousand livres. I
shall have the honor of sending your
majesty sixteen hundred thousand livres
this evening."

"How," said the king, "sixteen hundred
thousand livres?"

"Look, sire," replied Fouquet, without
even turning towards Colbert, "I know
that wants four hundred thousand livres
of the two millions. But this monsieur
of l'intendance" (pointing over his
shoulder to Colbert who, if possible,
became paler, behind him) "has in his
coffers nine hundred thousand livres of
mine."

The king turned round to look at
Colbert.

"But ---- " said the latter.

"Monsieur," continued Fouquet, still
speaking indirectly to Colbert,
"monsieur has received a week ago
sixteen hundred thousand livres; he has
paid a hundred thousand livres to the
guards, sixty-four thousand livres to
the hospitals, twenty-five thousand to
the Swiss, a hundred and thirty thousand
for provisions, a thousand for arms, ten
thousand for accidental expenses; I do
not err, then, in reckoning upon nine
hundred thousand livres that are left."
Then turning towards Colbert, like a
disdainful head of office towards his
inferior, "Take care, monsieur," said
he, "that those nine hundred thousand
livres be remitted to his majesty this
evening, in gold."

"But," said the king, "that will make
two millions five hundred thousand
livres."

"Sire, the five hundred thousand livres
over will serve as pocket money for his
Royal Highness. You understand, Monsieur
Colbert, this evening before eight
o'clock."

And with these words, bowing
respectfully to the king, the
superintendent made his exit backwards,
without honoring with a single look the
envious man, whose head he had just half
shaved.

Colbert tore his ruffles to pieces in
his rage, and bit his lips till they
bled.

Fouquet had not passed the door of the
cabinet, when an usher pushing by him,
exclaimed: "A courier from Bretagne for
his majesty."

"M. d'Herblay was right," murmured
Fouquet, pulling out his watch; "an hour
and fifty-five minutes. It was quite
true."




CHAPTER 76

In which D'Artagnan finishes by at
length placing his Hand upon his
Captain's Commission



The reader guesses beforehand whom the
usher preceded in announcing the courier
from Bretagne. This messenger was easily
recognized. It was D'Artagnan, his
clothes dusty, his face inflamed, his
hair dripping with sweat, his legs
stiff; he lifted his feet painfully at
every step, on which resounded the clink
of his blood-stained spurs. He perceived
in the doorway he was passing through,
the superintendent coming out. Fouquet
bowed with a smile to him who, an hour
before, was bringing him ruin and death.
D'Artagnan found in his goodness of
heart, and in his inexhaustible vigor of
body, enough presence of mind to
remember the kind reception of this man;
he bowed then, also, much more from
benevolence and compassion, than from
respect. He felt upon his lips the word
which had so many times been repeated to
the Duc de Guise: "Fly." But to
pronounce that word would have been to
betray his cause; to speak that word in
the cabinet of the king, and before an
usher, would have been to ruin himself
gratuitously, and could save nobody.
D'Artagnan then contented himself with
bowing to Fouquet and entered. At this
moment the king floated between the joy
the last words of Fouquet had given him,
and his pleasure at the return of
D'Artagnan. Without being a courtier,
D'Artagnan had a glance as sure and as
rapid as if he had been one. He read, on
his entrance, devouring humiliation on
the countenance of Colbert. He even
heard the king say these words to
him; --

"Ah! Monsieur Colbert, you have then
nine hundred thousand livres at the
intendance?" Colbert, suffocated, bowed,
but made no reply. All this scene
entered into the mind of D'Artagnan, by
the eyes and ears, at once.

The first word of Louis to his
musketeer, as if he wished it to
contrast with what he was saying at the
moment, was a kind "good day." His
second was to send away Colbert. The
latter left the king's cabinet, pallid
and tottering, whilst D'Artagnan twisted
up the ends of his mustache.

"I love to see one of my servants in
this disorder," said the king, admiring
the martial stains upon the clothes of
his envoy.

"I thought, sire, my presence at the
Louvre was sufficiently urgent to excuse
my presenting myself thus before you."

"You bring me great news, then,
monsieur?"

"Sire, the thing is this, in two words:
Belle-Isle is fortified, admirably
fortified; Belle-Isle has a double
enciete, a citadel, two detached forts;
its ports contain three corsairs; and
the side batteries only await their
cannon."

"I know all that, monsieur," replied the
king.

"What! your majesty knows all that?"
replied the musketeer, stupefied.

"I have the plan of the fortifications
of Belle-Isle," said the king.

"Your majesty has the plan?"

"Here it is."

"It is really correct, sire: I saw a
similar one on the spot."

D'Artagnan's brow became clouded.

"Ah! I understand all. Your majesty did
not trust to me alone, but sent some
other person," said he in a reproachful
tone.

"Of what importance is the manner,
monsieur, in which I have learnt what I
know, so that I know it?"

"Sire, sire," said the musketeer,
without seeking even to conceal his
dissatisfaction; "but I must be
permitted to say to your majesty, that
it is not worth while to make me use
such speed, to risk twenty times the
breaking of my neck, to salute me on my
arrival with such intelligence. Sire,
when people are not trusted, or are
deemed insufficient, they should
scarcely be employed." And D'Artagnan,
with a movement perfectly military,
stamped with his foot, and left upon the
floor dust stained with blood. The king
looked at him, inwardly enjoying his
first triumph.

"Monsieur," said he, at the expiration
of a minute, "not only is Belle-Isle
known to me, but, still further,
Belle-Isle is mine."

"That is well! that is well, sire, I ask
but one thing more," replied
D'Artagnan. -- "My discharge."

"What! your discharge?"

"Without doubt I am too proud to eat the
bread of the king without earning it, or
rather by gaining it badly. -- My
discharge, sire!"

"Oh, oh!"

"I ask for my discharge, or I will take
it."

"You are angry, monsieur?"

"I have reason, mordioux! Thirty-two
hours in the saddle, I ride night and
day, I perform prodigies of speed, I
arrive stiff as the corpse of a man who
has been hung -- and another arrives
before me! Come, sire, I am a fool! --
My discharge, sire!"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Louis,
leaning his white hand upon the dusty
arm of the musketeer, "what I tell you
will not at all affect that which I
promised you. A king's word given must
be kept." And the king going straight to
his table, opened a drawer, and took out
a folded paper. "Here is your commission
of captain of musketeers; you have won
it, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and
scanned it twice. He could scarcely
believe his eyes.

"And this commission is given you,"
continued the king, "not only on account
of your journey to Belle-Isle, but,
moreover, for your brave intervention at
the Place de Greve. There, likewise, you
served me valiantly."

"Ah, ah!" said D'Artagnan, without his
self-command being able to prevent a
blush from mounting to his eyes -- "you
know that also, sire?"

"Yes, I know it."

The king possessed a piercing glance and
an infallible judgment, when it was his
object to read men's minds. "You have
something to say," said he to the
musketeer, "something to say which you
do not say. Come, speak freely,
monsieur; you know that I told you, once
for all, that you are to be always quite
frank with me."

"Well, sire! what I have to say is this,
that I would prefer being made captain
of musketeers for having charged a
battery at the head of my company, or
taken a city, than for causing two
wretches to be hung."

"Is this quite true you tell me?"

"And why should your majesty suspect me
of dissimulation, I ask?"

"Because I know you well, monsieur; you
cannot repent of having drawn your sword
for me."

"Well, in that your majesty is deceived,
and greatly; yes, I do repent of having
drawn my sword on account of the results
that action produced; the poor men who
were hung, sire, were neither your
enemies nor mine; and they could not
defend themselves."

The king preserved silence for a moment.
"And your companion, M. d'Artagnan, does
he partake of your repentance?"

"My companion?"

"Yes, you were not alone, I have been
told."

"Alone, where?"

"At the Place de Greve."

"No, sire, no," said D'Artagnan,
blushing at the idea that the king might
have a suspicion that he, D'Artagnan,
had wished to engross to himself all the
glory that belonged to Raoul; "no,
mordioux! and as your majesty says, I
had a companion, and a good companion,
too."

"A young man?"

"Yes, sire; a young man. Oh! your
majesty must accept my compliments, you
are as well informed of things out of
doors as things within. It is M. Colbert
who makes all these fine reports to the
king."

"M. Colbert has said nothing but good of
you, M. d'Artagnan, and he would have
met with a bad reception if he had come
to tell me anything else."

"That is fortunate!"

"But he also said much good of that
young man."

"And with justice," said the musketeer.

"In short, it appears that this young
man is a fire-eater," said Louis, in
order to sharpen the sentiment which he
mistook for envy.

"A fire-eater! Yes, sire," repeated
D'Artagnan, delighted on his part to
direct the king's attention to Raoul.

"Do you not know his name?"

"Well, I think ---- "

"You know him then?"

"I have known him nearly five-and-twenty
years, sire."

"Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years
old!" cried the king.

"Well, sire! I have known him ever since
he was born, that is all."

"Do you affirm that?"

"Sire," said D'Artagnan, "your majesty
questions me with a mistrust in which I
recognize another character than your
own. M. Colbert, who has so well
informed you, has he not forgotten to
tell you that this young man is the son
of my most intimate friend?"

"The Vicomte de Bragelonne?"

"Certainly, sire. The father of the
Vicomte de Bragelonne is M. le Comte de
la Fere, who so powerfully assisted in
the restoration of king Charles II.
Bragelonne comes of a valiant race,
sire."

"Then he is the son of that nobleman who
came to me, or rather to M. Mazarin, on
the part of King Charles II., to offer
me his alliance?"

"Exactly, sire."

"And the Comte de la Fere is a great
soldier, say you?"

"Sire, he is a man who has drawn his
sword more times for the king, your
father, than there are, at present,
months in the happy life of your
majesty."

It was Louis XIV. who now bit his lip.

"That is well, M. d'Artagnan, very well!
And M. le Comte de la Fere is your
friend, say you?"

"For about forty years; yes, sire. Your
majesty may see that I do not speak to
you of yesterday."

"Should you be glad to see this young
man, M. d'Artagnan?"

"Delighted, sire."

The king touched his bell, and an usher
appeared. "Call M. de Bragelonne," said
the king.

"Ah! ah! he is here?" said D'Artagnan.

"He is on guard to-day, at the Louvre,
with the company of the gentlemen of
monsieur le prince."

The king had scarcely ceased speaking,
when Raoul presented himself, and, on
seeing D'Artagnan, smiled on him with
that charming smile which is only found
upon the lips of youth.

"Come, come," said D'Artagnan,
familiarly, to Raoul, "the king will
allow you to embrace me; only tell his
majesty you thank him."

Raoul bowed so gracefully, that Louis,
to whom all superior qualities were
pleasing when they did not overshadow
his own, admired his beauty, strength
and modesty.

"Monsieur," said the king, addressing
Raoul, "I have asked monsieur le prince
to be kind enough to give you up to me;
I have received his reply, and you
belong to me from this morning. Monsieur
le prince was a good master, but I hope
you will not lose by the exchange."

"Yes, yes, Raoul, be satisfied; the king
has some good in him," said D'Artagnan,
who had fathomed the character of Louis,
and who played with his self-love,
within certain limits; always observing,
be it understood, the proprieties and
flattering, even when he appeared to be
bantering.

"Sire," said Bragelonne, with a voice
soft and musical, and with the natural
and easy elocution he inherited from his
father, "sire, it is not from to-day
that I belong to your majesty."

"Oh! no, I know," said the king, "you
mean your enterprise of the Greve. That
day, you were truly mine, monsieur."

"Sire, it is not of that day I would
speak; it would not become me to refer
to so paltry a service in the presence
of such a man as M. d'Artagnan. I would
speak of a circumstance which created an
epoch in my life, and which consecrated
me, from the age of sixteen, to the
devoted service of your majesty."

"Ah! ah!" said the king, "what was that
circumstance? Tell me, monsieur."

"This is it, sire. -- When I was setting
out on my first campaign, that is to
say, to join the army of monsieur le
prince, M. le Comte de la Fere came to
conduct me as far as Saint-Denis, where
the remains of King Louis XIII. wait,
upon the lowest steps of the funeral
basilique, a successor, whom God will
not send him, I hope, for many years.
Then he made me swear upon the ashes of
our masters, to serve royalty,
represented by you -- incarnate in you,
sire -- to serve it in word, in thought,
and in action. I swore, and God and the
dead were witnesses to my oath. During
ten years, sire, I have not so often as
I desired had occasion to keep it. I am
a soldier of your majesty, and nothing
else; and, on calling me nearer to you,
I do not change my master, I only change
my garrison."

Raoul was silent, and bowed. Louis still
listened after he had done speaking.

"Mordioux!" cried D'Artagnan, "that was
well spoken! was it not, your majesty? A
good race! a noble race!"

"Yes," murmured the agitated king,
without, however, daring to manifest his
emotion, for it had no other cause than
contact with a nature intrinsically
noble. "Yes, monsieur, you say truly: --
wherever you were, you were the king's.
But in changing your garrison, believe
me you will find an advancement of which
you are worthy."

Raoul saw that this ended what the king
had to say to him. And with the perfect
tact which characterized his refined
nature, he bowed and retired.

"Is there anything else, monsieur, of
which you have to inform me?" said the
king, when he found himself again alone
with D'Artagnan.

"Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the
last, for it is sad, and will clothe
European royalty in mourning."

"What do you tell me?"

"Sire, in passing through Blois, a word,
a sad word, echoed from the palace,
struck my ear."

"In truth, you terrify me, M.
d'Artagnan."

"Sire, this word was pronounced to me by
a piqueur, who wore crape on his arm."

"My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps."

"Sire, he has rendered his last sigh."

"And I was not warned of it!" cried the
king, whose royal susceptibility saw an
insult in the absence of this
intelligence.

"Oh! do not be angry, sire," said
D'Artagnan; "neither the couriers of
Paris, nor the couriers of the whole
world, can travel with your servant; the
courier from Blois will not be here
these two hours, and he rides well, I
assure you, seeing that I only passed
him on the thither side of Orleans."

"My uncle Gaston," murmured Louis,
pressing his hand to his brow, and
comprising in those three words all that
his memory recalled of that symbol of
opposing sentiments.

"Eh! yes, sire, it is thus," said
D'Artagnan, philosophically replying to
the royal thought, "it is thus the past
flies away."

"That is true, monsieur, that is true;
but there remains for us, thank God! the
future; and we will try to make it not
too dark."

"I feel confidence in your majesty on
that head," said D'Artagnan, bowing,
"and now ---- "

"You are right, monsieur; I had
forgotten the hundred leagues you have
just ridden. Go, monsieur, take care of
one of the best of soldiers, and when
you have reposed a little, come and
place yourself at my disposal."

"Sire, absent or present, I am always
yours."

D'Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as
if he had only come from Fontainebleau,
he quickly traversed the Louvre to
rejoin Bragelonne.




CHAPTER 77

A Lover and his Mistress



Whilst the wax-lights were burning in
the castle of Blois, around the
inanimate body of Gaston of Orleans,
that last representative of the past;
whilst the bourgeois of the city were
thinking out his epitaph, which was far
from being a panegyric; whilst madame
the dowager, no longer remembering that
in her young days she had loved that
senseless corpse to such a degree as to
fly the paternal palace for his sake,
was making, within twenty paces of the
funeral apartment, her little
calculations of interest and her little
sacrifices of pride; other interests and
other prides were in agitation in all
the parts of the castle into which a
living soul could penetrate. Neither the
lugubrious sounds of the bells, nor the
voices of the chanters, nor the splendor
of the waxlights through the windows,
nor the preparations for the funeral,
had power to divert the attention of two
persons, placed at a window of the
interior court ---a window that we are
acquainted with, and which lighted a
chamber forming part of what were called
the little apartments. For the rest, a
joyous beam of the sun, for the sun
appeared to care little for the loss
France had just suffered; a sunbeam, we
say, descended upon them, drawing
perfumes from the neighboring flowers,
and animating the walls themselves.
These two persons, so occupied, not by
the death of the duke, but by the
conversation which was the consequence
of that death, were a young woman and a
young man. The latter personage, a man
of from twenty-five to twenty-six years
of age, with a mien sometimes lively and
sometimes dull, making good use of two
large eyes, shaded with long eye-lashes,
was short of stature and swart of skin;
he smiled with an enormous, but
well-furnished mouth, and his pointed
chin, which appeared to enjoy a mobility
nature does not ordinarily grant to that
portion of the countenance, leant from
time to time very lovingly towards his
interlocutrix, who, we must say did not
always draw back so rapidly as strict
propriety had a right to require. The
young girl -- we know her, for we have
already seen her, at that very same
window by the light of that same sun --
the young girl presented a singular
mixture of shyness and reflection; she
was charming when she laughed, beautiful
when she became serious; but, let us
hasten to say, she was more frequently
charming than beautiful. These two
appeared to have attained the
culminating point of a discussion --
half-bantering, half-serious.

"Now, Monsieur Malicorne," said the
young girl, "does it, at length, please
you that we should talk reasonably?"

"You believe that that is very easy,
Mademoiselle Aure," replied the young
man. "To do what we like, when we can
only do what we are able ---- "

"Good! there he is bewildered in his
phrases."

"Who, I?"

"Yes, you quit that lawyer's logic, my
dear."

"Another impossibility. Clerk I am,
Mademoiselle de Montalais."

"Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne."

"Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm
me by your rank; so I will say no more
to you."

"Well, no, I don't overwhelm you; say
what you have to tell me -- say- it, I
insist upon it."

Well, I obey you."

"That is truly fortunate."

"Monsieur is dead."

"Ah, peste! there's news! And where do
you come from, to be able to tell us
that?"

"I come from Orleans, mademoiselle."

"And is that all the news you bring?"

"Ah, no; I am come to tell you that
Madame Henrietta of England is coming to
marry the king's brother."

"Indeed, Malicorne, you are
insupportable with your news of the last
century. Now, mind, if you persist in
this bad habit of laughing at people, I
will have you turned out."

"Oh!"

"Yes; for really you exasperate me."

"There, there. Patience, mademoiselle."

"You want to make yourself of
consequence; I know well enough why.
Go!"

"Tell me, and I will answer you frankly,
yes, if the thing be true."

"You know that I am anxious to have that
commission of lady of honor, which I
have been foolish enough to ask of you,
and you do not use your credit."

"Who, I?" Malicorne cast down his eyes,
joined his hands, and assumed his sullen
air. "And what credit can the poor clerk
of a procurer have, pray?"

"Your father has not twenty thousand
livres a year for nothing, M.
Malicorne."

"A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de
Montalais."

"Your father is not in the secrets of
monsieur le prince for nothing."

"An advantage which is confined to
lending monseigneur money."

"In a word, you are not the most cunning
young fellow in the province for
nothing."

"You flatter me "

"Who, I?"

"Yes, you."

"How so?"

"Since I maintain that I have no credit,
and you maintain I have."

"Well, then, -- my commission?"

"Well, -- your commission?"

"Shall I have it, or shall I not?"

"You shall have it."

"Ay, but when?"

"When you like."

"Where is it, then?"

"In my pocket."

"How -- in your pocket?"

"Yes."

And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from
his pocket a letter, upon which
mademoiselle seized as a prey, and which
she read eagerly. As she read, her face
brightened.

"Malicorne," cried she, after having
read it, "in truth, you are a good lad."

"What for, mademoiselle?"

"Because you might have been paid for
this commission, and you have not." And
she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to
put the clerk out of countenance; but
Malicorne sustained the attack bravely.

"I do not understand you," said he. It
was now Montalais who was disconcerted
in her turn. "I have declared my
sentiments to you," continued Malicorne.
"You have told me three times, laughing
all the while, that you did not love me;
you have embraced me once without
laughing, and that is all I want."

"All?" said the proud and coquettish
Montalais, in a tone through which
wounded pride was visible.

"Absolutely all, mademoiselle," replied
Malicorne.

"Ah!" -- And this monosyllable indicated
as much anger as the young man might
have expected gratitude. He shook his
head quietly.

"Listen, Montalais," said he, without
heeding whether that familiarity pleased
his mistress or not; "let us not dispute
about it."

"And why not?"

"Because during the year which I have
known you, you might have had me turned
out of doors twenty times if I did not
please you."

"Indeed; and on what account should I
have had you turned out?"

"Because I had been sufficiently
impertinent for that."

"Oh, that, -- yes, that's true."

"You see plainly that you are forced to
avow it," said Malicorne.

"Monsieur Malicorne!"

"Don't let us be angry; if you have
retained me, then it has not been
without cause."

"It is not, at least, because I love
you," cried Montalais.

"Granted. I will even say that, at this
moment, I am certain that you hate me."

"Oh, you have never spoken so truly."

"Well, on my part I detest you."

"Ah! I take the act."

"Take it. You find me brutal and
foolish; on my part I find you have a
harsh voice, and your face is too often
distorted with anger. At this moment you
would allow yourself to be thrown out of
that window rather than allow me to kiss
the tip of your finger; I would
precipitate myself from the top of the
balcony rather than touch the hem of
your robe. But, in five minutes, you
will love me, and I shall adore you. Oh,
it is just so."

"I doubt it."

"And I swear it."

"Coxcomb!"

"And then, that is not the true reason.
You stand in need of me, Aure, and I of
you. When it pleases you to be gay, I
make you laugh; when it suits me to be
loving, I look at you. I have given you
a commission of lady of honor which you
wished for; you will give me, presently,
something I wish for."

"I will?"

"Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my
dear Aure, I declare to you that I wish
for absolutely nothing, so be at ease."

"You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I
was going to rejoice at getting this
commission, and thus you quench my joy."

"Good; there is no time lost, -- you
will rejoice when I am gone."

"Go, then; and after ---- "

"So be it; but in the first place, a
piece of advice."

"What is it?"

"Resume your good-humor, -- you are ugly
when you pout."

"Coarse!"

"Come, let us tell the truth to each
other, while we are about it."

"Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!"

"Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!"

The young man leant with his elbow upon
the window-frame; Montalais took a book
and opened it. Malicorne stood up,
brushed his hat with his sleeve;
smoothed down his black doublet, --
Montalais, though pretending to read,
looked at him out of the corner of her
eye.

"Good!" cried she, furious, "he has
assumed his respectful air -- and he
will pout for a week."

"A fortnight, mademoiselle," said
Malicorne, bowing.

Montalais lifted up her little doubled
fist. "Monster!" said she; "oh! that I
were a man!"

"What would you do to me?"

"I would strangle you."

"Ah! very well, then," said Malicorne;
"I believe I begin to desire something."

"And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon?
That I should lose my soul from anger?"

Malicorne was rolling his hat
respectfully between his fingers; but,
all at once, he let fall his hat, seized
the young girl by the shoulders, pulled
her towards him and sealed her mouth
with two lips that were very warm, for a
man pretending to so much indifference.
Aure would have cried out, but the cry
was stifled in the kiss. Nervous and,
apparently, angry, the young girl pushed
Malicorne against the wall.

"Good!" said Malicorne, philosophically,
"that's enough for six weeks. Adieu,
mademoiselle, accept my very humble
salutation." And he made three steps
towards the door.

"Well! no, -- you shall not go!" cried,
Montalais, stamping with her little
foot. "Stay where you are! I order you!"

"You order me?"

"Yes; am I not mistress?"

"Of my heart and soul, without doubt."

"A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is
silly and the heart dry."

"Beware, Montalais, I know you," said
Malicorne; "you are going to fall in
love with your humble servant."

"Well, yes!" said she, hanging round his
neck with childish indolence, rather
than with loving abandonment. "Well,
yes! for I must thank you at least."

"And for what?"

"For the commission, is it not my whole
future?"

"And mine."

Montalais looked at him.

"It is frightful," said she, "that one
can never guess whether you are speaking
seriously or not."

"I cannot speak more seriously. I was
going to Paris, -- you are going
there, -- we are going there."

"And so it was for that motive only you
have served me, selfish fellow!"

"What would you have me say, Aure? I
cannot live without you."

"Well! in truth, it is just so with me;
you are, nevertheless, it must be
confessed, a very bad-hearted young
man."

"Aure, my dear Aure, take care! if you
take to calling names again, you know
the effect they produce upon me, and I
shall adore you." And so saying,
Malicorne drew the young girl a second
time towards him. But at that instant a
step resounded on the staircase. The
young people were so close, that they
would have been surprised in the arms of
each other, if Montalais had not
violently pushed Malicorne, with his
back against the door, just then
opening. A loud cry, followed by angry
reproaches, immediately resounded. It
was Madame de Saint-Remy who uttered the
cry and the angry words. The unlucky
Malicorne almost crushed her between the
wall and the door she was coming in at.

"It is again that good-for-nothing!"
cried the old lady. "Always here!"

"Ah, madame!" replied Malicorne, in a
respectful tone; "it is eight long days
since I was here."




CHAPTER 78

In which we at length see the true
Heroine of this History appear



Behind Madame de Saint-Remy stood
Mademoiselle de la Valliere. She heard
the explosion of maternal anger, and as
she divined the cause of it, she entered
the chamber trembling, and perceived the
unlucky Malicorne, whose woeful
countenance might have softened or set
laughing whoever observed it coolly. He
had promptly intrenched himself behind a
large chair, as if to avoid the first
attacks of Madame de Saint-Remy; he had
no hopes of prevailing with words, for
she spoke louder than he, and without
stopping; but he reckoned upon the
eloquence of his gestures. The old lady
would neither listen to nor see
anything; Malicorne had long been one of
her antipathies. But her anger was too
great not to overflow from Malicorne on
his accomplice. Montalais had her turn.

"And you, mademoiselle; you may be
certain I shall inform madame of what is
going on in the apartment of one of her
ladies of honor!"

"Oh, dear mother!" cried Mademoiselle de
la Valliere, "for mercy's sake,
spare ---- "

"Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do
not uselessly trouble yourself to
intercede for unworthy people; that a
young maid of honor like you should be
subjected to a bad example is, certes, a
misfortune great enough; but that you
should sanction it by your indulgence is
what I will not allow."

"But in truth," said Montalais,
rebelling again, "I do not know under
what pretense you treat me thus. I am
doing no harm, I suppose?"

"And that great good-for-nothing,
mademoiselle," resumed Madame de
Saint-Remy, pointing to Malicorne, "is
he here to do any good, I ask you?"

"He is neither here for good nor harm,
madame; he comes to see me, that is
all."

"It is all very well! all very well!"
said the old lady. "Her royal highness
shall be informed of it, and she will
judge."

"At all events, I do not see why,"
replied Montalais, "it should be
forbidden M. Malicorne to have
intentions towards me, if his intentions
are honorable."

"Honorable intentions with such a face!"
cried Madame de Saint-Remy.

"I thank you in the name of my face,
madame," said Malicorne.

"Come, my daughter, come," continued
Madame de Saint-Remy; "we will go and
inform madame that at the very moment
she is weeping for her husband, at the
moment when we are all weeping for a
master in this old castle of Blois, the
abode of grief, there are people who
amuse themselves with flirtations!"

"Oh!" cried both the accused, with one
voice.

"A maid of honor! a maid of honor!"
cried the old lady, lifting her hands
towards heaven.

"Well! it is there you are mistaken,
madame," said Montalais, highly
exasperated; "I am no longer a maid of
honor, of madame's at least."

"Have you given in your resignation,
mademoiselle? That is well! I cannot but
applaud such a determination, and I do
applaud it."

"I do not give in my resignation,
madame; I take another service, -- that
is all."

"In the bourgeoisie or in the robe?"
asked Madame de Saint-Remy,
disdainfully.

"Please to learn, madame, that I am not
a girl to serve either bourgeoises or
robines, and that instead of the
miserable court at which you vegetate, I
am going to reside in a court almost
royal."

"Ha, ha! a royal court," said Madame de
Saint-Remy, forcing a laugh; "a royal
court! What think you of that, my
daughter?"

And she turned round towards
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, whom she
would by main force have dragged away
from Montalais, and who, instead of
obeying the impulse of Madame de
Saint-Remy, looked first at her mother
and then at Montalais with her beautiful
conciliatory eyes.

"I did not say a royal court, madame,"
replied Montalais; "because Madame
Henrietta of England, who is about to
become the wife of S. A. R. Monsieur, is
not a queen. I said almost royal, and I
spoke correctly, since she will be
sister-in-law to the king."

A thunderbolt falling upon the castle of
Blois would not have astonished Madame
de Saint-Remy more than the last
sentence of Montalais.

"What do you say? of Son Altesse Royale
Madame Henrietta?" stammered out the old
lady.

"I say I am going to belong to her
household, as maid of honor, that is
what I say."

"As maid of honor!" cried, at the same
time, Madame de Saint-Remy with despair,
and Mademoiselle de la Valliere with
delight.

"Yes, madame, as maid of honor."

The old lady's head sank down as if the
blow had been too severe for her. But,
almost immediately recovering herself,
she launched a last projectile at her
adversary.

"Oh! oh!" said she, "I have heard of
many of these sorts of promises
beforehand, which often lead people to
flatter themselves with wild hopes, and
at the last moment, when the time comes
to keep the promises, and have the hopes
realized, they are surprised to see the
great credit upon which they reckoned
vanish like smoke."

"Oh! madame, the credit of my protector
is incontestable and his promises are as
good as deeds."

"And would it be indiscreet to ask you
the name of this powerful protector?"

"Oh! mon Dieu! no! it is that gentleman
there," said Montalais, pointing to
Malicorne, who, during this scene, had
preserved the most imperturbable
coolness, and the most comic dignity.

"Monsieur!" cried Madame de Saint-Remy,
with an explosion of hilarity, "monsieur
is your protector! Is the man whose
credit is so powerful, and whose
promises are as good as deeds, Monsieur
Malicorne?"

Malicorne bowed.

As to Montalais, as her sole reply, she
drew the brevet from her pocket, and
showed it to the old lady.

"Here is the brevet," said she.

At once all was over. As soon as she had
cast a rapid glance over this fortunate
brevet, the good lady clasped her hands,
an unspeakable expression of envy and
despair contracted her countenance, and
she was obliged to sit down to avoid
fainting. Montalais was not malicious
enough to rejoice extravagantly at her
victory, or to overwhelm the conquered
enemy, particularly when that enemy was
the mother of her friend; she used then,
but did not abuse, her triumph.
Malicorne was less generous; he assumed
noble poses in his fauteuil, and
stretched himself out with a familiarity
which, two hours earlier, would have
drawn upon him threats of a caning.

"Maid of honor to the young madame!"
repeated Madame de Saint-Remy, still but
half convinced.

"Yes, madame, and through the protection
of M. Malicorne, moreover."

"It is incredible!" repeated the old
lady: "is it not incredible, Louise?"
But Louise did not reply; she was
sitting, thoughtful, almost sad; passing
one hand over her beautiful brow she
sighed heavily.

"Well, but, monsieur," said Madame de
Saint-Remy, all at once, "how did you
manage to obtain this post?"

"I asked for it, madame."

"Of whom?"

"One of my friends."

"And have you friends sufficiently
powerful at court to give you such
proofs of their credit?"

"It appears so."

"And may one ask the name of these
friends?"

"I did not say I had many friends,
madame, I said I had one friend."

And that friend is called?"

"Peste! madame, you go too far! When one
has a friend as powerful as mine, we do
not publish his name in that fashion, in
open day, in order that he may be stolen
from us."

"You are right, monsieur, to be silent
as to that name; for I think it would be
pretty difficult for you to tell it."

"At all events," said Montalais, "if the
friend does not exist, the brevet does,
and that cuts short the question."

"Then, I conceive," said Madame de
Saint-Remy, with the gracious smile of
the cat who is going to scratch, "when I
found monsieur here just now ---- "

"Well?"

"He brought you the brevet."

"Exactly, madame, you have guessed
rightly."

"Well, then, nothing can be more moral
or proper."

"I think so, madame."

"And I have been wrong, as it appears,
in reproaching you, mademoiselle."

"Very wrong, madame; but I am so
accustomed to your reproaches, that I
pardon you these."

"In that case, let us begone, Louise; we
have nothing to do but to retire. Well!"

"Madame!" said La Valliere, starting,
"did you speak?"

"You do not appear to be listening, my
child."

"No, madame, I was thinking."

"About what?"

"A thousand things."

"You bear me no ill-will, at least,
Louise?" cried Montalais, pressing her
hand.

"And why should I, my dear Aure?"
replied the girl in a voice soft as a
flute.

"Dame!" resumed Madame de Saint-Remy;
"if she did bear you a little ill-will,
poor girl, she could not be much
blamed."

"And why should she bear me ill-will,
good gracious?"

"It appears to me that she is of as good
a family, and as pretty as you."

"Mother! mother!" cried Louise.

"Prettier a hundred times, madame -- not
of a better family; but that does not
tell me why Louise should bear me
ill-will"

"Do you think it will be very amusing
for her to be buried alive at Blois,
when you are going to shine at Paris?"

"But, madame, it is not I who prevent
Louise following me thither; on the
contrary, I should certainly be most
happy if she came there."

"But it appears that M. Malicorne, who
is all-powerful at court ---- "

"Ah! so much the worse, madame," said
Malicorne, "every one for himself in
this poor world."

"Malicorne! Malicorne!" said Montalais.
Then stooping towards the young man: --

"Occupy Madame de Saint-Remy, either in
disputing with her, or making it up with
her; I must speak to Louise." And, at
the same time, a soft pressure of the
hand recompensed Malicorne for his
future obedience. Malicorne went
grumbling towards Madame de Saint-Remy,
whilst Montalais said to her friend,
throwing one arm around her neck: --

"What is the matter? Tell me. Is it true
that you would not love me if I were to
shine, as your mother says?"

"Oh, no!" said the young girl, with
difficulty restraining her tears; "on
the contrary, I rejoice at your good
fortune."

"Rejoice! why, one would say you are
ready to cry!"

"Do people never weep except from envy?"

"Oh! yes, I understand; I am going to
Paris, and that word Paris recalls to
your mind a certain cavalier ---- "

"Aure!"

"A certain cavalier who formerly lived
near Blois, and who now resides at
Paris."

"In truth, I know not what ails me, but
I feel stifled."

"Weep, then, weep, as you cannot give me
a smile!"

Louise raised her sweet face, which the
tears, rolling down one after the other,
illumined like diamonds.

"Come, confess," said Montalais.

"What shall I confess?"

"What makes you weep; people don't weep
without cause. I am your friend;
whatever you would wish me to do, I will
do. Malicorne is more powerful than you
would think. Do you wish to go to
Paris?"

"Alas!" sighed Louise.

"Do you wish to come to Paris?"

"To remain here alone, in this old
castle, I who have enjoyed the
delightful habit of listening to your
songs, of pressing your hand, of running
about the park with you. Oh! how I shall
be ennuyee! how quickly I shall die!"

"Do you wish to come to Paris?"

Louise breathed another sigh.

"You do not answer me."

"What would you that I should reply?"

"Yes or no; that is not very difficult I
think."

"Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais!"

"That is to say you would like to be in
my place."

Louise was silent.

"Little obstinate thing!" said
Montalais; "did ever any one keep her
secrets from her friend thus? But
confess that you would like to come to
Paris, confess that you are dying with
the wish to see Raoul again?"

"I cannot confess that."

"Then you are wrong."

"In what way?"

"Because ---- do you see this brevet?"

"To be sure I do."

"Well, I would have got you a similar
one."

"By whose means?"

"Malicorne's."

"Aure, are you telling the truth? Is
that possible?"

"Malicorne is there; and what he has
done for me, he surely can do for you."

Malicorne had heard his name pronounced
twice; he was delighted at having an
opportunity of coming to a conclusion
with Madame de Saint-Remy, and he turned
round: --

"What is the question, mademoiselle?"

"Come hither, Malicorne," said
Montalais, with an imperious gesture.
Malicorne obeyed.

"A brevet like this," said Montalais.

"How so?"

"A brevet like this; that is plain
enough.

"But ---- "

"I want one -- I must have one!"

"Oh! oh! you must have one!"

"Yes."

"It is impossible, is it not, M.
Malicorne?" said Louise, with her sweet,
soft voice.

"If it is for you, mademoiselle ---- "

"For me. Yes, Monsieur Malicorne, it
would be for me."

"And if Mademoiselle de Montalais asks
it at the same time ---- "

"Mademoiselle de Montalais does not ask
it, she requires it."

"Well! we will endeavor to obey you,
mademoiselle."

"And you will have her named?"

"We will try."

"No evasive answers. Louise de la
Valliere shall be maid of honor to
Madame Henrietta within a week."

"How you talk!"

"Within a week, or else ---- "

"Well! or else?"

"You may take back your brevet, Monsieur
Malicorne; I will not leave my friend."

"Dear Montalais!"

"That is right. Keep your brevet,
Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall be a
maid of honor."

"Is that true?"

"Quite true."

"I may then hope to go to Paris?"

"Depend upon it."

"Oh! Monsieur Malicorne, what joy!"
cried Louise, clapping her hands, and
bounding with pleasure.

"Little dissembler!" said Montalais,
"try again to make me believe you are
not in love with Raoul."

Louise blushed like a rose in June, but
instead of replying, she ran and
embraced her mother. "Madame," said she,
"do you know that M. Malicorne is going
to have me appointed maid of honor?"

"M. Malicorne is a prince in disguise,"
replied the old lady, "he is
all-powerful, seemingly."

"Should you also like to be maid of
honor?" asked Malicorne of Madame de
Saint-Remy. "Whilst I am about it, I
might as well get everybody appointed."

And upon that he went away, leaving the
poor lady quite disconcerted.

"Humph!" murmured Malicorne as he
descended the stairs, -- "Humph! there
goes another note of a thousand livres!
but I must get through as well as I can;
my friend Manicamp does nothing for
nothing."




CHAPTER 79

Malicorne and Manicamp



The introduction of these two new
personages into this history and that
mysterious affinity of names and
sentiments, merit some attention on the
part of both historian and reader. We
will then enter into some details
concerning Messieurs Malicorne and
Manicamp. Malicorne we know, had made
the journey to Orleans in search of the
brevet destined for Mademoiselle de
Montalais, the arrival of which had
produced such a strong feeling at the
castle of Blois. At that moment, M. de
Manicamp was at Orleans. A singular
person was this M. de Manicamp; a very
intelligent young fellow, always poor,
always needy, although he dipped his
hand freely into the purse of M. le
Comte de Guiche, one of the best
furnished purses of the period. M. le
Comte de Guiche had had, as the
companion of his boyhood, this De
Manicamp, a poor gentleman, vassal-born,
of the house of Grammont. M. de
Manicamp, with his tact and talent, had
created himself a revenue in the opulent
family of the celebrated marechal. From
his infancy he had, with calculation
beyond his age, lent his name and
complaisance to the follies of the Comte
de Guiche. If his noble companion had
stolen some fruit destined for Madame la
Marechale, if he had broken a mirror, or
put out a dog's eye, Manicamp declared
himself guilty of the crime committed,
and received the punishment, which was
not made the milder for falling on the
innocent. But this was the way this
system of abnegation was paid for:
instead of wearing such mean habiliments
as his paternal fortunes entitled him
to, he was able to appear brilliant,
superb, like a young noble of fifty
thousand livres a year. It was not that
he was mean in character or humble in
spirit; no, he was a philosopher, or
rather he had the indifference, the
apathy, the obstinacy which banish from
man every sentiment of the supernatural.
His sole ambition was to spend money.
But, in this respect, the worthy M. de
Manicamp was a gulf. Three or four times
every year he drained the Comte de
Guiche, and when the Comte de Guiche was
thoroughly drained, when he had turned
out his pockets and his purse before
him, when he declared that it would be
at least a fortnight before paternal
munificence would refill those pockets
and that purse, Manicamp lost all his
energy, he went to bed, remained there,
ate nothing and sold his handsome
clothes, under the pretense that,
remaining in bed, he did not want them.
During this prostration of mind and
strength, the purse of the Comte de
Guiche was getting full again, and when
once filled, overflowed into that of De
Manicamp, who bought new clothes,
dressed himself again, and recommenced
the same life he had followed before.
The mania of selling his new clothes for
a quarter of what they were worth had
rendered our hero sufficiently
celebrated in Orleans, a city where, in
general, we should be puzzled to say why
he came to pass his days of penitence.
Provincial debauches, petits-maitres of
six hundred livres a year, shared the
fragments of his opulence.

Among the admirers of these splendid
toilettes, our friend Malicorne was
conspicuous; he was the son of a syndic
of the city, of whom M. de Conde, always
needy as a De Conde, often borrowed
money at enormous interest. M. Malicorne
kept the paternal money-chest; that is
to say, that in those times of easy
morals, he had made for himself, by
following the example of his father, and
lending at high interest for short
terms, a revenue of eighteen hundred
livres, without reckoning six hundred
livres furnished by the generosity of
the syndic, so that Malicorne was the
king of the gay youth of Orleans, having
two thousand four hundred livres to
scatter, squander, and waste on follies
of every kind. But, quite contrary to
Manicamp, Malicorne was terribly
ambitious. He loved from ambition; he
spent money out of ambition; and he
would have ruined himself for ambition.
Malicorne had determined to rise, at
whatever price it might cost, and for
this, at whatever price it did cost, he
had given himself a mistress and a
friend. The mistress, Mademoiselle de
Montalais, was cruel as regarded love;
but she was of a noble family, and that
was sufficient for Malicorne. The friend
had little or no friendship, but he was
the favorite of the Comte de Guiche,
himself the friend of Monsieur, the
king's brother, and that was sufficient
for Malicorne. Only, in the chapter of
charges, Mademoiselle de Montalais cost
per annum: -- ribbons, gloves, and
sweets, a thousand livres. De Manicamp
cost -- money lent, never returned --
from twelve to fifteen hundred livres
per annum. So that there was nothing
left for Malicorne. Ah! yes, we are
mistaken; there was left the paternal
strong box. He employed a mode of
proceeding, upon which he preserved the
most profound secrecy, and which
consisted in advancing to himself from
the coffers of the syndic, half a dozen
year's profits, that is to say, fifteen
thousand livres, swearing to himself --
observe, quite to himself -- to repay
this deficiency as soon as an
opportunity should present itself.

The opportunity was expected to be the
concession of a good post in the
household of Monsieur, when that
household would be established at the
period of his marriage. This juncture
had arrived, and the household was about
to be established. A good post in the
family of a prince of the blood, when it
is given by the credit, and on the
recommendation of a friend, like the
Comte de Guiche, is worth at least
twelve thousand livres per annum; and by
the means which M. Malicorne had taken
to make his revenues fructify, twelve
thousand livres might rise to twenty
thousand. Then, when once an incumbent
of this post, he would marry
Mademoiselle de Montalais. Mademoiselle
de Montalais, of a half noble family,
not only would be dowered, but would
ennoble Malicorne. But, in order that
Mademoiselle de Montalais, who had not a
large patrimonial fortune, although an
only daughter, should be suitably
dowered, it was necessary that she
should belong to some great princess, as
prodigal as the dowager Madame was
covetous. And in order that the wife
should not be of one party whilst the
husband belonged to the other, a
situation which presents serious
inconveniences, particularly with
characters like those of the future
consorts -- Malicorne had imagined the
idea of making the central point of
union the household of Monsieur, the
king's brother. Mademoiselle de
Montalais would be maid of honor to
Madame. M. Malicorne would be officer to
Monsieur.

It is plain the plan was formed by a
clear head; it is plain, also, that it
had been bravely executed. Malicorne had
asked Manicamp to ask a brevet of maid
of honor of the Comte de Guiche; and the
Comte de Guiche had asked this brevet of
Monsieur, who had signed it without
hesitation. The constructive plan of
Malicorne -- for we may well suppose
that the combinations of a mind as
active as his were not confined to the
present, but extended to the future --
the constructive plan of Malicorne, we
say, was this: -- To obtain entrance
into the household of Madame Henrietta
for a woman devoted to himself, who was
intelligent, young, handsome, and
intriguing; to learn, by means of this
woman, all the feminine secrets of the
young household, whilst he, Malicorne,
and his friend Manicamp, should, between
them, know all the male secrets of the
young community. It was by these means
that a rapid and splendid fortune might
be acquired at one and the same time.
Malicorne was a vile name; he who bore
it had too much wit to conceal this
truth from himself; but an estate might
be purchased; and Malicorne of some
place, or even De Malicorne itself, for
short, would ring more nobly on the ear.

It was not improbable that a most
aristocratic origin might be hunted up
by the heralds for this name of
Malicorne; might it not come from some
estate where a bull with mortal horns
had caused some great misfortune, and
baptized the soil with the blood it had
spilt? Certes, this plan presented
itself bristling with difficulties: but
the greatest of all was Mademoiselle de
Montalais herself. Capricious, variable,
close, giddy, free, prudish, a virgin
armed with claws, Erigone stained with
grapes, she sometimes overturned, with a
single dash of her white fingers, or
with a single puff from her laughing
lips, the edifice which had exhausted
Malicorne's patience for a month.

Love apart, Malicorne was happy; but
this love, which he could not help
feeling, he had the strength to conceal
with care; persuaded that at the lest
relaxing of the ties by which he had
bound his Protean female, the demon
would overthrow him and laugh at him. He
humbled his mistress by disdaining her.
Burning with desire, when she advanced
to tempt him, he had the art to appear
ice, persuaded that if he opened his
arms, she would run away laughing at
him. On her side, Montalais believed she
did not love Malicorne; whilst, on the
contrary, in reality she did. Malicorne
repeated to her so often his
protestation of indifference, that she
finished sometimes, by believing him;
and then she believed she detested
Malicorne. If she tried to bring him
back by coquetry, Malicorne played the
coquette better than she could. But what
made Montalais hold to Malicorne in an
indissoluble fashion, was that Malicorne
always came cram full of fresh news from
the court and the city; Malicorne always
brought to Blois a fashion, a secret, or
a perfume; that Malicorne never asked
for a meeting, but, on the contrary,
required to be supplicated to receive
the favors he burned to obtain. On her
side Montalais was no miser with
stories. By her means Malicorne learnt
all that passed at Blois, in the family
of the dowager Madame; and he related to
Manicamp tales that made him ready to
die with laughing, which the latter, out
of idleness, took ready-made to M. de
Guiche, who carried them to Monsieur.

Such, in two words, was the woof of
petty interests and petty conspiracies
which united Blois with Orleans and
Orleans with Paris; and which was about
to bring into the last named city, where
she was to produce so great a
revolution, the poor little La Valliere,
who was far from suspecting, as she
returned joyfully, leaning on the arm of
her mother, for what a strange future
she was reserved. As to the good man,
Malicorne -- we speak of the syndic of
Orleans -- he did not see more clearly
into the present than others did into
the future; and had no suspicion as he
walked, every day, between three and
five o'clock, after his dinner, upon the
Place Sainte-Catherine, in his gray
coat, cut after the fashion of Louis
XIII. and his cloth shoes with great
knots of ribbon, that it was he who was
paying for all those bursts of laughter,
all those stolen kisses, all those
whisperings, all those little keepsakes,
and all those bubble projects which
formed a chain of forty-five leagues in
length, from the palais of Blois to the
Palais-Royal.




CHAPTER 80

Manicamp and Malicorne



Malicorne, then, left Blois, as we have
said, and went to find his friend
Manicamp, then in temporary retreat in
the city of Orleans. It was just at the
moment when that young nobleman was
employed in selling the last decent
clothing he had left. He had, a
fortnight before extorted from the Comte
de Guiche a hundred pistoles, all he
had, to assist in equipping him properly
to go and meet Madame, on her arrival at
Havre. He had drawn from Malicorne,
three days before, fifty pistoles, the
price of the brevet obtained for
Montalais. He had then no expectation of
anything else, having exhausted all his
resources, with the exception of selling
a handsome suit of cloth and satin,
embroidered and laced with gold, which
had been the admiration of the court.
But to be able to sell this suit, the
last he had left -- as we have been
forced to confess to the reader --
Manicamp had been obliged to take to his
bed. No more fire, no more pocket-money,
no more walking-money, nothing but sleep
to take the place of repasts, companies
and balls. It has been said -- "he who
sleeps, dines;" but it has never been
affirmed -- he who sleeps, plays -- or
he who sleeps, dances. Manicamp, reduced
to this extremity of neither playing nor
dancing, for a week at least, was,
consequently, very sad; he was expecting
a usurer, and saw Malicorne enter. A cry
of distress escaped him.

"Eh! what!" said he, in a tone which
nothing can describe, "is that you
again, dear friend?"

"Humph! you are very polite!" said
Malicorne.

"Ay, but look you, I was expecting
money, and, instead of money, I see
you."

"And suppose I brought you some money?"

"Oh! that would be quite another thing.
You are very welcome, my dear friend!"

And he held out his hand, not for the
hand of Malicorne, but for the purse.
Malicorne pretended to be mistaken, and
gave him his hand.

"And the money?" said Manicamp.

"My dear friend, if you wish to have it,
earn it."

"What must be done for it?"

"Earn it, parbleu!"

"And after what fashion?"

"Oh! that is rather trying, I warn you."

"The devil!"

"You must get out of bed, and go
immediately to M. le Comte de Guiche."

"I get out!" said Manicamp, stretching
himself in his bed, complacently, "oh,
no, thank you!"

"You have sold all your clothes?"

"No, I have one suit left, the
handsomest even, but I expect a
purchaser."

"And the chausses?"

"Well, if you look, you will see them on
that chair."

"Very well! since you have some chausses
and a pourpoint left, put your legs into
the first and your back into the other;
have a horse saddled, and set off."

"Not I."

"And why not?"

"Mordieu! don't you know, then, that M.
de Guiche is at Etampes?"

"No, I thought he was at Paris. You will
then only have fifteen leagues to go,
instead of thirty."

"You are a wonderfully clever fellow! If
I were to ride fifteen leagues in these
clothes, they would never be fit to put
on again; and, instead of selling them
for thirty pistoles, I should be obliged
to take fifteen."

"Sell them for what you like, but I must
have a second commission of maid of
honor."

"Good! for whom? Is Montalais doubled
then?"

"Vile fellow! -- It is you who are
doubled. You swallow up two fortunes --
mine, and that of M. le Comte de
Guiche."

"You should say, that of M. le Comte de
Guiche and yours."

"That is true; honor where it is due;
but I return to my brevet."

"And you are wrong."

"Prove me that."

"My friend, there will only be twelve
maids of honor for madame, I have
already obtained for you what twelve
hundred women are trying for, and for
that I was forced to employ all my
diplomacy."

"Oh! yes, I know you have been quite
heroic, my dear friend."

"We know what we are about," said
Manicamp.

"To whom do you tell that? When I am
king, I promise you one thing."

"What? To call yourself Malicorne the
first?"

"No; to make you superintendent of my
finances; but that is not the question
now."

"Unfortunately."

"The present affair is to procure for me
a second place of maid of honor."

"My friend, if you were to promise me
the price of heaven, I would decline to
disturb myself at this moment."
Malicorne chinked the money in his
pocket.

"There are twenty pistoles here," said
Malicorne.

"And what would you do with twenty
pistoles, mon Dieu!"

"Well!" said Malicorne, a little
angrily, "suppose I were to add them to
the five hundred you already owe me?"

"You are right," replied Manicamp,
stretching out his hand again, "and from
that point of view I can accept them.
Give them to me."

"An instant, what the devil! it is not
only holding out your hand that will do;
if I give you the twenty pistoles, shall
I have my brevet?"

"To be sure you shall."

"Soon?"

"To-day."

"Oh! take care! Monsieur de Manicamp;
you undertake much, and I do not ask
that. Thirty leagues in a day is too
much, you would kill yourself."

"I think nothing impossible when
obliging a friend."

"You are quite heroic."

"Where are the twenty pistoles?"

"Here they are," said Malicorne, showing
them.

"That's well."

"Yes, but my dear M. Manicamp, you would
consume them in post-horses alone!"

"No, no, make yourself easy on that
score."

"Pardon me. Why, it is fifteen leagues
from this place to Etampes?"

"Fourteen."

"Well! fourteen be it; fourteen leagues
makes seven posts; at twenty sous the
post, seven livres; seven livres the
courier, fourteen; as many for coming
back, twenty-eight! as much for bed and
supper, that makes sixty livres this
complaisance would cost."

Manicamp stretched himself like a
serpent in his bed, and fixing his two
great eyes upon Malicorne, "You are
right," said he; "I could not return
before to-morrow;" and he took the
twenty pistoles.

"Now, then, be off!"

"Well, as I cannot be back before
to-morrow. we have time."

"Time for what?"

"Time to play."

"What do you wish to play with?

"Your twenty pistoles, pardieu!"

"No; you always win."

"I will wager them, then."

"Against what?"

"Against twenty others."

"And what shall be the object of the
wager?"

"This. We have said it was fourteen
leagues to Etampes?"

"Yes."

"And fourteen leagues back?

"Doubtless."

"Well; for these twenty-eight leagues
you cannot allow less than fourteen
hours?"

"That is agreed."

"One hour to find the Comte de Guiche.

"Go on."

"And an hour to persuade him to write a
letter to Monsieur."

"Just so."

"Sixteen hours in all?"

"You reckon as well as M. Colbert."

"It is now twelve o'clock."

"Half-past."

"Hein! -- you have a handsome watch!"

"What were you saying?" said Malicorne,
putting his watch quickly back into his
fob.

"Ah! true; I was offering to lay you
twenty pistoles against these you have
lent me, that you will have the Comte de
Guiche's letter in ---- "

"How soon?"

"In eight hours."

"Have you a winged horse, then?"

"That is no matter. Will you bet?"

"I shall have the comte's letter in
eight hours?"

"Yes."

"In hand?"

"In hand."

"Well, be it so; I lay," said Malicorne,
curious to know how this seller of
clothes would get through.

"Is it agreed?"

"It is."

"Pass me the pen, ink, and paper.

"Here they are."

"Thank you."

Manicamp raised himself with a sigh, and
leaning on his left elbow, in his best
hand, traced the following lines: --



"Good for an order for a place of maid
of honor to Madame, which M. le Comte de
Guiche will take upon him to obtain at
sight.

"De Manicamp."



This painful task accomplished, he laid
himself down in bed again.

"Well!" asked Malicorne, "what does this
mean?"

"That means that if you are in a hurry
to have the letter from the Comte de
Guiche for Monsieur, I have won my
wager."

"How the devil is that?"

"That is transparent enough, I think;
you take that paper."

"Well?"

"And you set out instead of me."

"Ah!"

"You put your horses to their best
speed."

"Good!"

"In six hours you will be at Etampes; in
seven hours you have the letter from the
comte, and I shall have won my wager
without stirring from my bed, which
suits me and you too, at the same time,
I am very sure."

"Decidedly, Manicamp, you are a great
man."

"Hein! I know that."

"I am to start then for Etampes?"

"Directly."

"I am to go to the Comte de Guiche with
this order?"

"He will give you a similar one for
Monsieur."

"Monsieur will approve?"

"Instantly."

"And I shall have my brevet?"

"You will."

"Ah!"

"Well, I hope I behave genteely?"

"Adorably."

"Thank you."

"You do as you please, then, with the
Comte de Guiche, Malicorne?"

"Except making money of him --
everything?"

"Diable! the exception is annoying; but
then, if instead of asking him for
money, you were to ask ---- "

"What?"

"Something important."

"What do you call important?"

"Well! suppose one of your friends asked
you to render him a service?"

"I would not render it to him."

"Selfish fellow!"

"Or at least I would ask him what
service he would render me in exchange."

"Ah! that, perhaps, is fair. Well, that
friend speaks to you."

"What, you, Malicorne?"

"Yes; I."

"Ah! ah! you are rich, then?"

"I have still fifty pistoles left."

"Exactly the sum I want. Where are those
fifty pistoles?"

"Here," said Malicorne, slapping his
pocket.

"Then speak, my friend; what do you
want?"

Malicorne took up the pen, ink, and
paper again, and presented them all to
Manicamp. "Write!" said he.

"Dictate!"

"An order for a place in the household
of Monsieur."

"Oh!" said Manicamp, laying down the
pen, "a place in the household of
Monsieur for fifty pistoles?"

"You mistook me, my friend; you did not
hear plainly."

"What did you say, then?"

"I said five hundred."

"And the five hundred?"

"Here they are."

Manicamp devoured the rouleau with his
eyes; but this time Malicorne held it at
a distance.

"Eh! what do you say to that? Five
hundred pistoles."

"I say it is for nothing, my friend,"
said Manicamp, taking up the pen again,
"and you exhaust my credit. Dictate."

Malicorne continued:

"Which my friend the Comte de Guiche
will obtain for my friend Malicorne."

"That's it," said Manicamp.

"Pardon me, you have forgotten to sign."

"Ah! that is true. The five hundred
pistoles?"

"Here are two hundred and fifty of
them."

"And the other two hundred and fifty?"

"When I am in possession of my place."

Manicamp made a face.

"In that case give me the recommendation
back again."

"What to do?"

"To add two words to it."

"Two words?"

"Yes, two words only."

"What are they?"

"In haste."

Malicorne returned the recommendation;
Manicamp added the words.

"Good," said Malicorne, taking back the
paper.

Manicamp began to count out the
pistoles.

"There want twenty," said he.

"How so?"

"The twenty I have won."

"In what way?"

"By laying that you would have the
letter from the Comte de Guiche in eight
hours."

"Ah! that's fair," and he gave him the
twenty pistoles.

Manicamp began to scoop up his gold by
handfuls, and pour it in cascades upon
his bed.

"This second place," murmured Malicorne,
whilst drying his paper, "which, at the
first glance appears to cost me more
than the first, but ---- " He stopped,
took up the pen in his turn, and wrote
to Montalais: --



"Mademoiselle, -- Announce to your
friend that her commission will not be
long before it arrives; I am setting out
to get it signed: that will be
twenty-eight leagues I shall have gone
for the love of you."



Then with his sardonic smile, taking up
the interrupted sentence: -- "This
place," said he, "at the first glance,
appears to cost more than the first;
but -- the benefit will be, I hope, in
proportion with the expense, and
Mademoiselle de la Valliere will bring
me back more than Mademoiselle de
Montalais, or else, -- or else my name
is not Malicorne. Farewell, Manicamp,"
and he left the room.




CHAPTER 81

The Courtyard of the Hotel Grammont



On Malicorne's arrival at Orleans, he
was informed that the Comte de Guiche
had just set out for Paris. Malicorne
rested himself for a couple of hours,
and then prepared to continue his
journey. He reached Paris during the
night, and alighted at a small hotel,
where, in his previous journeys to the
capital, he had been accustomed to put
up, and at eight o'clock the next
morning presented himself at the Hotel
Grammont. Malicorne arrived just in
time, for the Comte de Guiche was on the
point of taking leave of Monsieur before
setting out for Havre, where the
principal members of the French nobility
had gone to await Madame's arrival from
England. Malicorne pronounced the name
of Manicamp and was immediately
admitted. He found the Comte de Guiche
in the courtyard of the Hotel Grammont,
inspecting his horses, which his
trainers and equerries were passing in
review before him. The count, in the
presence of his tradespeople and of his
servants, was engaged in praising or
blaming, as the case seemed to deserve,
the appointments, horses, and harness
that were being submitted to him; when,
in the midst of this important
occupation, the name of Manicamp was
announced.

"Manicamp!" he exclaimed, "let him enter
by all means." And he advanced a few
steps toward the door.

Malicorne slipped through the half-open
door, and looking at the Comte de
Guiche, who was surprised to see a face
he did not recognize, instead of the one
he expected, said: "Forgive me, monsieur
le comte, but I believe a mistake has
been made. M. Manicamp himself was
announced to you, instead of which it is
only an envoy from him."

"Ah!" exclaimed De Guiche, coldly, "and
what do you bring me?"

"A letter, monsieur le comte." Malicorne
handed him the first document, and
narrowly watched the count's face, who,
as he read it began to laugh.

"What!" he exclaimed, "another maid of
honor? Are all the maids of honor in
France, then, under his protection?"

Malicorne bowed. "Why does he not come
himself?" he inquired.

"He is confined to his bed."

"The deuce! he has no money then, I
suppose," said De Guiche, shrugging his
shoulders. "What does he do with his
money?"

Malicorne made a movement, to indicate
that upon this subject he was as
ignorant as the count himself. "Why does
he not make use of his credit, then?"
continued De Guiche.

"With regard to that, I think ---- "

"What?"

"That Manicamp has credit with no one
but yourself, monsieur le comte!"

"He will not be at Havre, then?"
Whereupon Malicorne made another
movement.

"But every one will be there."

"I trust, monsieur le comte, that he
will not neglect so excellent an
opportunity."

"He should be at Paris by this time."

"He will take the direct road perhaps to
make up for lost time."

"Where is he now?"

"At Orleans."

"Monsieur," said De Guiche, "you seem to
me a man of very good taste."

Malicorne was wearing some of Manicamp's
old-new clothes. He bowed in return,
saying, "You do me a very great honor,
monsieur le comte."

"Whom have I the pleasure of
addressing?"

"My name is Malicorne, monsieur."

"M. de Malicorne, what do you think of
these pistol-holsters?"

Malicorne was a man of great readiness,
and immediately understood the position
of affairs. Besides, the "de" which had
been prefixed to his name, raised him to
the rank of the person with whom he was
conversing. He looked at the holsters
with the air of a connoisseur and said,
without hesitation: "Somewhat heavy,
monsieur."

"You see," said De Guiche to the
saddler, "this gentleman, who
understands these matters well, thinks
the holsters heavy, a complaint I had
already made." The saddler was full of
excuses.

"What do you think," asked De Guiche,
"of this horse, which I have just
purchased?"

"To look at it, it seems perfect,
monsieur le comte; but I must mount it
before I give you my opinion."

"Do so, M. de Malicorne, and ride him
round the court two or three times."

The courtyard of the hotel was so
arranged, that whenever there was any
occasion for it, it could be used as a
riding-school. Malicorne, with perfect
ease, arranged the bridle and
snaffle-reins, placed his left hand on
the horse's mane, and, with his foot in
the stirrup, raised himself and seated
himself in the saddle. At first, he made
the horse walk the whole circuit of the
court-yard at a foot-pace; next at a
trot; lastly at a gallop. He then drew
up close to the count, dismounted, and
threw the bridle to a groom standing by.
"Well," said the count, "what do you
think of it, M. de Malicorne?"

"This horse, monsieur le comte, is of
the Mecklenburg breed. In looking
whether the bit suited his mouth, I saw
that he was rising seven, the very age
when the training of a horse intended
for a charger should commence. The
forehand is light. A horse which holds
its head high, it is said, never tires
his rider's hand. The withers are rather
low. The drooping of the hindquarters
would almost make me doubt the purity of
its German breed, and I think there is
English blood in him. He stands well on
his legs, but he trots high, and may cut
himself, which requires attention to be
paid to his shoeing. He is tractable;
and as I made him turn round and change
his feet, I found him quick and ready in
doing so."

"Well said, M. de Malicorne," exclaimed
the comte; "you are a judge of horses, I
perceive;" then, turning towards him
again, he continued, "You are most
becomingly dressed, M. de Malicorne.
That is not a provincial cut, I presume.
Such a style of dress is not to be met
with at Tours or Orleans."

"No, monsieur le comte; my clothes were
made at Paris."

"There is no doubt about that. But let
us resume our own affair. Manicamp
wishes for the appointment of a second
maid of honor."

"You perceive what he has written,
monsieur le comte."

"For whom was the first appointment?"

Malicorne felt the color rise in his
face as he answered hurriedly.

"A charming maid of honor, Mademoiselle
de Montalais."

"Ah, ah! you are acquainted with her?"

"We are affianced, or nearly so."

"That is quite another thing, then; a
thousand compliments," exclaimed De
Guiche, upon whose lips a courtier's
jest was already fitting, but to whom
the word "affianced," addressed by
Malicorne with respect to Mademoiselle
de Montalais, recalled the respect due
to women.

"And for whom is the second appointment
destined?" asked De Guiche, "is it for
anyone to whom Manicamp may happen to be
affianced? In that case I pity her, poor
girl! for she will have a sad fellow for
a husband."

"No, monsieur le comte, the second
appointment is for Mademoiselle de la
Baume le Blanc de la Valliere."

"Unknown," said De Guiche.

"Unknown? yes, monsieur," said
Malicorne, smiling in his turn.

"Very good. I will speak to Monsieur
about it. By the by, she is of gentle
birth?"

"She belongs to a very good family and
is maid of honor to Madame."

"That's well. Will you accompany me to
Monsieur?"

"Most certainly, if I may be permitted
the honor."

"Have you your carriage?"

"No; I came here on horseback."

"Dressed as you are?"

"No, monsieur; I posted from Orleans,
and I changed my traveling suit for the
one I have on, in order to present
myself to you."

"True, you already told me you had come
from Orleans;" saying which he crumpled
Manicamp's letter in his hand, and
thrust it in his pocket.

"I beg your pardon," said Malicorne,
timidly; "but I do not think you have
read all."

"Not read all, do you say?"

"No, there were two letters in the same
envelope."

"Oh! are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Let us look, then," said the count, as
he opened the letter again.

"Ah! you are right," he said, opening
the paper which he had not yet read.

"I suspected it," he continued --
"another application for an appointment
under Monsieur. This Manicamp is a
regular vampire: -- he is carrying on a
trade in it."

"No, monsieur le comte, he wishes to
make a present of it."

"To whom?"

"To myself, monsieur."

"Why did you not say so at once, my dear
M. Mauvaisecorne?"

"Malicorne, monsieur le comte."

"Forgive me; it is the Latin that
bothers me -- that terrible mine of
etymologies. Why the deuce are young men
of family taught Latin? Mala and
mauvaise -- you understand it is the
same thing. You will forgive me, I
trust, M. de Malicorne."

"Your kindness affects me much,
monsieur: but it is a reason why I
should make you acquainted with one
circumstance without any delay."

"What is it?"

"That I was not born a gentleman. I am
not without courage, and not altogether
deficient in ability; but my name is
Malicorne simply."

"You appear to me, monsieur!" exclaimed
the count, looking at the astute face of
his companion, "to be a most agreeable
man. Your face pleases me, M. Malicorne,
and you must possess some indisputably
excellent qualities to have pleased that
egotistical Manicamp. Be candid, and
tell me whether you are not some saint
descended upon the earth."

"Why so?"

"For the simple reason that he makes you
a present of anything. Did you not say
that he intended to make you a present
of some appointment in the king's house

"I beg your pardon, count; but, if I
succeed in obtaining the appointment,
you, and not he, will have bestowed it
on me."

"Besides, he will not have given it to
you for nothing, I suppose. Stay, I have
it; -- there is a Malicorne at Orleans,
who lends money to the prince."

"I think that must be my father,
monsieur."

"Ah! the prince has the father, and that
terrible dragon of a Manicamp has the
son. Take care, monsieur, I know him. He
will fleece you completely."

"The only difference is, that I lend
without interest," said Malicorne,
smiling.

"I was correct in saying you were either
a saint or very much resembled one. M.
Malicorne, you shall have the post you
want, or I will forfeit my name."

"Ah! monsieur le comte, what a debt of
gratitude shall I not owe you?" said
Malicorne, transported.

"Let us go to the prince, my dear M.
Malicorne." And De Guiche proceeded
toward the door, desiring Malicorne to
follow him. At the very moment they were
about to cross the threshold, a young
man appeared on the other side. He was
from twenty-four to twenty-five years of
age, of pale complexion, bright eyes and
brown hair and eyebrows.

"Good-day," he said, suddenly, almost
pushing De Guiche back into the
courtyard again.

"Is that you, De Wardes? -- What! and
booted, spurred, and whip in hand, too?"

"The most befitting costume for a man
about to set off for Havre. There will
be no one left in Paris tomorrow." And
hereupon he saluted Malicorne with great
ceremony, whose handsome dress gave him
the appearance of a prince.

"M. Malicorne," said De Guiche to his
friend. De Wardes bowed.

"M. de Wardes," said Guiche to
Malicorne, who bowed in return. "By the
by, De Wardes," continued De Guiche,
"you who are so well acquainted with
these matters, can you tell us,
probably, what appointments are still
vacant at the court; or rather in the
prince's household?"

"In the prince's household," said De
Wardes, looking up with an air of
consideration, "let me see -- the
appointment of the master of the horse
is vacant, I believe."

"Oh," said Malicorne, "there is no
question of such a post as that,
monsieur; my ambition is not nearly so
exalted."

De Wardes had a more penetrating
observation than De Guiche, and fathomed
Malicorne immediately. "The fact is," he
said, looking at him from head to foot,
"a man must be either a duke or a peer
to fill that post."

"All I solicit," said Malicorne, "is a
very humble appointment; I am of little
importance, and I do not rank myself
above my position."

"M. Malicorne, whom you see here," said
De Guiche to De Wardes, "is a very
excellent fellow, whose only misfortune
is that of not being of gentle birth. As
far as I am concerned, you know, I
attach little value to those who have
but gentle birth to boast of."

"Assuredly," said De Wardes; "but will
you allow me to remark, my dear count,
that, without rank of some sort, one can
hardly hope to belong to his royal
highness's household?"

"You are right," said the count, "court
etiquette is absolute. The devil! -- we
never so much as gave it a thought."

"Alas! a sad misfortune for me, monsieur
le comte," said Malicorne, changing
color.

"Yet not without remedy, I hope,"
returned De Guiche.

"The remedy is found easily enough,"
exclaimed De Wardes; "you can be created
a gentleman. His Eminence, the Cardinal
Mazarin, did nothing else from morning
till night"

"Hush, hush, De Wardes," said the count;
"no jests of that kind; it ill becomes
us to turn such matters into ridicule.
Letters of nobility, it is true, are
purchasable; but that is a sufficient
misfortune without the nobles themselves
laughing at it."

"Upon my word, De Guiche, you're quite a
Puritan, as the English say."

At this moment the Vicomte de Bragelonne
was announced by one of the servants in
the courtyard, in precisely the same
manner as he would have done in a room.

"Come here, my dear Raoul. What! you,
too, booted and spurred? You are setting
off, then?"

Bragelonne approached the group of young
men, and saluted them with that quiet
and serious manner peculiar to him. His
salutation was principally addressed to
De Wardes, with whom he was
unacquainted, and whose features, on his
perceiving Raoul, had assumed a strange
sternness of expression. "I have come,
De Guiche," he said, "to ask your
companionship. We set off for Havre, I
presume."

"This is admirable -- delightful. We
shall have a most enjoyable journey. M.
Malicorne, M. Bragelonne -- ah! M. de
Wardes, let me present you." The young
men saluted each other in a restrained
manner. Their very natures seemed, from
the beginning, disposed to take
exception to each other. De Wardes was
pliant, subtle, full of dissimulation;
Raoul was calm, grave, and upright.
"Decide between us -- between De Wardes
and myself, Raoul."

"Upon what subject?"

"Upon the subject of noble birth."

"Who can be better informed on that
subject than a De Grammont?"

"No compliments; it is your opinion I
ask."

"At least, inform me of the subject
under discussion."

"De Wardes asserts that the distribution
of titles is abused; I, on the contrary,
maintain that a title is useless to the
man on whom it is bestowed."

"And you are correct," said Bragelonne,
quietly.

"But, monsieur le vicomte," interrupted
De Wardes, with a kind of obstinacy, "I
affirm that it is I who am correct."

"What was your opinion, monsieur?"

"I was saying that everything is done in
France at the present moment to
humiliate men of family."

"And by whom?"

"By the king himself. He surrounds
himself with people who cannot show four
quarterings."

"Nonsense," said De Guiche, "where could
you possibly have seen that, De Wardes?"

"One example will suffice," he returned,
directing his look fully upon Raoul.

"State it then."

"Do you know who has just been nominated
captain-general of the musketeers? -- an
appointment more valuable than a
peerage; for it gives precedence over
all the marechals of France."

Raoul's color mounted in his face; for
he saw the object De Wardes had in view.
"No; who has been appointed? In any case
it must have been very recently, for the
appointment was vacant eight days ago; a
proof of which is, that the king refused
Monsieur, who solicited the post for one
of his proteges."

"Well, the king refused it to Monsieur's
protege, in order to bestow it upon the
Chevalier d'Artagnan, a younger brother
of some Gascon family, who has been
trailing his sword in the ante-chambers
during the last thirty years."

"Forgive me if I interrupt you," said
Raoul, darting a glance full of severity
at De Wardes; "but you give me the
impression of being unacquainted with
the gentleman of whom you are speaking."

"I not acquainted with M. d'Artagnan?
Can you tell me, monsieur, who does not
know him?"

"Those who do know him, monsieur,"
replied Raoul with still greater
calmness and sternness of manner, "are
in the habit of saying, that if he is
not as good a gentleman as the king --
which is not his fault -- he is the
equal of all the kings of the earth in
courage and loyalty. Such is my opinion,
monsieur, and I thank heaven I have
known M. d'Artagnan from my birth."

De Wardes was about to reply, when De
Guiche interrupted him.




CHAPTER 82

The Portrait of Madame



The discussion was becoming full of
bitterness. De Guiche perfectly
understood the whole matter for there
was in Bragelonne's face a look
instinctively hostile, while in that of
De Wardes there was something like a
determination to offend. Without
inquiring into the different feelings
which actuated his two friends, De
Guiche resolved to ward off the blow
which he felt was on the point of being
dealt by one of them, and perhaps by
both. "Gentlemen," he said, "we must
take our leave of each other, I must pay
a visit to Monsieur. You, De Wardes,
will accompany me to the Louvre, and you
Raoul, will remain here master of the
house; and as all that is done here is
under your advice, you will bestow the
last glance upon my preparations for
departure."

Raoul, with the air of one who neither
seeks nor fears a quarrel, bowed his
head in token of assent, and seated
himself upon a bench in the sun. "That
is well," said De Guiche, "remain where
you are, Raoul, and tell them to show
you the two horses I have just
purchased; you will give me your
opinion, for I only bought them on
condition that you ratified the
purchase. By the by, I have to beg your
pardon for having omitted to inquire
after the Comte de la Fere." While
pronouncing these latter words, he
closely observed De Wardes, in order to
perceive what effect the name of Raoul's
father would produce upon him. "I thank
you," answered the young man, "the count
is very well." A gleam of deep hatred
passed into De Wardes' eyes. De Guiche,
who appeared not to notice the
foreboding expression, went up to Raoul,
and grasping him by the hand, said, --
"It is agreed, then, Bragelonne, is it
not, that you will rejoin us in the
courtyard of the Palais-Royal?" He then
signed to De Wardes to follow him who
had been engaged in balancing himself
first on one foot, then on the other.
"We are going," said he, "come, M.
Malicorne." This name made Raoul start;
for it seemed that he had already heard
it pronounced before, but he could not
remember on what occasion. While trying
to recall it half-dreamily, yet
half-irritated at his conversation with
De Wardes, the three young men set out
on their way towards the Palais-Royal,
where Monsieur was residing. Malicorne
learned two things; the first, that the
young men had something to say to each
other, and the second, that he ought not
to walk in the same line with them; and
therefore he walked behind. "Are you
mad?" said De Guiche to his companion,
as soon as they had left the Hotel de
Grammont; "you attack M. d'Artagnan, and
that, too, before Raoul."

"Well," said De Wardes, "what then?"

"What do you mean by `what then?'"

"Certainly, is there any prohibition
against attacking M. d'Artagnan?"

"But you know very well that M.
d'Artagnan was one of those celebrated
and terrible four men who were called
the musketeers."

"That they may be, but I do not perceive
why, on that account, I should be
forbidden to hate M. d'Artagnan."

"What cause has he given you?"

"Me! personally, none."

"Why hate him, therefore?"

"Ask my dead father that question."

"Really, my dear De Wardes, you surprise
me. M. d'Artagnan is not one to leave
unsettled any enmity he may have to
arrange, without completely clearing his
account. Your father, I have heard, on
his side, carried matters with a high
hand. Moreover there are no enmities so
bitter that they cannot be washed away
by blood, by a good sword-thrust loyally
given."

"Listen to me, my dear De Guiche, this
inveterate dislike existed between my
father and M. d'Artagnan, and when I was
quite a child, he acquainted me with the
reason for it, and, as forming part of
my inheritance, I regard it as a
particular legacy bestowed upon me."

"And does his hatred concern M.
d'Artagnan alone?"

"As for that, M. d'Artagnan was so
intimately associated with his three
friends, that some portion of the full
measure of my hatred falls to their lot,
and that hatred is of such a nature,
whenever the opportunity occurs, they
shall have no occasion to complain of
their allowance."

De Guiche had kept his eyes fixed on De
Wardes, and shuddered at the bitter
manner in which the young man smiled.
Something like a presentiment flashed
across his mind; he knew that the time
had passed away for grands coups entre
gentilshommes; but that the feeling of
hatred treasured up in the mind, instead
of being diffused abroad, was still
hatred all the same; that a smile was
sometimes as full of meaning as a
threat; and, in a word, that to the
fathers who had hated with their hearts
and fought with their arms, would now
succeed the sons, who would indeed hate
with their hearts, but would no longer
combat their enemies, save by means of
intrigue or treachery. As, therefore, it
certainly was not Raoul whom he could
suspect either of intrigue or treachery,
it was on Raoul's account that De Guiche
trembled. However, while these gloomy
forebodings cast a shade of anxiety over
De Guiche's countenance, De Wardes had
resumed the entire mastery over himself.

"At all events," he observed, "I have no
personal ill-will towards M. de
Bragelonne; I do not know him even."

"In any case," said De Guiche, with a
certain amount of severity in his tone
of voice, "do not forget one
circumstance, that Raoul is my most
intimate friend;" a remark at which De
Wardes bowed.

The conversation terminated there,
although De Guiche tried his utmost to
draw out his secret from him; but,
doubtless, De Wardes had determined to
say nothing further, and he remained
impenetrable. De Guiche therefore
promised himself a more satisfactory
result with Raoul. In the meantime they
had reached the Palais-Royal, which was
surrounded by a crowd of lookers-on. The
household belonging to Monsieur awaited
his command to mount their horses, in
order to form part of the escort of the
ambassadors, to whom had been intrusted
the care of bringing the young princess
to Paris. The brilliant display of
horses, arms, and rich liveries,
afforded some compensation in those
times, thanks to the kindly feelings of
the people, and to the traditions of
deep devotion to their sovereigns, for
the enormous expenses charged upon the
taxes. Mazarin had said: "Let them sing,
provided they pay;" while Louis XIV.'s
remark was, "Let them look." Sight had
replaced the voice; the people could
still look, but they were no longer
allowed to sing. De Guiche left De
Wardes and Malicorne at the bottom of
the grand staircase, while he himself,
who shared the favor and good graces of
Monsieur with the Chevalier de Lorraine,
who always smiled at him most
affectionately, though he could not
endure him, went straight to the
prince's apartments, whom he found
engaged in admiring himself in the
glass, and rouging his face. In a corner
of the cabinet, the Chevalier de
Lorraine was extended full length upon
some cushions, having just had his long
hair curled, with which he was playing
in the same manner a woman would have
done. The prince turned round as the
count entered, and perceiving who it
was, said:

"Ah! is that you, Guiche, come here and
tell me the truth."

"You know, my lord, it is one of my
defects to speak the truth."

"You will hardly believe, De Guiche, how
that wicked chevalier has annoyed me."

The chevalier shrugged his shoulders.

"Why, he pretends," continued the
prince, "that Mademoiselle Henrietta is
better looking as a woman than I am as a
man."

"Do not forget, my lord," said De
Guiche, frowning slightly, "you require
me to speak the truth?"

"Certainly," said the prince,
tremblingly.

"Well, and I shall tell it you."

"Do not be in a hurry, Guiche,"
exclaimed the prince, "you have plenty
of time; look at me attentively, and try
to recollect Madame. Besides, her
portrait is here. Look at it." And he
held out to him a miniature of the
finest possible execution. De Guiche
took it, and looked at it for a long
time attentively.

"Upon my honor, my lord, this is indeed
a most lovely face."

"But look at me, count, look at me,"
said the prince endeavoring to direct
upon himself the attention of the count,
who was completely absorbed in
contemplation of the portrait.

"It is wonderful," murmured Guiche.

"Really one would almost imagine you had
never seen the young lady before."

"It is true, my lord, I have seen her,
but it was five years ago; there is a
great difference between a child twelve
years old and a girl of seventeen."

"Well, what is your opinion?"

"My opinion is that the portrait must be
flattering, my lord."

"Of that," said the prince triumphantly,
"there can be no doubt, but let us
suppose that it is not, what would your
opinion be?"

"My lord, that your highness is
exceedingly happy to have so charming a
bride."

"Very well, that is your opinion of her,
but of me?"

"My opinion, my lord, is that you are
too handsome for a man."

The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out
laughing. The prince understood how
severe towards himself this opinion of
the Comte de Guiche was, and he looked
somewhat displeased, saying, "My friends
are not over indulgent." De Guiche
looked at the portrait again, and, after
lengthened contemplation, returned it
with apparent unwillingness, saying,
"Most decidedly, my lord, I should
rather prefer to look ten times at your
highness, than to look at Madame once
again." It seemed as if the chevalier
had detected some mystery in these
words, which were incomprehensible to
the prince, for he exclaimed: "Very
well, get married yourself." Monsieur
continued painting himself, and when he
had finished, looked at the portrait
again once more, turned to admire
himself in the glass, and smiled, and no
doubt was satisfied with the comparison.
"You are very kind to have come," he
said to Guiche, "I feared you would
leave without bidding me adieu."

"Your highness knows me too well to
believe me capable of so great a
disrespect."

"Besides, I suppose you have something
to ask from me before leaving Paris?"

"Your highness has indeed guessed
correctly, for I have a request to
make."

"Very good, what is it?"

The Chevalier de Lorraine immediately
displayed the greatest attention, for he
regarded every favor conferred upon
another as a robbery committed against
himself. And, as Guiche hesitated, the
prince said: "If it be money, nothing
could be more fortunate, for I am in
funds; the superintendent of the
finances has sent me 500,000 pistoles."

"I thank your highness; but it is not an
affair of money."

"What is it, then? Tell me."

"The appointment of a maid of honor."

"Oh! oh! Guiche, what a protector you
have become of young ladies," said the
prince, "you never speak of any one else
now!"

The Chevalier de Lorraine smiled, for he
knew very well that nothing displeased
the prince more than to show any
interest in ladies. "My lord," said the
comte, "it is not I who am directly
interested in the lady of whom I have
just spoken; I am acting on behalf of
one of my friends."

"Ah! that is different; what is the name
of the young lady in whom your friend is
interested?"

"Mlle. de la Baume le Blanc de la
Valliere; she is already maid of honor
to the dowager princess."

"Why, she is lame," said the Chevalier
de Lorraine, stretching himself on his
cushions.

"Lame," repeated the prince, "and Madame
to have her constantly before her eyes?
Most certainly not; it may be dangerous
for her when in an interesting
condition."

The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out
laughing.

"Chevalier," said Guiche, "your conduct
is ungenerous; while I am soliciting a
favor, you do me all the mischief you
can."

"Forgive me, comte," said the Chevalier
de Lorraine, somewhat uneasy at the tone
in which Guiche had made his remark,
"but I had no intention of doing so, and
I begin to believe that I have mistaken
one young lady for another."

"There is no doubt of it, monsieur; and
I do not hesitate to declare that such
is the case."

"Do you attach much importance to it,
Guiche?" inquired the prince.

"I do, my lord."

"Well, you shall have it, but ask me for
no more appointments, for there are none
to give away."

"Ah!" exclaimed the chevalier, "midday
already, that is the hour fixed for the
departure."

"You dismiss me, monsieur?" inquired
Guiche.

"Really, count, you treat me very ill
to-day," replied the chevalier.

"For heaven's sake, count, for heaven's
sake, chevalier," said Monsieur, "do you
not see how you are distressing me?"

"Your highness's signature?" said
Guiche.

"Take a blank appointment from that
drawer, and give it to me." Guiche
handed the prince the document
indicated, and at the same time
presented him with a pen already dipped
in ink; whereupon the prince signed.
"Here," he said, returning him the
appointment, "but I give it on one
condition."

"Name it."

"That you make friends with the
chevalier."

"Willingly," said Guiche. And he held
out his hand to the chevalier with an
indifference amounting to contempt.

"Adieu, count," said the chevalier,
without seeming in any way to have
noticed the count's slight; "adieu, and
bring us back a princess who will not
talk with her own portrait too much."

"Yes, set off and lose no time. By the
by, who accompany you?"

"Bragelonne and De Wardes."

"Both excellent and fearless
companions."

"Too fearless," said the chevalier;
"endeavor to bring them both back,
count."

"A bad heart, bad!" murmured De Guiche;
"he scents mischief everywhere, and
sooner than anything else." And taking
leave of the prince, he quitted the
apartment. As soon as he reached the
vestibule, he waved in the air the paper
which the prince had signed. Malicorne
hurried forward, and received it,
trembling with delight. When, however,
he held it in his hand Guiche observed
that he still awaited something further.

"Patience, monsieur," he said; "the
Chevalier de Lorraine was there, and I
feared an utter failure if I asked too
much at once. Wait until I return.
Adieu."

"Adieu, monsieur le comte; a thousand
thanks," said Malicorne.

"Send Manicamp to me. By the way,
monsieur, is it true that Mlle. de la
Valliere is lame?" As he said this a
horse drew up behind him, and on turning
round he noticed that Bragelonne, who
had just at that moment entered the
courtyard, turned suddenly pale. The
poor lover had heard the remark, which,
however, was not the case with
Malicorne, for he was already beyond the
reach of the count's voice.

"Why is Louise's name spoken of here?"
said Raoul to himself; "oh! let not De
Wardes, who stands smiling yonder, even
say a word about her in my presence."

"Now, gentlemen," exclaimed the Comte de
Guiche, "prepare to start."

At this moment the prince, who had
completed his toilette, appeared at the
window, and was immediately saluted by
the acclamations of all who composed the
escort, and ten minutes afterwards,
banners, scarfs, and feathers were
fluttering and waving in the air, as the
cavalcade galloped away.




CHAPTER 83

Havre



This brilliant and animated company, the
members of which were inspired by
various feelings, arrived at Havre four
days after their departure from Paris.
It was about five o'clock in the
afternoon, and no intelligence had yet
been received of Madame. They were soon
engaged in quest of apartments; but the
greatest confusion immediately ensued
among the masters, and violent quarrels
among their attendants. In the midst of
this disorder, the Comte de Guiche
fancied he recognized Manicamp. It was,
indeed, Manicamp himself; but as
Malicorne had taken possession of his
very best costume, he had not been able
to get any other than a suit of violet
velvet trimmed with silver. Guiche
recognized him as much by his dress as
by his features, for he had very
frequently seen Manicamp in his violet
suit, which was his last resource.
Manicamp presented himself to the count
under an arch of torches, which set in a
blaze, rather than illuminated, the gate
by which Havre is entered, and which is
situated close to the tower of Francis
I. The count, remarking the woe-begone
expression of Manicamp's face, could not
resist laughing. "Well, my poor
Manicamp," he exclaimed, "how violet you
look; are you in mourning?"

"Yes," replied Manicamp; "I am in
mourning."

"For whom, or for what?"

"For my blue-and-gold suit, which has
disappeared, and in the place of which I
could find nothing but this; and I was
even obliged to economize from
compulsion, in order to get possession
of it."

"Indeed?"

"It is singular you should be astonished
at that, since you leave me without any
money."

"At all events, here you are, and that
is the principal thing."

"By the most horrible roads."

"Where are you lodging?"

"Lodging?"

"Yes!"

"I am not lodging anywhere."

De Guiche began to laugh. "Well," said
he, "where do you intend to lodge?"

"In the same place you do."

"But I don't know, myself."

"What do you mean by saying you don't
know?"

"Certainly, how is it likely I should
know where I should stay?"

"Have you not retained an hotel?"

"I?"

"Yes, you or the prince."

"Neither of us has thought of it. Havre
is of considerable size, I suppose; and
provided I can get a stable for a dozen
horses, and a suitable house in a good
quarter ---- "

"Certainly, there are some very
excellent houses."

"Well then ---- "

"But not for us."

"What do you mean by saying not for
us? -- for whom, then?"

"For the English, of course."

"For the English?"

"Yes; the houses are all taken."

"By whom?"

"By the Duke of Buckingham."

"I beg your pardon?" said Guiche, whose
attention this name had awakened.

"Yes, by the Duke of Buckingham. His
Grace was preceded by a courier, who
arrived here three days ago, and
immediately retained all the houses fit
for habitation the town possesses."

"Come, come, Manicamp, let us understand
each other."

"Well, what I have told you is clear
enough, it seems to me."

"But surely Buckingham does not occupy
the whole of Havre?"

"He certainly does not occupy it, since
he has not yet arrived; but, once
disembarked, he will occupy it."

"Oh! oh!"

"It is quite clear you are not
acquainted with the English; they have a
perfect rage for monopolizing
everything."

"That may be; but a man who has the
whole of one house, is satisfied with
it, and does not require two."

"Yes, but two men?"

"Be it so; for two men, two houses, or
four or six, or ten, if you like; but
there are a hundred houses at Havre."

"Yes, and all the hundred are let."

"Impossible!"

"What an obstinate fellow you are. I
tell you Buckingham has hired all the
houses surrounding the one which the
queen dowager of England and the
princess her daughter will inhabit."

"He is singular enough, indeed," said De
Wardes, caressing his horse's neck.

"Such is the case, however, monsieur."

"You are quite sure of it, Monsieur de
Manicamp?" and as he put this question,
he looked slyly at De Guiche, as though
to interrogate him upon the degree of
confidence to be placed in his friend's
state of mind. During this discussion
the night had closed in, and the
torches, pages, attendants, squires,
horses, and carriages, blocked up the
gate and the open place; the torches
were reflected in the channel, which the
rising tide was gradually filling, while
on the other side of the jetty might be
noticed groups of curious lookers-on,
consisting of sailors and townspeople,
who seemed anxious to miss nothing of
the spectacle. Amidst all this
hesitation of purpose, Bragelonne, as
though a perfect stranger to the scene,
remained on his horse somewhat in the
rear of Guiche, and watched the rays of
light reflected on the water, inhaling
with rapture the sea breezes, and
listening to the waves which noisily
broke upon the shore and on the beach,
tossing the spray into the air with a
noise that echoed in the distance.
"But," exclaimed De Guiche, "what is
Buckingham's motive for providing such a
supply of lodgings?"

"Yes, yes," said De Wardes; "what reason
has he?"

"A very excellent one," replied
Manicamp.

"You know what it is, then?"

"I fancy I do."

"Tell us then."

"Bend your head down towards me."

"What! may it not be spoken except in
private?"

"You shall judge of that yourself."

"Very well." De Guiche bent down.

"Love," said Manicamp.

"I do not understand you at all."

"Say rather, you cannot understand me
yet."

"Explain yourself."

"Very well; it is quite certain, count,
that his royal highness will be the most
unfortunate of husbands."

"What do you mean?"

"The Duke of Buckingham ---- "

"It is a name of ill omen to the princes
of the house of France."

"And so the duke is madly in love with
Madame, so the rumor runs, and will have
no one approach her but himself."

De Guiche colored. "Thank you, thank
you," said he to Manicamp, grasping his
hand. Then, recovering himself, added,
"Whatever you do, Manicamp, be careful
that this project of Buckingham's is not
made known to any Frenchman here; for,
if so, many a sword would be unsheathed
in this country that does not fear
English steel."

"But after all," said Manicamp, "I have
had no satisfactory proof given me of
the love in question, and it may be no
more than an idle tale."

"No, no," said De Guiche, "it must be
the truth;" and despite his command over
himself, he clenched his teeth.

"Well," said Manicamp, "after all, what
does it matter to you? What does it
matter to me whether the prince is to be
what the late king was? Buckingham the
father for the queen, Buckingham the son
for the princess."

"Manicamp! Manicamp!

"It is a fact, or at least, everybody
says so."

"Silence!" cried the count.

"But why, silence?" said De Wardes, "it
is a highly creditable circumstance for
the French nation. Are not you of my
opinion, Monsieur de Bragelonne?"

"To what circumstance do you allude?"
inquired De Bragelonne with an
abstracted air.

"That the English should render homage
to the beauty of our queens and our
princesses."

"Forgive me, but I have not been paying
attention to what has passed; will you
oblige me by explaining,

"There is no doubt it was necessary that
Buckingham the father should come to
Paris in order that his majesty, King
Louis XIII., should perceive that his
wife was one of the most beautiful women
of the French court; and it seems
necessary, at the present time, that
Buckingham the son should consecrate, by
the devotion of his worship, the beauty
of a princess who has French blood in
her veins. The fact of having inspired a
passion on the other side of the Channel
will henceforth confer a title to beauty
on this."

"Sir," replied De Bragelonne, "I do not
like to hear such matters treated so
lightly. Gentlemen like ourselves should
be careful guardians of the honor of our
queens and our princesses. If we jest at
them, what will our servants do?"

"How am I to understand that?" said De
Wardes, whose ears tingled at the
remark.

"In any way you choose, monsieur,"
replied De Bragelonne, coldly.

"Bragelonne, Bragelonne," murmured De
Guiche.

"M. de Wardes," exclaimed Manicamp,
noticing that the young man had spurred
his horse close to the side of Raoul.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said De Guiche,
"do not set such an example in public,
in the street too. De Wardes, you are
wrong."

"Wrong; in what way, may I ask?"

"You are wrong, monsieur, because you
are always speaking ill of someone or
something," replied Raoul with
undisturbed composure.

"Be indulgent, Raoul," said De Guiche,
in an undertone.

"Pray do not think of fighting,
gentlemen!" said Manicamp, "before you
have rested yourselves; for in that case
you will not be able to do much."

"Come," said De Guiche, "forward,
gentlemen!" and breaking through the
horses and attendants, he cleared the
way for himself towards the center of
the square, through the crowd, followed
by the whole cavalcade. A large gateway
looking out upon a courtyard was open;
Guiche entered the courtyard, and
Bragelonne, De Wardes, Manicamp, and
three or four other gentlemen, followed
him. A sort of council of war was held,
and the means to be employed for saving
the dignity of the embassy were
deliberated upon. Bragelonne was of
opinion that the right of priority
should be respected, while De Wardes
suggested that the town should be
sacked. This latter proposition
appearing to Manicamp rather premature,
he proposed instead that they should
first rest themselves. This was the
wisest thing to do, but, unhappily, to
follow his advice, two things were
wanting; namely, a house and beds. De
Guiche reflected for awhile, and then
said aloud, "Let him who loves me,
follow me!"

"The attendants also?" inquired a page
who had approached the group.

"Every one," exclaimed the impetuous
young man. "Manicamp, show us the way to
the house. destined for her Royal
Highness's residence."

Without in any way divining the count's
project, his friends followed him,
accompanied by a crowd of people whose
acclamations and delight seemed a happy
omen for the success of that project
with which they were yet unacquainted.
The wind was blowing strongly from the
harbor, and moaning in fitful gusts.




CHAPTER 84

At Sea



The following day was somewhat calmer,
although the gale still continued. The
sun had, however, risen through a bank
of orange clouds, tingeing with its
cheerful rays the crests of the black
waves. Watch was impatiently kept from
the different look-outs. Towards eleven
o'clock in the morning a ship, with
sails full set, was signalled as in
view; two others followed at the
distance of about half a knot. They
approached like arrows shot from the bow
of a skillful archer; and yet the sea
ran so high that their speed was as
nothing compared to the rolling of the
billows in which the vessels were
plunging first in one direction and then
in another. The English fleet was soon
recognized by the line of the ships, and
by the color of their pennants; the one
which had the princess on board and
carried the admiral's flag preceded the
others.

The rumor now spread that the princess
was arriving. The whole French court ran
to the harbor, while the quays and
jetties were soon covered by crowds of
people. Two hours afterwards, the other
vessels had overtaken the flagship, and
the three, not venturing perhaps to
enter the narrow entrance of the harbor,
cast anchor between Havre and La Heve.
When the maneuver had been completed,
the vessel which bore the admiral
saluted France by twelve discharges of
cannon, which were returned, discharge
for discharge, from Fort Francis I.
Immediately afterwards a hundred boats
were launched; they were covered with
the richest stuffs, and destined for the
conveyance of the different members of
the French nobility towards the vessels
at anchor. But when it was observed that
even inside the harbor the boats were
tossed to and fro, and that beyond the
jetty the waves rose mountains high,
dashing upon the shore with a terrible
uproar, it will readily be believed that
not one of those frail boats would be
able with safety to reach a fourth part
of the distance between the shore and
the vessels at anchor. A pilot-boat,
however, notwithstanding the wind and
the sea, was getting ready to leave the
harbor, for the purpose of placing
itself at the admiral's disposal.

De Guiche, who had been looking among
the different boats for one stronger
than the others, which might offer a
chance of reaching the English vessels,
perceiving the pilot-boat getting ready
to start, said to Raoul: "Do you not
think, Raoul, that intelligent and
vigorous men, as we are, ought to be
ashamed to retreat before the brute
strength of wind and waves?"

"That is precisely the very reflection I
was silently making to myself," replied
Bragelonne.

"Shall we get into that boat, then, and
push off? Will you come, De Wardes?"

"Take care, or you will get drowned,"
said Manicamp.

"And for no purpose," said De Wardes,
"for with the wind in your teeth, as it
will be, you will never reach the
vessels."

"You refuse, then?"

"Assuredly I do; I would willingly risk
and lose my life in an encounter against
men," he said, glancing at Bragelonne,
"but as to fighting with oars against
waves, I have no taste for that."

"And for myself," said Manicamp, "even
were I to succeed in reaching the ships,
I should not be indifferent to the loss
of the only good dress which I have
left, -- salt water would spoil it."

"You, then, refuse also?" exclaimed De
Guiche.

"Decidedly I do; I beg you to understand
that most distinctly."

"But," exclaimed De Guiche, "look, De
Wardes -- look, Manicamp -- look yonder,
the princesses are looking at us from
the poop of the admiral's vessel."

"An additional reason, my dear fellow,
why we should not make ourselves
ridiculous by being drowned while they
are looking on."

"Is that your last word, Manicamp?"

"Yes."

"And then yours, De Wardes?"

"Yes."

"Then I go alone."

"Not so," said Raoul, "for I shall
accompany you; I thought it was
understood I should do so."

The fact is, that Raoul, uninfluenced by
devotion, measuring the risk they run,
saw how imminent the danger was, but he
willingly allowed himself to accept a
peril which De Wardes had declined.

The boat was about to set off when De
Guiche called to the pilot. "Stay," said
he: "we want two places in your boat;"
and wrapping five or six pistoles in
paper, he threw them from the quay into
the boat.

"It seems you are not afraid of salt
water, young gentlemen."

"We are afraid of nothing," replied De
Guiche.

"Come along, then."

The pilot approached the side of the
boat, and the two young men, one after
the other, with equal vivacity, jumped
into the boat. "Courage, my men," said
De Guiche; "I have twenty pistoles left
in this purse, and as soon as we reach
the admiral's vessel they shall be
yours." The sailors bent themselves to
their oars, and the boat bounded over
the crest of the waves. The interest
taken in this hazardous expedition was
universal; the whole population of Havre
hurried towards the jetties and every
look was directed towards the little
bark; at one moment it flew suspended on
the crest of the foaming waves, then
suddenly glided downwards towards the
bottom of a raging abyss, where it
seemed utterly lost. At the expiration
of an hour's struggling with the waves,
it reached the spot where the admiral's
vessel was anchored, and from the side
of which two boats had already been
dispatched towards their aid. Upon the
quarter-deck of the flagship, sheltered
by a canopy of velvet and ermine, which
was suspended by stout supports,
Henrietta, the queen dowager, and the
young princess -- with the admiral, the
Duke of Norfolk -- standing beside
them -- watched with alarm this slender
bark, at one moment tossed to the
heavens, and the next buried beneath the
waves, and against whose dark sail the
noble figures of the two French
gentlemen stood forth in relief like two
luminous apparitions. The crew, leaning
against the bulwarks and clinging to the
shrouds, cheered the courage of the two
daring young men, the skill of the
pilot, and the strength of the sailors.
They were received at the side of the
vessel by a shout of triumph. The Duke
of Norfolk, a handsome young man, from
twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age,
advanced to meet them. De Guiche and
Bragelonne lightly mounted the ladder on
the starboard side, and conducted by the
Duke of Norfolk, who resumed his place
near them, they approached to offer
their homage to the princesses. Respect,
and yet more, a certain apprehension,
for which he could not account, had
hitherto restrained the Comte de Guiche
from looking at Madame attentively, who,
however, had observed him immediately,
and had asked her mother, "Is not that
Monsieur in the boat yonder?" Madame
Henrietta who knew Monsieur better than
her daughter did, smiled at the mistake
her vanity had led her into, and had
answered, "No; it is only M. de Guiche,
his favorite." The princess, at this
reply, was constrained to check an
instinctive tenderness of feeling which
the courage displayed by the count had
awakened. At the very moment the
princess had put this question to her
mother, De Guiche had, at last, summoned
courage to raise his eyes towards her
and could compare the original with the
portrait he had so lately seen. No
sooner had he remarked her pale face,
her eyes so full of animation, her
beautiful nut-brown hair, her expressive
lips, and her every gesture, which,
while betokening royal descent, seemed
to thank and to encourage him at one and
the same time, than he was, for a
moment, so overcome, that, had it not
been for Raoul, on whose arm he leant,
he would have fallen. His friend's
amazed look, and the encouraging gesture
of the queen, restored Guiche to his
self-possession. In a few words he
explained his mission, explained in what
way he had become the envoy of his royal
highness; and saluted, according to
their rank and the reception they gave
him, the admiral and several of the
English noblemen who were grouped around
the princesses.

Raoul was then presented, and was most
graciously received; the share that the
Comte de la Fere had had in the
restoration of Charles II. was known to
all; and, more than that, it was the
comte who had been charged with the
negotiation of the marriage, by means of
which the granddaughter of Henry IV. was
now returning to France. Raoul spoke
English perfectly, and constituted
himself his friend's interpreter with
the young English noblemen, who were
indifferently acquainted with the French
language. At this moment a young man
came forward, of extremely handsome
features, and whose dress and arms were
remarkable for their extravagance of
material. He approached the princesses,
who were engaged in conversation with
the Duke of Norfolk, and, in a voice
which ill concealed his impatience,
said, "It is time now to disembark, your
royal highness. "The younger of the
princesses rose from her seat at this
remark, and was about to take the hand
which the young nobleman extended to
her, with an eagerness which arose from
a variety of motives, when the admiral
intervened between them, observing; "A
moment, if you please, my lord; it is
not possible for ladies to disembark
just now, the sea is too rough; it is
probable the wind may abate before
sunset, and the landing will not be
effected, therefore, until this
evening."

"Allow me to observe, my lord," said
Buckingham, with an irritation of manner
which he did not seek to disguise, "you
detain these ladies, and you have no
right to do so. One of them, unhappily,
now belongs to France, and you perceive
that France claims them by the voice of
her ambassadors;" and at the same moment
he indicated Raoul and Guiche, whom he
saluted.

"I cannot suppose that these gentlemen
intend to expose the lives of their
royal highnesses," replied the admiral.

"These gentlemen," retorted Buckingham,
"arrived here safely, notwithstanding
the wind; allow me to believe that the
danger will not be greater for their
royal highnesses when the wind will be
in their favor."

"These envoys have shown how great their
courage is," said the admiral. "You may
have observed that there was a great
number of persons on shore who did not
venture to accompany them. Moreover, the
desire which they had to show their
respect with the least possible delay to
Madame and her illustrious mother
induced them to brave the sea, which is
very tempestuous to-day, even for
sailors. These gentlemen, however, whom
I recommend as an example for my
officers to follow, can hardly be so for
these ladies."

Madame glanced at the Comte de Guiche,
and perceived that his face was burning
with confusion. This look had escaped
Buckingham, who had eyes for nothing but
Norfolk, of whom he was evidently very
jealous; he seemed anxious to remove the
princesses from the deck of a vessel
where the admiral reigned supreme. "In
that case," returned Buckingham, "I
appeal to Madame herself."

"And I, my lord," retorted the admiral,
"I appeal to my own conscience, and to
my own sense of responsibility. I have
undertaken to convey Madame safe and
sound to France, and I shall keep my
promise."

"But sir ---- " continued Buckingham.

"My lord, permit me to remind you that I
command here."

"Are you aware what you are saying, my
lord?" replied Buckingham, haughtily.

"Perfectly so; I therefore repeat it: I
alone command here, all yield obedience
to me; the sea and the winds, the ships
and men too." This remark was made in a
dignified and authoritative manner.
Raoul observed its effect upon
Buckingham, who trembled with anger from
head to foot, and leaned against one of
the poles of the tent to prevent himself
falling; his eyes became suffused with
blood, and the hand which he did not
need for his support wandered towards
the hilt of his sword.

"My lord," said the queen, "permit me to
observe that I agree in every particular
with the Duke of Norfolk; if the
heavens, instead of being clouded as
they are at the present moment, were
perfectly serene and propitious, we can
still afford to bestow a few hours upon
the officer who has conducted us so
successfully, and with such extreme
attention, to the French coast, where he
is to take leave of us."

Buckingham, instead of replying, seemed
to seek counsel from the expression of
Madame's face. She, however,
half-concealed beneath the thick
curtains of the velvet and gold which
sheltered her, had not listened to the
discussion, having been occupied in
watching the Comte de Guiche, who was
conversing with Raoul. This was a fresh
misfortune for Buckingham, who fancied
he perceived in Madame Henrietta's look
a deeper feeling than that of curiosity.
He withdrew, almost tottering in his
gait, and nearly stumbled against the
mainmast of the ship.

"The duke has not acquired a steady
footing yet," said the queen-mother, in
French, "and that may possibly be his
reason for wishing to find himself on
firm land again."

The young man overheard this remark,
turned suddenly pale, and, letting his
hands fall in great discouragement by
his side, drew aside, mingling in one
sigh his old affection and his new
hatreds. The admiral, however, without
taking any further notice of the duke's
ill-humor, led the princesses into the
quarter-deck cabin, where dinner had
been served with a magnificence worthy
in every respect of his guests. The
admiral seated himself at the right hand
of the princess, and placed the Comte de
Guiche on her left. This was the place
Buckingham usually occupied; and when he
entered the cabin, how profound was his
unhappiness to see himself banished by
etiquette from the presence of his
sovereign, to a position inferior to
that which, by rank, he was entitled to.
De Guiche, on the other hand, paler
still perhaps from happiness, than his
rival was from anger, seated himself
tremblingly next the princess, whose
silken robe, as it lightly touched him,
caused a tremor of mingled regret and
happiness to pass through his whole
frame. The repast finished, Buckingham
darted forward to hand Madame Henrietta
from the table; but this time it was De
Guiche's turn to give the duke a lesson.
"Have the goodness, my lord, from this
moment," said he, "not to interpose
between her royal highness and myself.
From this moment, indeed, her royal
highness belongs to France, and when she
deigns to honor me by touching my hand
it is the hand of Monsieur, the brother
of the king of France, she touches."

And saying this, he presented his hand
to Madame Henrietta with such marked
deference, and at the same time with a
nobleness of mien so intrepid, that a
murmur of admiration rose from the
English, whilst a groan of despair
escaped from Buckingham's lips. Raoul,
who loved, comprehended it all. He fixed
upon his friend one of those profound
looks which a bosom friend or mother can
alone extend, either as protector or
guardian, over the one who is about to
stray from the right path. Towards two
o'clock in the afternoon the sun shone
forth anew, the wind subsided, the sea
became smooth as a crystal mirror, and
the fog, which had shrouded the coast,
disappeared like a veil withdrawn from
before it. The smiling hills of France
appeared in full view with their
numerous white houses rendered more
conspicuous by the bright green of the
trees or the clear blue sky.




CHAPTER 85

The Tents



The admiral, as we have seen, was
determined to pay no further attention
to Buckingham's threatening glances and
fits of passion. In fact, from the
moment they quitted England, he had
gradually accustomed himself to his
behavior. De Guiche had not yet in any
way remarked the animosity which
appeared to influence that young
nobleman against him, but he felt,
instinctively, that there could be no
sympathy between himself and the
favorite of Charles II. The
queen-mother, with greater experience
and calmer judgment, perceived the exact
position of affairs, and, as she
discerned its danger, was prepared to
meet it, whenever the proper moment
should arrive. Quiet had been everywhere
restored, except in Buckingham's heart;
he, in his impatience, addressed himself
to the princess, in a low tone of voice:
"For Heaven's sake, madame, I implore
you to hasten your disembarkation. Do
you not perceive how that insolent Duke
of Norfolk is killing me with his
attentions and devotions to you?"

Henrietta heard this remark; she smiled,
and without turning her head towards
him, but giving only to the tone of her
voice that inflection of gentle
reproach, and languid impertinence,
which women and princesses so well know
how to assume, she murmured, "I have
already hinted, my lord, that you must
have taken leave of your senses."

Not a single detail escaped Raoul's
attention; he heard both Buckingham's
entreaty and the princess's reply; he
remarked Buckingham retire, heard his
deep sigh, and saw him pass his hand
across his face. He understood
everything, and trembled as he reflected
on the position of affairs, and the
state of the minds of those about him.
At last the admiral, with studied delay,
gave the last orders for the departure
of the boats.

Buckingham heard the directions given
with such an exhibition of delight that
a stranger would really imagine the
young man's reason was affected. As the
Duke of Norfolk gave his commands, a
large boat or barge, decked with flags,
and capable of holding about twenty
rowers and fifteen passengers, was
slowly lowered from the side of the
admiral's vessel. The barge was carpeted
with velvet and decorated with coverings
embroidered with the arms of England,
and with garlands of flowers; for, at
that time, ornamentation was by no means
forgotten in these political pageants.
No sooner was this really royal boat
afloat and the rowers with oars
uplifted, awaiting, like soldiers
presenting arms, the embarkation of the
princess, than Buckingham ran forward to
the ladder in order to take his place.
His progress was, however, arrested by
the queen. "My lord," she said, "it is
hardly becoming that you should allow my
daughter and myself to land without
having previously ascertained that our
apartments are properly prepared. I beg
your lordship to be good enough to
precede us ashore, and to give
directions that everything be in proper
order on our arrival."

This was a fresh disappointment for the
duke, and, still more so, since it was
so unexpected. He hesitated, colored
violently, but could not reply. He had
thought he might be able to keep near
Madame during the passage to the shore,
and, by this means, to enjoy to the very
last moment the brief period fortune
still reserved for him. The order,
however, was explicit; and the admiral,
who heard it given, immediately called
out, "Launch the ship's gig." His
directions were executed with that
celerity which distinguishes every
maneuver on board a man-of-war.

Buckingham, in utter hopelessness, cast
a look of despair at the princess, of
supplication towards the queen, and
directed a glance full of anger towards
the admiral. The princess pretended not
to notice him, while the queen turned
aside her head, and the admiral laughed
outright, at the sound of which
Buckingham seemed ready to spring upon
him. The queen-mother rose, and with a
tone of authority said, "Pray set off,
sir."

The young duke hesitated, looked around
him, and with a last effort, half-choked
by contending emotions, said, "And you,
gentlemen, M. de Guiche and M. de
Bragelonne, do not you accompany me?"

De Guiche bowed and said, "Both M. de
Bragelonne and myself await her
majesty's orders; whatever the commands
she imposes on us, we shall obey them."
Saying this, he looked towards the
princess, who cast down her eyes.

"Your grace will remember," said the
queen, "that M. de Guiche is here to
represent Monsieur; it is he who will do
the honors of France, as you have done
those of England; his presence cannot be
dispensed with; besides, we owe him this
slight favor for the courage he
displayed in venturing to seek us in
such a terrible stress of weather."

Buckingham opened his lips, as if he
were about to speak, but, whether
thoughts or expressions failed him, not
a syllable escaped them, and turning
away, as though out of his mind, he
leapt from the vessel into the boat. The
sailors were just in time to catch hold
of him to steady themselves; for his
weight and the rebound had almost upset
the boat.

"His grace cannot be in his senses,"
said the admiral aloud to Raoul.

"I am uneasy on the Duke's account,"
replied Bragelonne.

While the boat was advancing towards the
shore, the duke kept his eyes immovably
fixed upon the admiral's ship, like a
miser torn away from his coffers, or a
mother separated from her child, about
to be led away to death. No one,
however, acknowledged his signals, his
frowns, or his pitiful gestures. In very
anguish of mind, he sank down in the
boat, burying his hands in his hair,
whilst the boat, impelled by the
exertions of the merry sailors, flew
over the waves. On his arrival he was in
such a state of apathy, that, had he not
been received at the harbor by the
messenger whom he had directed to
precede him, he would hardly have had
strength to ask his way. Having once,
however, reached the house which had
been set apart for him, he shut himself
up, like Achilles in his tent. The barge
bearing the princesses quitted the
admiral's vessel at the very moment
Buckingham landed. It was followed by
another boat filled with officers,
courtiers, and zealous friends. Great
numbers of the inhabitants of Havre,
having embarked in fishing-cobles and
boats of every description, set off to
meet the royal barge. The cannon from
the forts fired salutes, which were
returned by the flagship and the two
other vessels, and the flashes from the
open mouths of the cannon floated in
white fumes over the waves, and
disappeared in the clear blue sky.

The princess landed at the decorated
quay. Bands of gay music greeted her
arrival, and accompanied her every step
she took. During the time she was
passing through the center of the town,
and treading beneath her delicate feet
the richest carpets and the gayest
flowers, which had been strewn upon the
ground, De Guiche and Raoul, escaping
from their English friends, hurried
through the town and hastened rapidly
towards the place intended for the
residence of Madame.

"Let us hurry forward," said Raoul to De
Guiche, "for if I read Buckingham's
character aright, he will create some
disturbance, when he learns the result
of our deliberations of yesterday."

"Never fear," said De Guiche, "De Wardes
is there, who is determination itself,
while Manicamp is the very
personification of artless gentleness."

De Guiche was not, however, the less
diligent on that account, and five
minutes afterwards they were within
sight of the Hotel de Ville. The first
thing which struck them was the number
of people assembled in the square.
"Excellent," said De Guiche; "our
apartments, I see, are prepared."

In fact, in front of the Hotel de Ville,
upon the wide open space before it,
eight tents had been raised, surmounted
by the flags of France and England
united. The hotel was surrounded by
tents, as by a girdle of variegated
colors; ten pages and a dozen mounted
troopers, who had been given to the
ambassadors, for an escort, mounted
guard before the tents. It had a
singularly curious effect, almost
fairy-like in its appearance. These
tents had been constructed during the
night-time. Fitted up, within and
without, with the richest materials that
De Guiche had been able to procure in
Havre, they completely encircled the
Hotel de Ville. The only passage which
led to the steps of the hotel, and which
was not inclosed by the silken
barricade, was guarded by two tents,
resembling two pavilions, the doorways
of both of which opened towards the
entrance. These two tents were destined
for De Guiche and Raoul; in whose
absence they were intended to be
occupied, that of De Guiche by De
Wardes, and that of Raoul by Manicamp.
Surrounding these two tents, and the six
others, a hundred officers, gentlemen,
and pages, dazzling in their display of
silk and gold, thronged like bees
buzzing about a hive. Every one of them,
their swords by their sides, was ready
to obey the slightest sign either of De
Guiche or Bragelonne, the leaders of the
embassy.

At the very moment the two young men
appeared at the end of one of the
streets leading to the square, they
perceived, crossing the square at full
gallop, a young man on horseback, whose
costume was of surprising richness. He
pushed hastily through the crowd of
curious lookers-on, and, at the sight of
these unexpected erections, uttered a
cry of anger and dismay. It was
Buckingham, who had awakened from his
stupor, in order to adorn himself with a
costume perfectly dazzling from its
beauty, and to await the arrival of the
princess and the queen-mother at the
Hotel de Ville. At the entrance to the
tents, the soldiers barred his passage,
and his further progress was arrested.
Buckingham, hopelessly infuriated,
raised his whip; but his arm was seized
by a couple of officers. Of the two
guardians of the tent, only one was
there. De Wardes was in the interior of
the Hotel de Ville, engaged in attending
to the execution of some orders given by
De Guiche. At the noise made by
Buckingham Manicamp, who was indolently
reclining upon the cushions at the
doorway of one of the tents, rose with
his usual indifference, and, perceiving
that the disturbance continued, made his
appearance from underneath the curtains.
"What is the matter?" he said, in a
gentle tone of voice, "and who is it
making this disturbance?"

It so happened, that, at the moment he
began to speak, silence had just been
restored, and, although his voice was
very soft and gentle in its tone, every
one heard his question. Buckingham
turned round; and looked at the tall,
thin figure, and the listless expression
of countenance of his questioner.
Probably the personal appearance of
Manicamp, who was dressed very plainly,
did not inspire him with much respect,
for he replied disdainfully, "Who may
you be, monsieur?"

Manicamp, leaning on the arm of a
gigantic trooper, as firm as the pillar
of a cathedral, replied in his usual
tranquil tone of voice, -- "And you,
monsieur?"

"I, monsieur, am the Duke of Buckingham;
I have hired all the houses which
surround the Hotel de Ville, where I
have business to transact; and as these
houses are let, they belong to me, and,
as I hired them in order to preserve the
right of free access to the Hotel de
Ville, you are not justified in
preventing me passing to it."

"But who prevents you passing,
monsieur?" inquired Manicamp.

"Your sentinels."

"Because you wish to pass on horseback,
and orders have been given to let only
persons on foot pass."

"No one has any right to give orders
here, except myself," said Buckingham.

"On what grounds?" inquired Manicamp,
with his soft tone. "Will you do me the
favor to explain this enigma to me?"

"Because, as I have already told you, I
have hired all the houses looking on the
square."

"We are very well aware of that, since
nothing but the square itself has been
left for us."

"You are mistaken, monsieur; the square
belongs to me, as well as the houses in
it."

"Forgive me, monsieur, but you are
mistaken there. In our country, we say,
the highway belongs to the king,
therefore this square is his majesty's;
and, consequently, as we are the king's
ambassadors, the square belongs to us."

"I have already asked you who you are,
monsieur," exclaimed Buckingham,
exasperated at the coolness of his
interlocutor.

"My name is Manicamp," replied the young
man, in a voice whose tones were as
harmonious and sweet as the notes of an
AEolian harp.

Buckingham shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously, and said, "When I hired
these houses which surround the Hotel de
Ville, the square was unoccupied; these
barracks obstruct my sight; I hereby
order them to be removed."

A hoarse and angry murmur ran through
the crowd of listeners at these words.
De Guiche arrived at this moment; he
pushed through the crowd which separated
him from Buckingham, and, followed by
Raoul, arrived on the scene of action
from one side, just as De Wardes came up
from the other. "Pardon me, my lord; but
if you have any complaint to make, have
the goodness to address it to me,
inasmuch as it was I who supplied the
plans for the construction of these
tents."

"Moreover, I would beg you to observe,
monsieur, that the term `barrack' is a
highly objectionable one!" added
Manicamp, graciously.

"You were saying, monsieur -- "
continued De Guiche.

"I was saying, monsieur le comte,"
resumed Buckingham, in a tone of anger
more marked than ever, although in some
measure moderated by the presence of an
equal, "I was saying that it is
impossible these tents can remain where
they are."

"Impossible!" exclaimed De Guiche, "and
why?"

"Because I object to them."

A movement of impatience escaped De
Guiche, but a warning glance from Raoul
restrained him.

"You should the less object to them,
monsieur, on account of the abuse of
priority you have permitted yourself to
exercise."

"Abuse!"

"Most assuredly. You commission a
messenger, who hires in your name the
whole of the town of Havre, without
considering the members of the French
court, who would be sure to arrive here
to meet Madame. Your Grace will admit
that this is hardly friendly conduct in
the representative of a friendly
nation."

"The right of possession belongs to him
who is first on the ground."

"Not in France, monsieur."

"Why not in France?"

"Because France is a country where
politeness is observed."

"Which means!" exclaimed Buckingham, in
so violent a manner that those who were
present drew back, expecting an
immediate collision.

"Which means, monsieur," replied De
Guiche, now rather pale, "that I caused
these tents to be raised as habitations
for myself and my friends, as a shelter
for the ambassadors of France, as the
only place of refuge which your
exactions have left us in the town; and
that I and those who are with me, shall
remain in them, at least, until an
authority more powerful, and more
supreme, than your own shall dismiss me
from them."

"In other words, until we are ejected,
as the lawyers say," observed Manicamp,
blandly.

"I know an authority, monsieur, which I
trust is such as you will respect," said
Buckingham, placing his hand on his
sword.

At this moment, and as the goddess of
Discord, inflaming all minds, was about
to direct their swords against each
other, Raoul gently placed his hand on
Buckingham's shoulder. "One word, my
lord," he said.

"My right, my right, first of all,"
exclaimed the fiery young man.

"It is precisely upon that point I wish
to have the honor of addressing a word
to you."

"Very well, monsieur, but let your
remarks be brief."

"One question is all I ask; you can
hardly expect me to be briefer."

"Speak, monsieur, I am listening."

"Are you, or is the Duke of Orleans,
going to marry the granddaughter of
Henry IV.?"

"What do you mean?" exclaimed
Buckingham, retreating a few steps,
bewildered.

"Have the goodness to answer me,"
persisted Raoul, tranquilly.

"Do you mean to ridicule me, monsieur?"
inquired Buckingham.

"Your question is a sufficient answer
for me. You admit, then, that it is not
you who are going to marry the
princess?"

"Thou know it perfectly well, monsieur,
I should imagine."

"I beg your pardon, but your conduct has
been such as to leave it not altogether
certain."

"Proceed, monsieur, what do you mean to
convey?"

Raoul approached the duke. "Are you
aware, my lord," he said, lowering his
voice, "that your extravagances very
much resemble the excesses of jealousy?
These jealous fits, with respect to any
woman, are not becoming in one who is
neither her lover nor her husband; and I
am sure you will admit that my remark
applies with still greater force, when
the lady in question is a princess of
the blood royal!"

"Monsieur," exclaimed Buckingham, "do
you mean to insult Madame Henrietta?"

"Be careful, my lord," replied
Bragelonne, coldly, "for it is you who
insult her. A little while since, when
on board the admiral's ship, you wearied
the queen, and exhausted the admiral's
patience. I was observing, my lord; and,
at first, I concluded you were not in
possession of your senses, but I have
since surmised the real significance of
your madness."

"Monsieur!" exclaimed Buckingham.

"One moment more, for I have yet another
word to add. I trust I am the only one
of my companions who has guessed it."

"Are you aware, monsieur," said
Buckingham, trembling with mingled
feelings of anger and uneasiness, "are
you aware that you are holding language
towards me which requires to be
checked?"

"Weigh your words well, my lord," said
Raoul, haughtily: "my nature is not such
that its vivacities need checking;
whilst you, on the contrary, are
descended from a race whose passions are
suspected by all true Frenchmen; I
repeat, therefore, for the second time,
be careful!"

"Careful of what, may I ask? Do you
presume to threaten me?"

"I am the son of the Comte de la Fere,
my lord, and I never threaten, because I
strike first. Therefore, understand me
well, the threat that I hold out to you
is this ---- "

Buckingham clenched his hands, but Raoul
continued, as though he had not observed
the gesture. "At the very first word,
beyond the respect and deference due to
her royal highness, which you permit
yourself to use towards her, -- be
patient, my lord, for I am perfectly
so."

"You?"

"Undoubtedly. So long as Madame remained
on English territory, I held my peace;
but from the very moment she stepped on
French ground, and now that we have
received her in the name of the prince,
I warn you, that at the first mark of
disrespect which you, in your insane
attachment, exhibit towards the royal
house of France, I shall have one of two
courses to follow; -- either I declare,
in the presence of every one, the
madness with which you are now affected,
and I get you ignominiously ordered back
to England; or if you prefer it, I will
run my dagger through your throat in the
presence of all here. This second
alternative seems to me the least
disagreeable, and I think I shall hold
to it."

Buckingham had become paler than the
lace collar around his neck. "M. de
Bragelonne," he said, "is it, indeed, a
gentleman who is speaking to me?"

"Yes; only the gentleman is speaking to
a madman. Get cured, my lord, and he
will hold quite another language to
you."

"But, M. de Bragelonne," murmured the
duke, in a voice, half-choked, and
putting his hand to his neck, -- "Do you
not see I am choking?"

"If your death were to take place at
this moment, my lord," replied Raoul,
with unruffled composure, "I should,
indeed, regard it as a great happiness,
for this circumstance would prevent all
kinds of evil remarks; not alone about
yourself, but also about those
illustrious persons whom your devotion
is compromising in so absurd a manner."

"You are right, you are right," said the
young man, almost beside himself. "Yes,
yes; better to die, than to suffer as I
do at this moment." And he grasped a
beautiful dagger, the handle of which
was inlaid with precious stones; and
which he half drew from his breast.

Raoul thrust his hand aside. "Be careful
what you do," he said; "if you do not
kill yourself, you commit a ridiculous
action; and if you were to kill
yourself, you sprinkle blood upon the
nuptial robe of the princess of
England."

Buckingham remained a minute gasping for
breath; during this interval, his lips
quivered, his fingers worked
convulsively, and his eyes wandered as
though in delirium. Then suddenly, he
said, "M. de Bragelonne, I know nowhere
a nobler mind than yours; you are,
indeed, a worthy son of the most perfect
gentleman that ever lived. Keep your
tents." And he threw his arms round
Raoul's neck. All who were present,
astounded at this conduct, which was the
very reverse of what was expected,
considering the violence of the one
adversary and the determination of the
other, began immediately to clap their
hands, and a thousand cheers and joyful
shouts arose from all sides. De Guiche,
in his turn, embraced Buckingham
somewhat against his inclination; but,
at all events, he did embrace him. This
was the signal for French and English to
do the same; and they who, until that
moment, had looked at each other with
restless uncertainty, fraternized on the
spot. In the meantime, the procession of
the princess arrived, and had it not
been for Bragelonne, two armies would
have been engaged together in conflict,
and blood have been shed upon the
flowers with which the ground was
covered. At the appearance, however, of
the banners borne at the head of the
procession, complete order was restored.




CHAPTER 86

Night



Concord returned to its place amidst the
tents. English and French rivaled each
other in their devotion and courteous
attention to the illustrious travelers.
The English forwarded to the French
baskets of flowers, of which they had
made a plentiful provision to greet the
arrival of the young princess; the
French in return invited the English to
a supper, which was to be given the next
day. Congratulations were poured in upon
the princess everywhere during her
journey. From the respect paid her on
all sides, she seemed like a queen; and
from the adoration with which she was
treated by two or three, she appeared an
object of worship. The queen-mother gave
the French the most affectionate
reception. France was her native
country, and she had suffered too much
unhappiness in England for England to
have made her forget France. She taught
her daughter, then, by her own affection
for it, that love for a country where
they had both been hospitably received,
and where a brilliant future opened
before them. After the public entry was
over, and the spectators in the streets
had partially dispersed, and the sound
of the music and cheering of the crowd
could be heard only in the distance;
when the night had closed in, wrapping
with its star-covered mantle the sea,
the harbor, the town, and surrounding
country, De Guiche, still excited by the
great events of the day, returned to his
tent, and seated himself upon one of the
stools with so profound an expression of
distress that Bragelonne kept his eyes
fixed on him, until he heard him sigh,
and then he approached him. The count
had thrown himself back on his seat,
leaning his shoulders against the
partition of the tent, and remained
thus, his face buried in his hands, with
heaving chest and restless limbs.

"You are suffering?" asked Raoul.

"Cruelly."

"Bodily, I suppose?"

"Yes; bodily."

"This has indeed been a harassing day,"
continued the young man, his eyes fixed
upon his friend.

"Yes; a night's rest will probably
restore me."

"Shall I leave you?"

"No; I wish to talk to you."

"You shall not speak to me, Guiche,
until you have first answered my
questions."

"Proceed then."

"You will be frank with me?"

"I always am."

"Can you imagine why Buckingham has been
so violent?"

"I suspect."

"Because he is in love with Madame, is
it not?"

"One could almost swear to it, to
observe him."

"You are mistaken; there is nothing of
the kind."

"It is you who are mistaken, Raoul; I
have read his distress in his eyes, in
his every gesture and action the whole
day."

"You are a poet, my dear count, and find
subject for your muse everywhere."

"I can perceive love clearly enough."

"Where it does not exist?"

"Nay, where it does exist."

"Do you not think you are deceiving
yourself, Guiche?"

"I am convinced of what I say," said the
count.

"Now, inform me count," said Raoul,
fixing a penetrating look upon him,
"what has happened to render you so
clear-sighted?"

Guiche hesitated for a moment, and then
answered, "Self-love, I suppose."

"Self-love is a pedantic word, Guiche."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that, generally, you are less
out of spirits than seems to be the case
this evening."

"I am fatigued."

"Listen to me, Guiche; we have been
campaigners together; we have been on
horseback for eighteen hours at a time,
and our horses dying from exhaustion, or
hunger, have fallen beneath us, and yet
we have laughed at our mishaps. Believe
me, it is not fatigue that saddens you
to-night."

"It is annoyance, then."

"What annoyance?"

"That of this evening."

"The mad conduct of the Duke of
Buckingham, do you mean?"

"Of course; is it not vexatious for us,
the representatives of our sovereign
master, to witness the devotion of an
Englishman to our future mistress, the
second lady in point of rank in the
kingdom?"

"Yes, you are right; but I do not think
any danger is to be apprehended from
Buckingham."

"No; still he is intrusive. Did he not,
on his arrival here, almost succeed in
creating a disturbance between the
English and ourselves; and, had it not
been for you, for your admirable
prudence, for your singular decision of
character, swords would have been drawn
in the very streets of the town."

"You observe, however, that he has
changed his tactics."

"Yes, certainly; but this is the very
thing that amazes me so much. You spoke
to him in a low tone of voice, what did
you say to him? You think he loves her;
you admit that such a passion does not
give way readily. He does not love her,
then!" De Guiche pronounced the latter
with so marked an expression that Raoul
raised his head. The noble character of
the young man's countenance expressed a
displeasure which could easily be read.

"What I said to him, count," replied
Raoul, "I will repeat to you. Listen to
me. I said, `You are regarding with
wistful feelings, and most injurious
desire, the sister of your prince, --
her to whom you are not affianced, who
is not, who can never be anything to
you; you are outraging those who, like
ourselves, have come to seek a young
lady to escort her to her husband.'"

"You spoke to him in that manner?" asked
Guiche coloring.

"In those very terms; I even added more.
`How would you regard us,' I said, `if
you were to perceive among us a man mad
enough, disloyal enough, to entertain
other than sentiments of the most
perfect respect for a princess who is
the destined wife of our master?'"

These words were so applicable to De
Guiche that he turned pale, and,
overcome by a sudden agitation, was
barely able to stretch out one hand
mechanically towards Raoul, as he
covered his eyes and face with the
other.

"But," continued Raoul, not interrupted
by this movement of his friend, "Heaven
be praised, the French who are
pronounced to be thoughtless and
indiscreet, reckless, even, are capable
of bringing a calm and sound judgment to
bear on matters of such high importance.
I added even more, for I said, `Learn,
my lord, that we gentlemen of France
devote ourselves to our sovereigns by
sacrificing for them our affections, as
well as our fortunes and our lives; and
whenever it may chance to happen that
the tempter suggests one of those vile
thoughts that set the heart on fire, we
extinguish the flame, even if it has to
be done by shedding our blood for the
purpose. Thus it is that the honor of
three is saved: our country's, our
master's, and our own. It is thus that
we act, your Grace; it is thus that
every man of honor ought to act. In this
manner, my dear Guiche," continued
Raoul, "I addressed the Duke of
Buckingham; and he admitted I was right,
and resigned himself unresistingly to my
arguments."

De Guiche, who had hitherto sat leaning
forward while Raoul was speaking, drew
himself up, his eyes glancing proudly;
he seized Raoul's hand, his face, which
had been as cold as ice, seemed on fire.
"And you spoke magnificently," he said,
in a half-choked voice; "you are indeed
a friend, Raoul. But now, I entreat you,
leave me to myself."

"Do you wish it?"

"Yes; I need repose. Many things have
agitated me to-day, both in mind and
body; when you return tomorrow I shall
no longer be the same man."

"I leave you, then," said Raoul, as he
withdrew. The count advanced a step
towards his friend, and pressed him
warmly in his arms. But in this friendly
pressure Raoul could detect the nervous
agitation of a great internal conflict.

The night was clear, starlit, and
splendid; the tempest had passed away,
and the sweet influences of the evening
had restored life, peace and security
everywhere. A few fleecy clouds were
floating in the heavens, and indicated
from their appearance a continuance of
beautiful weather, tempered by a gentle
breeze from the east. Upon the large
square in front of the hotel, the
shadows of the tents, intersected by the
golden moonbeams, formed as it were a
huge mosaic of jet and yellow
flagstones. Soon, however, the entire
town was wrapped in slumber; a feeble
light still glimmered in Madame's
apartment, which looked out upon the
square, and the soft rays from the
expiring lamp seemed to be the image of
the calm sleep of a young girl, hardly
yet sensible of life's anxieties, and in
whom the flame of existence sinks
placidly as sleep steals over the body.

Bragelonne quitted the tent with the
slow and measured step of a man curious
to observe, but anxious not to be seen.
Sheltered behind the thick curtains of
his own tent, embracing with a glance
the whole square, he noticed that, after
a few moments' pause, the curtains of De
Guiche's tent were agitated, and then
drawn partially aside. Behind them he
could perceive the shadow of De Guiche,
his eyes glittering in the obscurity,
fastened ardently upon the princess's
sitting apartment, which was partially
lighted by the lamp in the inner room.
The soft light which illumined the
windows was the count's star. The
fervent aspirations of his nature could
be read in his eyes. Raoul, concealed in
the shadow, divined the many passionate
thoughts that established, between the
tent of the young ambassador and the
balcony of the princess, a mysterious
and magical bond of sympathy -- a bond
created by thoughts imprinted with so
much strength and persistence of will,
that they must have caused happy and
loving dreams to alight upon the
perfumed couch, which the count, with
the eyes of his soul, devoured so
eagerly.

But De Guiche and Raoul were not the
only watchers. The window of one of the
houses looking on the square was opened
too, the casement of the house where
Buckingham resided. By the aid of the
rays of light which issued from this
latter, the profile of the duke could be
distinctly seen, as he indolently
reclined upon the carved balcony with
its velvet hangings; he also was
breathing in the direction of the
princess's apartment his prayers and the
wild visions of his love.

Raoul could not resist smiling, as
thinking of Madame, he said to himself,
"Hers is, indeed, a heart well
besieged;" and then added,
compassionately, as he thought of
Monsieur, "and he is a husband well
threatened too; it is a good thing for
him that he is a prince of such high
rank, that he has an army to safeguard
for him that which is his own."
Bragelonne watched for some time the
conduct of the two lovers, listened to
the loud and uncivil slumbers of
Manicamp, who snored as imperiously as
though he was wearing his blue and gold,
instead of his violet suit.

Then he turned towards the night breeze
which bore towards him, he seemed to
think, the distant song of the
nightingale; and, after having laid in a
due provision of melancholy, another
nocturnal malady, he retired to rest
thinking, with regard to his own love
affair, that perhaps four or even a
larger number of eyes, quite as ardent
as those of De Guiche and Buckingham,
were coveting his own idol in the
chateau at Blois. "And Mademoiselle de
Montalais is by no means a very
conscientious garrison," said he to
himself, sighing aloud.




CHAPTER 87

From Havre to Paris



The next day the fetes took place,
accompanied by all the pomp and
animation that the resources of the town
and the cheerful disposition of men's
minds could supply. During the last few
hours spent in Havre, every preparation
for the departure had been made. After
Madame had taken leave of the English
fleet, and, once again, had saluted the
country in saluting its flags, she
entered her carriage, surrounded by a
brilliant escort. De Guiche had hoped
that the Duke of Buckingham would
accompany the admiral to England; but
Buckingham succeeded in demonstrating to
the queen that there would be great
impropriety in allowing Madame to
proceed to Paris almost unprotected. As
soon as it had been settled that
Buckingham was to accompany Madame, the
young duke selected a corps of gentlemen
and officers to form part of his own
suite, so that it was almost an army
that now set out towards Paris,
scattering gold, and exciting the
liveliest demonstrations as they passed
through the different towns and villages
on the route. The weather was very fine.
France is a beautiful country,
especially along the route by which the
procession passed. Spring cast its
flowers and its perfumed foliage on
their path. Normandy, with its vast
variety of vegetation, its blue skies
and silver rivers, displayed itself in
all the loveliness of a paradise to the
new sister of the king. Fetes and
brilliant displays received them
everywhere along the line of march. De
Guiche and Buckingham forgot everything;
De Guiche in his anxiety to prevent any
fresh attempts on the part of the duke,
and Buckingham, in his desire to awaken
in the heart of the princess a softer
remembrance of the country to which the
recollection of many happy days
belonged. But, alas! the poor duke could
perceive that the image of that country
so cherished by himself became, from day
to day, more and more effaced in
Madame's mind, in exact proportion as
her affection for France became more
deeply engraved on her heart. In fact,
it was not difficult to perceive that
his most devoted attention awakened no
acknowledgment, and that the grace with
which he rode one of his most fiery
horses was thrown away, for it was only
casually and by the merest accident that
the princess's eyes were turned towards
him. In vain did he try, in order to fix
upon himself one of those looks, which
were thrown carelessly around, or
bestowed elsewhere, to produce in the
animal he rode its greatest display of
strength, speed, temper and address; in
vain did he, by exciting his horse
almost to madness, spur him, at the risk
of dashing himself in pieces against the
trees, or of rolling in the ditches,
over the gates and barriers which they
passed, or down the steep declivities of
the hills. Madame, whose attention had
been aroused by the noise, turned her
head for a moment to observe the cause
of it, and then, slightly smiling, again
entered into conversation with her
faithful guardians, Raoul and De Guiche,
who were quietly riding at her carriage
doors. Buckingham felt himself a prey to
all the tortures of jealousy; an
unknown, unheard of anguish glided
through his veins, and laid siege to his
heart; and then, as if to show that he
knew the folly of his conduct, and that
he wished to correct, by the humblest
submission, his flights of absurdity, he
mastered his horse, and compelled him,
reeking with sweat and flecked with
foam, to champ his bit close beside the
carriage, amidst the crowd of courtiers.
Occasionally he obtained a word from
Madame as a recompense, and yet her
speech seemed almost a reproach.

"That is well, my lord," she said, "now
you are reasonable."

Or from Raoul, "Your Grace is killing
your horse."

Buckingham listened patiently to Raoul's
remarks, for he instinctively felt,
without having had any proof that such
was the case, that Raoul checked the
display of De Guiche's feelings, and
that, had it not been for Raoul, some
mad act or proceeding, either of the
count, or of Buckingham himself, would
have brought about an open rupture, or a
disturbance -- perhaps even exile
itself. From the moment of that excited
conversation the two young men had held
in front of the tents at Havre, when
Raoul made the duke perceive the
impropriety of his conduct, Buckingham
felt himself attracted towards Raoul
almost in spite of himself. He often
entered into conversation with him, and
it was nearly always to talk to him
either of his father or of D'Artagnan,
their mutual friend, in whose praise
Buckingham was nearly as enthusiastic as
Raoul. Raoul endeavored, as much as
possible, to make the conversation turn
upon this subject in De Wardes's
presence, who had, during the whole
journey, been exceedingly annoyed at the
superior position taken by Bragelonne,
and especially by his influence over De
Guiche. De Wardes had that keen and
merciless penetration most evil natures
possess; he had immediately remarked De
Guiche's melancholy, and divined the
nature of his regard for the princess.
Instead, however, of treating the
subject with the same reserve which
Raoul practiced; instead of regarding
with that respect, which was their due,
the obligations and duties of society,
De Wardes resolutely attacked in the
count the ever-sounding chord of
juvenile audacity and pride. It happened
one evening, during a halt at Nantes,
that while De Guiche and De Wardes were
leaning against a barrier, engaged in
conversation, Buckingham and Raoul were
also talking together as they walked up
and down. Manicamp was engaged in
devoted attendance on the princess, who
already treated him without reserve, on
account of his versatile fancy, his
frank courtesy of manner, and
conciliatory disposition.

"Confess," said De Wardes, "that you are
really ill and that your pedagogue of a
friend has not succeeded in curing you."

"I do not understand you," said the
count.

"And yet it is easy enough; you are
dying of love."

"You are mad, De Wardes."

"Madness it would be, I admit, if Madame
were really indifferent to your
martyrdom; but she takes so much notice
of it, observes it to such an extent,
that she compromises herself, and I
tremble lest, on our arrival at Paris,
M. de Bragelonne may not denounce both
of you."

"For shame, De Wardes, again attacking
De Bragelonne."

"Come, come, a truce to child's play,"
replied the count's evil genius, in an
undertone; "you know as well as I do
what I mean. Besides, you must have
observed how the princess's glance
softens as she looks at you; -- you can
tell, by the very inflection of her
voice, what pleasure she takes in
listening to you, and can feel how
thoroughly she appreciates the verses
you recite to her. You cannot deny, too,
that every morning she tells you how
indifferently she slept the previous
night."

"True, De Wardes, quite true; but what
good is there in your telling me all
that?"

"Is it not important to know the exact
position of affairs?"

"No, no; not when I am a witness of
things that are enough to drive one
mad."

"Stay, stay," said De Wardes; "look, she
calls you, -- do you understand? Profit
by the occasion, while your pedagogue is
absent."

De Guiche could not resist; an
invincible attraction drew him towards
the princess. De Wardes smiled as he saw
him withdraw.

"You are mistaken, monsieur," said
Raoul, suddenly stepping across the
barrier against which the previous
moment the two friends had been leaning.
"The pedagogue is here, and has
overheard you."

De Wardes, at the sound of Raoul's
voice, which he recognized without
having occasion to look at him, half
drew his sword.

"Put up your sword," said Raoul, "you
know perfectly well that, until our
journey is at an end, every
demonstration of that nature is useless.
Why do you distill into the heart of the
man you term your friend all the
bitterness that infects your own? As
regards myself, you wish to arouse a
feeling of deep dislike against a man of
honor -- my father's friend and my own:
and as for the count you wish him to
love one who is destined for your
master. Really, monsieur, I should
regard you as a coward, and a traitor
too, if I did not, with greater justice,
regard you as a madman."

"Monsieur," exclaimed De Wardes,
exasperated, "I was deceived, I find, in
terming you a pedagogue. The tone you
assume, and the style which is
peculiarly your own, is that of a
Jesuit, and not of a gentleman.
Discontinue, I beg, whenever I am
present, this style I complain of, and
the tone also. I hate M. d'Artagnan
because he was guilty of a cowardly act
towards my father."

"You lie, monsieur," said Raoul, coolly.

"You give me the lie, monsieur?"
exclaimed De Wardes.

"Why not, if what you assert is untrue?"

"You give me the lie and will not draw
your sword?"

"I have resolved, monsieur, not to kill
you until Madame shall have been
delivered safely into her husband's
hands."

"Kill me! Believe me, monsieur, your
schoolmaster's rod does not kill so
easily."

"No," replied Raoul, sternly, "but M.
d'Artagnan's sword kills; and, not only
do I possess his sword, but he has
himself taught me how to use it: and
with that sword, when a befitting time
arrives, I will avenge his name ---a
name you have dishonored."

"Take care, monsieur," exclaimed De
Wardes; "if you do not immediately give
me satisfaction, I will avail myself of
every means to revenge myself."

"Indeed, monsieur," said Buckingham,
suddenly, appearing upon the scene of
action, "that is a threat which savors
of assassination, and therefore, ill
becomes a gentleman."

"What did you say, my lord?" said De
Wardes, turning round towards him.

"I said, monsieur, that the words you
spoken are displeasing to my English
ears."

"Very well, monsieur, if what you say is
true," exclaimed De Wardes, thoroughly
incensed, "I at least find in you one
who will not escape me. Understand my
words as you like."

"I take them in the manner they cannot
but be understood," replied Buckingham,
with that haughty tone which
characterized him. and which, even in
ordinary conversation, gave a tone of
defiance to everything he said; "M. de
Bragelonne is my friend, you insult M.
de Bragelonne, and you shall give me
satisfaction for that insult."

De Wardes cast a look upon De
Bragelonne, who, faithful to the
character he had assumed, remained calm
and unmoved, even after the duke's
defiance.

"It would seem that I did not insult M.
de Bragelonne, since M. de Bragelonne,
who carries a sword by his side, does
not consider himself insulted."

"At all events you insult some one."

"Yes, I insulted M. d'Artagnan," resumed
De Wardes, who had observed that this
was the only means of stinging Raoul, so
as to awaken his anger.

"That then," said Buckingham, "is
another matter."

"Precisely so," said De Wardes, "it is
the province of M. d'Artagnan's friends
to defend him."

"I am entirely of your opinion," replied
the duke, who had regained all his
indifference of manner; "if M. de
Bragelonne were offended, I could not
reasonably be expected to espouse his
quarrel, since he is himself here; but
when you say that it is a quarrel of M.
d'Artagnan ---- "

"You will of course leave me to deal
with the matter," said De Wardes.

"Nay, on the contrary, for I draw my
sword," said Buckingham, unsheathing it
as he spoke; "for if M. d'Artagnan
injured your father, he rendered, or at
least did all that he could to render, a
great service to mine."

De Wardes was thunderstruck.

"M. d'Artagnan," continued Buckingham,
"is the bravest gentleman I know. I
shall be delighted, as I owe him many
personal obligations, to settle them
with you, by crossing my sword with
yours." At the same moment Buckingham
drew his sword gracefully from its
scabbard, saluted Raoul, and put himself
on guard.

De Wardes advanced a step to meet him.

"Stay, gentlemen," said Raoul, advancing
towards them, and placing his own drawn
sword between the combatants, "the
affair is hardly worth the trouble of
blood being shed almost in the presence
of the princess. M. de Wardes speaks ill
of M. d'Artagnan, with whom he is not
even acquainted."

"What, monsieur," said De Wardes,
setting his teeth hard together, and
resting the point of his sword on the
toe of his boot, "do you assert that I
do not know M. d'Artagnan?"

"Certainly not; you do not know him,"
replied Raoul, coldly, "and you are even
not aware where he is to he found."

"Not know where he is?"

"Such must be the case, since you fix
your quarrel with him upon strangers,
instead of seeking M. d'Artagnan where
he is to be found." De Wardes turned
pale. "Well, monsieur," continued Raoul,
"I will tell you where M. d'Artagnan is:
he is now in Paris; when on duty he is
to be met with at the Louvre, -- when
not on duty, in the Rue des Lombards. M.
d'Artagnan can be easily discovered at
either of those two places. Having,
therefore, as you assert, so many causes
of complaint against him, show your
courage in seeking him out, and afford
him an opportunity of giving you that
satisfaction you seem to ask of every
one but of himself." De Wardes passed
his hand across his forehead, which was
covered with perspiration. "For shame,
M. de Wardes! so quarrelsome a
disposition is hardly becoming after the
publication of the edicts against duels.
Pray think of that; the king will be
incensed at our disobedience,
particularly at such a time, -- and his
majesty will be in the right."

"Excuses," murmured De Wardes; "mere
pretexts."

"Really, M. De Wardes," resumed Raoul,
"such remarks are the idlest bluster.
You know very well that the Duke of
Buckingham is a man of undoubted
courage, who has already fought ten
duels, and will probably fight eleven.
His name alone is significant enough. As
far as I am concerned, you are well
aware that I can fight also. I fought at
Sens, at Bleneau, at the Dunes in front
of the artillery, a hundred paces in
front of the line, while you -- I say
this parenthetically -- were a hundred
paces behind it. True it is, that on
that occasion there was far too great a
concourse of persons present for your
courage to be observed, and on that
account, perhaps, you did not reveal it;
while here, it would be a display, and
would excite remark -- you wish that
others should talk about you, in what
manner you do not care. Do not depend
upon me, M. de Wardes, to assist you in
your designs, for I shall certainly not
afford you that pleasure."

"Sensibly observed," said Buckingham,
putting up his sword, "and I ask your
forgiveness, M. de Bragelonne, for
having allowed myself to yield to a
first impulse."

De Wardes, however, on the contrary,
perfectly furious, bounded forward and
raised his sword, threateningly, against
Raoul, who had scarcely time to put
himself in a posture of defense.

"Take care, monsieur," said Bragelonne,
tranquilly, "or you will put out one of
my eyes."

"You will not fight, then?" said De
Wardes.

"Not at this moment, but this I promise
to do; immediately on our arrival at
Paris I will conduct you to M.
d'Artagnan, to whom you shall detail all
the causes of complaint you have against
him. M. d'Artagnan will solicit the
king's permission to measure swords with
you. The king will yield his consent,
and when you shall have received the
sword-thrust in due course, you will
consider, in a calmer frame of mind, the
precepts of the Gospel, which enjoin
forgetfulness of injuries."

"Ah!" exclaimed De Wardes, furious at
this imperturbable coolness, "one can
clearly see you are half a bastard, M.
de Bragelonne."

Raoul became as pale as death; his eyes
flashed lightning, causing De Wardes
involuntarily to fall back. Buckingham,
also, who had perceived their
expression, threw himself between the
two adversaries, whom he had expected to
see precipitate themselves on each
other. De Wardes had reserved this
injury for the last; he clasped his
sword firmly in his hand, and awaited
the encounter. "You are right,
monsieur," said Raoul, mastering his
emotion, "I am only acquainted with my
father's name, but I know too well that
the Comte de la Fere is too upright and
honorable a man to allow me to fear for
a single moment that there is, as you
insinuate, any stain upon my birth. My
ignorance, therefore, of my mother's
name is a misfortune for me, and not a
reproach. You are deficient in loyalty
of conduct; you are wanting in courtesy,
in reproaching me with misfortune. It
matters little, however, the insult has
been given, and I consider myself
insulted accordingly. It is quite
understood, then, that after you shall
have received satisfaction from M.
d'Artagnan, you will settle your quarrel
with me."

"I admire your prudence, monsieur,"
replied De Wardes with a bitter smile;
"a little while ago you promised me a
sword-thrust from M. d'Artagnan, and
now, after I shall have received his,
you offer me one from yourself."

"Do not disturb yourself," replied
Raoul, with concentrated anger, "in all
affairs of that nature, M. d'Artagnan is
exceedingly skillful, and I will beg him
as a favor to treat you as he did your
father; in other words, to spare your
life at least, so as to leave me the
pleasure, after your recovery, of
killing you outright; for you have the
heart of a viper, M. de Wardes, and in
very truth, too many precautions cannot
be taken against you."

"I shall take my precautions against
you," said De Wardes, "be assured of
it."

"Allow me, monsieur," said Buckingham,
"to translate your remark by a piece of
advice I am about to give M. de
Bragelonne; M. de Bragelonne, wear a
cuirass."

De Wardes clenched his hands. "Ah!" said
he, "you two gentlemen intend to wait
until you have taken that precaution
before you measure your swords against
mine."

"Very well, monsieur," said Raoul,
"since you positively will have it so,
let us settle the affair now." And
drawing his sword he advanced towards De
Wardes.

"What are you going to do?" said
Buckingham.

"Be easy," said Raoul, "it will not be
very long."

De Wardes placed himself on his guard;
their swords crossed. De Wardes flew
upon Raoul with such impetuosity, that
at the first clashing of the steel
blades Buckingham clearly saw that Raoul
was only trifling with his adversary.
Buckingham stepped aside, and watched
the combat. Raoul was as calm as if he
were handling a foil, instead of a
sword; having retreated a step, he
parried three or four fierce thrusts
which De Wardes made at him, caught the
sword of the latter within his own, and
sent it flying twenty paces the other
side of the barrier. Then as De Wardes
stood disarmed and astounded at his
defeat Raoul sheathed his sword, seized
him by the collar and the waist-band,
and hurled his adversary to the other
end of the barrier, trembling, and mad
with rage.

"We shall meet again," murmured De
Wardes, rising from the ground and
picking up his sword.

"I have done nothing for the last hour,"
said Raoul, "but say the same thing."
Then, turning towards the duke, he said,
"I entreat you to be silent about this
affair; I am ashamed to have gone so
far, but my anger carried me away, and I
ask your forgiveness for it; -- forget
it, too."

"Dear viscount," said the duke, pressing
within his own the vigorous and valiant
hand of his companion, "allow me, on the
contrary, to remember it, and to look
after your safety; that man is
dangerous, -- he will kill you."

"My father," replied Raoul, "lived for
twenty years under the menace of a much
more formidable enemy, and he still
lives."

"Your father had good friends,
viscount."

"Yes," sighed Raoul, "such friends
indeed, that none are now left like
them."

"Do not say that, I beg, at the very
moment I offer you my friendship;" and
Buckingham opened his arms to embrace
Raoul, who delightedly received the
proffered alliance. "In my family,"
added Buckingham, "you are aware, M. de
Bragelonne, wee die to save our
friends."

"I know it well, duke," replied Raoul.




CHAPTER 88

An Account of what the Chevalier de
Lorraine thought of Madame



Nothing further interrupted the journey.
Under a pretext that was little
remarked, M. de Wardes went forward in
advance of the others. He took Manicamp
with him, for his equable and dreamy
disposition acted as a counterpoise to
his own. It is a subject of remark, that
quarrelsome and restless characters
invariably seek the companionship of
gentle, timorous dispositions, as if the
former sought, in the contrast, a repose
for their own ill-humor, and the latter
a protection for their weakness.
Buckingham and Bragelonne admitting De
Guiche into their friendship, in concert
with him, sang the praises of the
princess during the whole of the
journey. Bragelonne had, however,
insisted that their three voices should
be in concert, instead of singing in
solo parts, as De Guiche and his rival
seemed to have acquired a dangerous
habit of investigation. This style of
harmony pleased the queen-mother
exceedingly, but it was not perhaps so
agreeable to the young princess, who was
an incarnation of coquetry, and who,
without any fear as far as her own voice
was concerned, sought opportunities of
so perilously distinguishing herself.
She possessed one of those fearless and
incautious dispositions that find
gratification in an excess of
sensitiveness of feeling, and for whom,
also, danger has a certain fascination.
And so her glances, her smiles, her
toilette, an inexhaustible armory of
weapons of offense. were showered on the
three young men with overwhelming force;
and, from her well-stored arsenal issued
glances, kindly recognitions, and a
thousand other little charming
attentions which were intended to strike
at long range the gentlemen who formed
the escort, the townspeople, the
officers of the different cities she
passed through, pages, populace, and
servants; it was wholesale slaughter, a
general devastation. By the time Madame
arrived at Paris, she had reduced to
slavery about a hundred thousand lovers:
and brought in her train to Paris half a
dozen men who were almost mad about her,
and two who were, indeed, literally out
of their minds. Raoul was the only
person who divined the power of this
woman's attraction, and as his heart was
already engaged, he arrived in the
capital full of indifference and
distrust. Occasionally during the
journey he conversed with the queen of
England respecting the power of
fascination which Madame possessed, and
the mother, whom so many misfortunes and
deceptions had taught experience,
replied: "Henrietta was sure to be
illustrious in one way or another,
whether born in a palace or born in
obscurity; for she is a woman of great
imagination, capricious and
self-willed." De Wardes and Manicamp, in
their self-assumed character of
courtiers, had announced the princess's
arrival. The procession was met at
Nanterre by a brilliant escort of
cavaliers and carriages. It was Monsieur
himself, followed by the Chevalier de
Lorraine and by his favorites, the
latter being themselves followed by a
portion of the king's military
household, who had arrived to meet his
affianced bride. At St. Germain, the
princess and her mother had changed
their heavy traveling carriage, somewhat
impaired by the journey, for a light,
richly decorated chariot drawn by six
horses with white and gold harness.
Seated in this open carriage, as though
upon a throne, and beneath a parasol of
embroidered silk, fringed with feathers,
sat the young and lovely princess, on
whose beaming face were reflected the
softened rose-tints which suited her
delicate skin to perfection. Monsieur,
on reaching the carriage, was struck by
her beauty; he showed his admiration in
so marked a manner that the Chevalier de
Lorraine shrugged his shoulders as he
listened to his compliments, while
Buckingham and De Guiche were almost
heart-broken. After the usual courtesies
had been rendered, and the ceremony
completed, the procession slowly resumed
the road to Paris. The presentations had
been carelessly made, and Buckingham,
with the rest of the English gentlemen,
had been introduced to Monsieur, from
whom they had received but very
indifferent attention. But, during their
progress, as he observed that the duke
devoted himself with his accustomed
earnestness to the carriage-door, he
asked the Chevalier de Lorraine, his
inseparable companion, "Who is that
cavalier?"

"He was presented to your highness a
short while ago; it is the handsome Duke
of Buckingham."

"Ah, yes, I remember."

"Madame's knight," added the favorite,
with an inflection of the voice which
envious minds can alone give to the
simplest phrases.

"What do you say?" replied the prince.

"I said `Madame's knight.'"

"Has she a recognized knight, then?"

"One would think you can judge of that
for yourself; look, only, how they are
laughing and flirting. All three of
them."

"What do you mean by all three?"

"Do you not see that De Guiche is one of
the party?"

"Yes, I see. But what does that prove?"

"That Madame has two admirers instead of
one."

"Thou poison the simplest thing!"

"I poison nothing. Ah! your royal
highness's mind is perverted. The honors
of the kingdom of France are being paid
to your wife and you are not satisfied."

The Duke of Orleans dreaded the
satirical humor of the Chevalier de
Lorraine whenever it reached a certain
degree of bitterness, and he changed the
conversation abruptly. "The princess is
pretty," said he, very negligently, as
if he were speaking of a stranger.

"Yes," replied the chevalier, in the
same tone.

"You say `yes' like a `no.' She has very
beautiful black eyes."

"Yes, but small."

"That is so, but they are brilliant. She
is tall, and of a good figure."

"I fancy she stoops a little, my lord?"

"I do not deny it. She has a noble
appearance."

"Yes, but her face is thin."

"I thought her teeth beautiful."

"They can easily be seen, for her mouth
is large enough. Decidedly, I was wrong,
my lord; you are certainly handsomer
than your wife."

"But do you think me as handsome as
Buckingham?"

"Certainly, and he thinks so, too; for
look, my lord, he is redoubling his
attentions to Madame to prevent your
effacing the impression he has made."

Monsieur made a movement of impatience,
but as he noticed a smile of triumph
pass across the chevalier's lips, he
drew up his horse to a foot-pace. "Why,"
said he, "should I occupy myself any
longer about my cousin? Do I not already
know her? Were we not brought up
together? Did I not see her at the
Louvre when she was quite a child?"

"A great change has taken place in her
since then, prince. At the period you
allude to, she was somewhat less
brilliant, and scarcely so proud,
either. One evening, particularly, you
may remember, my lord, the king refused
to dance with her, because he thought
her plain and badly dressed!"

These words made the Duke of Orleans
frown. It was by no means flattering for
him to marry a princess of whom, when
young, the king had not thought much. He
would probably have retorted, but at
this moment De Guiche quitted the
carriage to join the prince. He had
remarked the prince and the chevalier
together, and full of anxious attention
he seemed to try and guess the nature of
the remarks which they had just
exchanged. The chevalier, whether he had
some treacherous object in view, or from
imprudence, did not take the trouble to
dissimulate. "Count," he said, "you're a
man of excellent taste."

"Thank you for the compliment," replied
De Guiche; "but why do you say that?"

"Well, I appeal to his highness."

"No doubt of it," said Monsieur, "and
Guiche knows perfectly well that I
regard him as a most finished cavalier."

"Well, since that is decided, I resume.
You have been in the princess's society,
count, for the last eight days, have you
not?"

"Yes," replied De Guiche, coloring in
spite of himself.

"Well, then, tell us frankly, what do
you think of her personal appearance?"

"Of her personal appearance?" returned
De Guiche, stupefied.

"`Yes; of her appearance, of her mind,
of herself, in fact."

Astounded by this question, De Guiche
hesitated answering.

"Come, come, De Guiche," resumed the
chevalier, laughingly, "tell us your
opinion frankly; the prince commands
it."

"Yes, yes," said the prince, "be frank."

De Guiche stammered out a few
unintelligible words.

"I am perfectly well aware," returned
Monsieur, "that the subject is a
delicate one, but you know you can tell
me everything. What do you think of
her?"

In order to avoid betraying his real
thoughts, De Guiche had recourse to the
only defense which a man taken by
surprise really has, and accordingly
told an untruth. "I do not find Madame,"
he said, "either good or bad looking,
yet rather good than bad looking."

"What! count," exclaimed the chevalier,
"you who went into such ecstasies and
uttered so many exclamations at the
sight of her portrait."

De Guiche colored violently. Very
fortunately his horse, which was
slightly restive, enabled him by a
sudden plunge to conceal his agitation.
"What portrait!" he murmured, joining
them again. The chevalier had not taken
his eyes off him.

"Yes, the portrait. Was not the
miniature a good likeness?"

"I do not remember. I had forgotten the
portrait; it quite escaped my
recollection."

"And yet it made a very marked
impression upon you," said the
chevalier.

"That is not unlikely."

"Is she witty, at all events?" inquired
the duke.

"I believe so, my lord."

"Is M. de Buckingham witty, too?" said
the chevalier.

"I do not know."

"My own opinion is, that he must be,"
replied the chevalier, "for he makes
Madame laugh, and she seems to take no
little pleasure in his society, which
never happens to a clever woman when in
the company of a simpleton."

"Of course, then, he must be clever,"
said De Guiche, simply.

At this moment Raoul opportunely
arrived, seeing how De Guiche was
pressed by his dangerous questioner, to
whom he addressed a remark, and in that
way changed the conversation. The entree
was brilliant and joyous.

The king, in honor of his brother, had
directed that the festivities should be
on a scale of the greatest possible
magnificence. Madame and her mother
alighted at the Louvre, where, during
their exile, they had so gloomily
submitted to obscurity, misery, and
privations of every description. That
palace, which had been so inhospitable a
residence for the unhappy daughter of
Henry IV., the naked walls, the uneven
floorings, the ceilings matted with
cobwebs, the vast dilapidated
chimney-places, the cold hearths on
which the charity extended to them by
parliament hardly permitted a fire to
glow, was completely altered in
appearance. The richest hangings and the
thickest carpets, glistening flagstones
and pictures, with their richly gilded
frames; in every direction could be seen
candelabra, mirrors, and furniture and
fittings of the most sumptuous
character; in every direction, also,
were guards of the proudest military
bearing, with floating plumes, crowds of
attendants and courtiers in the
ante-chambers and upon the staircases.
In the courtyards, where the grass had
formerly been allowed to luxuriate, as
if the ungrateful Mazarin had thought it
a good idea to let the Parisians
perceive that solitude and disorder
were, with misery and despair, the fit
accompaniments of fallen monarchy, the
immense courtyards, formerly silent and
desolate, were now thronged with
courtiers whose horses were pacing and
prancing to and fro. The carriages were
filled with young and beautiful women,
who awaited the opportunity of saluting,
as she passed, the daughter of that
daughter of France who, during her
widowhood and exile, had sometimes gone
without wood for her fire, and bread for
her table, whom the meanest attendants
at the chateau had treated with
indifference and contempt. And so,
Madame Henrietta once more returned to
the Louvre, with her heart more swollen
with bitter recollections than her
daughter's, whose disposition was fickle
and forgetful, with triumph and delight.
She knew but too well this brilliant
reception was paid to the happy mother
of a king restored to his throne, a
throne second to none in Europe, while
the worse than indifferent reception she
had before met with was paid to her, the
daughter of Henry IV., as a punishment
for having been unfortunate. After the
princesses had been installed in their
apartments and had rested, the gentlemen
who had formed their escort, having, in
like manner, recovered from their
fatigue, they resumed their accustomed
habits and occupations. Raoul began by
setting off to see his father, who had
left for Blois. He then tried to see M.
d'Artagnan, who, however, being engaged
in the organization of a military
household for the king, could not be
found anywhere. Bragelonne next sought
out De Guiche, but the count was
occupied in a long conference with his
tailors and with Manicamp, which
consumed his whole time. With the Duke
of Buckingham he fared still worse, for
the duke was purchasing horses after
horses, diamonds upon diamonds. He
monopolized every embroiderer, jeweler,
and tailor that Paris could boast of.
Between De Guiche and himself a vigorous
contest ensued, invariably a courteous
one, in which, in order to insure
success, the duke was ready to spend a
million; while the Marechal de Grammont
had only allowed his son sixty thousand
francs. So Buckingham laughed and spent
his money. Guiche groaned in despair,
and would have shown it more violently,
had it not been for the advice De
Bragelonne gave him.

"A million!" repeated De Guiche daily;
"I must submit. Why will not the
marechal advance me a portion of my
patrimony?"

"Because you would throw it away," said
Raoul.

"What can that matter to him? If I am to
die of it, I shall die of it, and then I
shall need nothing further."

"But what need is there to die?" said
Raoul.

"I do not wish to be conquered in
elegance by an Englishman."

"My dear count," said Manicamp,
"elegance is not a costly commodity, it
is only a very difficult
accomplishment."

"Yes, but difficult things cost a good
deal of money, and I have only got sixty
thousand francs."

"A very embarrassing state of things,
truly," said De Wardes; "even if you
spent as much as Buckingham there is
only nine hundred and forty thousand
francs difference."

"Where am I to find them?"

"Get into debt."

"I am in debt already."

"A greater reason for getting further."

Advice like this resulted in De Guiche
becoming excited to such an extent that
he committed extravagances where
Buckingham only incurred expenses. The
rumor of this extravagant profuseness
delighted the hearts of all the
shopkeepers in Paris, from the hotel of
the Duke of Buckingham to that of the
Comte de Grammont nothing but miracles
was attempted. While all this was going
on, Madame was resting herself, and
Bragelonne was engaged in writing to
Mademoiselle de la Valliere. He had
already dispatched four letters, and not
an answer to any one of them had been
received, when, on the very morning
fixed for the marriage ceremony, which
was to take place in the chapel at the
Palais-Royal, Raoul, who was dressing,
heard his valet announce M. de
Malicorne. "What can this Malicorne want
with me?" thought Raoul; and then said
to his valet, "Let him wait."

"It is a gentleman from Blois," said the
valet.

"Admit him at once," said Raoul,
eagerly.

Malicorne entered as brilliant as a
star, and wearing a superb sword at his
side. After having saluted Raoul most
gracefully, he said: "M. de Bragelonne,
I am the bearer of a thousand
compliments from a lady to you."

Raoul colored. "From a lady," said he,
"from a lady of Blois?"

"Yes, monsieur; from Mademoiselle de
Montalais."

"Thank you, monsieur; I recollect you
now," said Raoul. "And what does
Mademoiselle de Montalais require of
me?"

Malicorne drew four letters from his
pocket, which he offered to Raoul.

"My own letters, is it possible?" he
said, turning pale; "my letters, and the
seals unbroken?"

"Monsieur, your letters did not find at
Blois the person to whom they were
addressed, and so they are now returned
to you."

"Mademoiselle de la Valliere has left
Blois, then?" exclaimed Raoul.

"Eight days ago."

"Where is she, then?"

"In Paris."

"How was it known that these letters
were from me?"

"Mademoiselle de Montalais recognized
your handwriting and your seal," said
Malicorne.

Raoul colored and smiled. "Mademoiselle
de Montalais is exceedingly amiable," he
said; "she is always kind and charming."

"Always, monsieur."

"Surely she could give me some precise
information about Mademoiselle de la
Valliere. I never could find her in this
immense city."

Malicorne drew another packet from his
pocket.

"You may possibly find in this letter
what you are anxious to learn."

Raoul hurriedly broke the seal. The
writing was that of Mademoiselle Aure,
and inclosed were these words: --
"Paris, Palais-Royal. The day of the
nuptial blessing."

"What does this mean?" inquired Raoul of
Malicorne; "you probably know."

"I do, monsieur."

"For pity's sake, tell me, then."

"Impossible, monsieur."

"Why so?"

"Because Mademoiselle Aure has forbidden
me to do so."

Raoul looked at his strange visitor, and
remained silent; -- "At least, tell me
whether it is fortunate or unfortunate."

"That you will see."

"You are very severe in your
reservations."

"Will you grant me a favor, monsieur?"
said Malicorne.

"In exchange for that you refuse me?"

"Precisely."

"What is it?"

"I have the greatest desire to see the
ceremony, and I have no ticket to admit
me, in spite of all the steps I have
taken to secure one. Could you get me
admitted "

"Certainly."

"Do me this kindness, then, I entreat."

"Most willingly, monsieur; come with
me."

"I am exceedingly indebted to you,
monsieur," said Malicorne.

"I thought you were a friend of M. de
Manicamp."

"I am, monsieur; but this morning I was
with him as he was dressing, and I let a
bottle of blacking fall over his new
dress, and he flew at me sword in hand,
so that I was obliged to make my escape.
That is the reason I could not ask him
for a ticket. He wanted to kill me."

"I can well believe it," laughed Raoul.
"I know Manicamp is capable of killing a
man who has been unfortunate enough to
commit the crime you have to reproach
yourself with, but I will repair the
mischief as far as you are concerned. I
will but fasten my cloak, and shall then
be ready to serve you, not only as a
guide, but as your introducer, too."




CHAPTER 89

A Surprise for Madame de Montalais



Madame's marriage was celebrated in the
chapel of the Palais-Royal, in the
presence of a crowd of courtiers, who
had been most scrupulously selected.
However, notwithstanding the marked
favor which an invitation indicated,
Raoul, faithful to his promise to
Malicorne, who was so anxious to witness
the ceremony, obtained admission for
him. After he had fulfilled this
engagement, Raoul approached De Guiche,
who, as if in contrast with his
magnificent costume, exhibited a
countenance so utterly dejected, that
the Duke of Buckingham was the only one
present who could contend with him as
far as pallor and discomfiture were
concerned.

"Take care, count," said Raoul,
approaching his friend, and preparing to
support him at the moment the archbishop
blessed the married couple. In fact, the
Prince of Conde was attentively
scrutinizing these two images of
desolation, standing like caryatides on
either side of the nave of the church.
The count, after that, kept a more
careful watch over himself.

At the termination of the ceremony, the
king and queen passed onward towards the
grand reception-room, where Madame and
her suite were to be presented to them.
It was remarked that the king, who had
seemed more than surprised at his
sister-in-law's appearance was most
flattering in his compliments to her.
Again, it was remarked that the
queen-mother, fixing a long and
thoughtful gaze upon Buckingham, leaned
towards Madame de Motteville as though
to ask her, "Do you not see how much he
resembles his father?" and finally it
was remarked that Monsieur watched
everybody, and seemed quite
discontented. After the reception of the
princess and ambassadors, Monsieur
solicited the king's permission to
present to him as well as to Madame the
persons belonging to their new
household.

"Are you aware, vicomte," inquired the
Prince de Conde of Raoul, "whether the
household has been selected by a person
of taste, and whether there are any
faces worth looking at?"

"I have not the slightest idea,
monseigneur," replied Raoul.

"You affect ignorance, surely."

"In what way, monseigneur?"

"You are a friend of De Guiche, who is
one of the friends of the prince."

"That may be so, monseigneur; but the
matter having no interest whatever for
me, I never questioned De Guiche on the
subject; and De Guiche on his part,
never having been questioned, did not
communicate any particulars to me."

"But Manicamp?"

"It is true I saw Manicamp at Havre, and
during the journey here, but I was no
more inquisitive with him than I had
been towards De Guiche. Besides, is it
likely that Manicamp should know
anything of such matters? for he is a
person of only secondary importance."

"My dear vicomte, do you not know better
than that?" said the prince; "why, it is
these persons of secondary importance
who, on such occasions, have all the
influence; and the truth is, that nearly
everything has been done through
Manicamp's presentations to De Guiche,
and through De Guiche to Monsieur."

"I assure you, monseigneur, I was
ignorant of that," said Raoul, "and what
your highness does me the honor to
impart is perfectly new to me."

"I will most readily believe you,
although it seems incredible; besides,
we shall not have long to wait. See, the
flying squadron is advancing, as good
Queen Catherine used to say. Ah! ah!
what pretty faces!"

A bevy of young girls at this moment
entered the salon, conducted by Madame
de Navailles, and to Manicamp's credit
be it said, if indeed he had taken that
part in their selection which the Prince
de Conde assigned him, it was a display
calculated to dazzle those who, like the
prince, could appreciate every character
and style of beauty. A young,
fair-complexioned girl, from twenty to
one-and-twenty years of age, and whose
large blue eyes flashed, as she opened
them, in the most dazzling manner,
walked at the head of the band and was
the first presented.

"Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente," said
Madame de Navailles to Monsieur, who, as
he saluted his wife, repeated
"Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente."

"Ah! ah!" said the Prince de Conde to
Raoul, "she is presentable enough."

"Yes," said Raoul, "but has she not a
somewhat haughty style?"

"Bah! we know these airs very well,
vicomte; three months hence she will be
tame enough. But look, there, indeed, is
a pretty face."

"Yes," said Raoul, "and one I am
acquainted with."

"Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais," said
Madame de Navailles. The name and
Christian name were carefully repeated
by Monsieur.

"Great heavens!" exclaimed Raoul, fixing
his bewildered gaze upon the entrance
doorway.

"What's the matter?" inquired the
prince; "was it Mademoiselle Aure de
Montalais who made you utter such a
`Great heavens'?"

"No, monseigneur, no," replied Raoul,
pale and trembling.

"Well, then, if it be not Mademoiselle
Aure de Montalais, it is that pretty
blonde who follows her. What beautiful
eyes! She is rather thin, but has
fascinations without number."

"Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la
Valliere!" said Madame de Navailles;
and, as this name resounded through his
whole being, a cloud seemed to rise from
his breast to his eyes, so that he
neither saw nor heard anything more; and
the prince, finding him nothing more
than a mere echo which remained silent
under his railleries, moved forward to
inspect somewhat closer the beautiful
girls whom his first glance had already
particularized.

"Louise here! Louise a maid of honor to
Madame!" murmured Raoul, and his eyes,
which did not suffice to satisfy his
reason, wandered from Louise to
Montalais. The latter had already
emancipated herself from her assumed
timidity, which she only needed for the
presentation and for her reverences.

Mademoiselle de Montalais, from the
corner of the room to which she had
retired, was looking with no slight
confidence at the different persons
present; and, having discovered Raoul,
she amused herself with the profound
astonishment which her own and her
friend's presence there caused the
unhappy lover. Her waggish and malicious
look, which Raoul tried to avoid
meeting, and which yet he sought
inquiringly from time to time, placed
him on the rack. As for Louise, whether
from natural timidity, or some other
reason for which Raoul could not
account, she kept her eyes constantly
cast down; intimidated, dazzled, and
with impeded respiration, she withdrew
herself as much as possible aside,
unaffected even by the nudges Montalais
gave her with her elbow. The whole scene
was a perfect enigma for Raoul, the key
to which he would have given anything to
obtain. But no one was there who could
assist him, not even Malicorne; who, a
little uneasy at finding himself in the
presence of so many persons of good
birth, and not a little discouraged by
Montalais's bantering glances, had
described a circle, and by degrees
succeeded in getting a few paces from
the prince, behind the group of maids of
honor, and nearly within reach of
Mademoiselle Aure's voice, she being the
planet around which he, as her attendant
satellite, seemed constrained to
gravitate. As he recovered his
self-possession, Raoul fancied he
recognized voices on his right hand that
were familiar to him, and he perceived
De Wardes, De Guiche, and the Chevalier
de Lorraine, conversing together. It is
true they were talking in tones so low,
that the sound of their words could
hardly be heard in the vast apartment.
To speak in that manner from any
particular place without bending down,
or turning round, or looking at the
person with whom one may be engaged in
conversation, is a talent that cannot be
immediately acquired by newcomers. Long
study is needed for such conversations,
which, without a look, gesture, or
movement of the head, seem like the
conversation of a group of statues. In
fact, in the king's and queen's grand
assemblies, while their majesties were
speaking, and while every one present
seemed to be listening in the midst of
the most profound silence, some of these
noiseless conversations took place, in
which adulation was not the prevailing
feature. But Raoul was one among others
exceedingly clever in this art, so much
a matter of etiquette, that from the
movement of the lips he was often able
to guess the sense of the words.

"Who is that Montalais?" inquired De
Wardes, "and that La Valliere? What
country-town have we had sent here?"

"Montalais?" said the chevalier, -- "oh,
I know her; she is a good sort of a
girl, whom we shall find amusing enough.
La Valliere is a charming girl, slightly
lame."

"Ah! bah!" said De Wardes.

"Do not be absurd, De Wardes, there are
some very characteristic and ingenious
Latin axioms about lame ladies."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said De Guiche,
looking at Raoul with uneasiness, "be a
little careful, I entreat you."

But the uneasiness of the count, in
appearance at least, was not needed.
Raoul had preserved the firmest and most
indifferent countenance, although he had
not lost a word that passed. He seemed
to keep an account of the insolence and
license of the two speakers in order to
settle matters with them at the earliest
opportunity.

De Wardes seemed to guess what was
passing in his mind, and continued:

"Who are these young ladies' lovers?"

"Montalais's lover?" said the chevalier.

"Yes, Montalais first."

"You, I, or De Guiche, -- whoever likes,
in fact."

"And the other?"

"Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"

"Yes."

"Take care, gentlemen," exclaimed De
Guiche, anxious to put a stop to De
Wardes's reply; "take care, Madame is
listening to us."

Raoul thrust his hand up to the wrist
into his justaucorps in great agitation.
But the very malignity which he saw was
excited against these poor girls made
him take a serious resolution. "Poor
Louise," he thought, "has come here only
with an honorable object in view and
under honorable protection; and I must
learn what that object is which she has
in view, and who it is that protects
her." And following Malicorne's
maneuver, he made his way toward the
group of the maids of honor. The
presentations were soon over. The king,
who had done nothing but look at and
admire Madame, shortly afterwards left
the reception-room, accompanied by the
two queens. The Chevalier de Lorraine
resumed his place beside Monsieur, and,
as he accompanied him, insinuated a few
drops of the venom he had collected
during the last hour, while looking at
some of the faces in the court, and
suspecting that some of their hearts
might be happy. A few of the persons
present followed the king as he quitted
the apartment; but such of the courtiers
as assumed an independence of character,
and professed a gallantry of
disposition, began to approach the
ladies of the court. The prince paid his
compliments to Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente, Buckingham devoted
himself to Madame Chalais and
Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whom Madame
already distinguished by her notice, and
whom she held in high regard. As for the
Comte de Guiche, who had abandoned
Monsieur as soon as he could approach
Madame alone, he conversed, with great
animation, with Madame de Valentinois,
and with Mesdemoiselles de Crequy and de
Chatillon.

Amid these varied political and amorous
interests, Malicorne was anxious to gain
Montalais's attention; but the latter
preferred talking with Raoul, even if it
were only to amuse herself with his
innumerable questions and his
astonishment. Raoul had gone direct to
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and had
saluted her with the profoundest
respect, at which Louise blushed, and
could not say a word. Montalais,
however, hurried to her assistance.

"Well, monsieur le vicomte, here we are,
you see."

"I do, indeed, see you," said Raoul,
smiling, "and it is exactly because you
are here that I wish to ask for some
explanation."

Malicorne approached the group with his
most fascinating smile.

"Go away, Malicorne; really, you are
exceedingly indiscreet." At this remark
Malicorne bit his lips and retired a few
steps, without making any reply. His
smile, however, changed its expression,
and from its former frankness, became
mocking in its expression.

"You wished for an explanation, M.
Raoul?" inquired Montalais.

"It is surely worth one, I think;
Mademoiselle de la Valliere a maid of
honor to Madame!"

"Why should not she be a maid of honor,
as well as myself?" inquired Montalais.

"Pray accept my compliments, young
ladies," said Raoul, who fancied he
perceived they were not disposed to
answer him in a direct manner.

"Your remark was not made in a very
complimentary manner, vicomte."

"Mine?"

"Certainly; I appeal to Louise."

"M. de Bragelonne probably thinks the
position is above my condition," said
Louise, hesitatingly.

"Assuredly not," replied Raoul, eagerly;
"you know very well that such is not my
feeling; were you called upon to occupy
a queen's throne, I should not be
surprised; how much greater reason,
then, such a position as this? The only
circumstance that amazes me is that I
should have learned it only to-day, and
that by the merest accident."

"That is true," replied Montalais, with
her usual giddiness; "you know nothing
about it, and there is no reason you
should. M. de Bragelonne had written
several letters to you, but your mother
was the only person who remained behind
at Blois, and it was necessary to
prevent these letters falling into her
hands; I intercepted them, and returned
them to M. Raoul, so that he believed
you were still at Blois while you were
here in Paris, and had no idea whatever,
indeed, how high you had risen in rank."

"Did you not inform M. Raoul, as I
begged you to do?"

"Why should I? to give him an
opportunity or making some of his severe
remarks and moral reflections, and to
undo what we had so much trouble in
effecting? Certainly not."

"Am I so very severe, then?" said Raoul,
inquiringly.

"Besides," said Montalais, "it is
sufficient to say that it suited me. I
was about setting off for Paris -- you
were away; Louise was weeping her eyes
out; interpret that as you please; I
begged a friend, a protector of mine,
who had obtained the appointment for me,
to solicit one for Louise; the
appointment arrived. Louise left in
order to get her costume prepared; as I
had my own ready, I remained behind; I
received your letters, and returned them
to you, adding a few words, promising
you a surprise. Your surprise is before
you, monsieur, and seems to be a fair
one enough; you have nothing more to
ask. Come, M. Malicorne, it is now time
to leave these young people together:
they have many things to talk about;
give me your hand; I trust that you
appreciate the honor conferred upon you,
M. Malicorne."

"Forgive me," said Raoul, arresting the
giddy girl, and giving to his voice an
intonation, the gravity of which
contrasted with that of Montalais;
"forgive me, but may I inquire the name
of the protector you speak of; for if
protection be extended towards you,
Mademoiselle Montalais, -- for which,
indeed, so many reasons exist," added
Raoul, bowing, "I do not see that the
same reasons exist why Mademoiselle de
la Valliere should be similarly cared
for."

"But, M. Raoul," said Louise,
innocently, "there is no difference in
the matter, and I do not see why I
should not tell it you myself; it was M.
Malicorne who obtained it for me."

Raoul remained for a moment almost
stupefied, asking himself if they were
trifling with him; he then turned round
to interrogate Malicorne, but he had
been hurried away by Montalais, and was
already at some distance from them.
Mademoiselle de la Valliere attempted to
follow her friend, but Raoul, with
gentle authority, detained her.

"Louise, one word, I beg."

"But, M. Raoul," said Louise, blushing,
"we are alone. Every one has left. They
will become anxious, and will be looking
for us."

"Fear nothing," said the young man,
smiling, "we are neither of us of
sufficient importance for our absence to
be remarked."

"But I have my duty to perform, M.
Raoul."

"Do not be alarmed, I am acquainted with
these usages of the court; you will not
be on duty until to-morrow; a few
minutes are at your disposal, which will
enable you to give me the information I
am about to have the honor to ask you
for."

"How serious you are, M. Raoul!" said
Louise.

"Because the circumstances are serious.
Are you listening?"

"I am listening; I would only repeat,
monsieur, that we are quite alone."

"You are right," said Raoul, and,
offering her his hand, he led the young
girl into the gallery adjoining the
reception-room, the windows of which
looked out upon the courtyard. Every one
hurried towards the middle window, which
had a balcony outside, from which all
the details of the slow and formal
preparations for departure could be
seen. Raoul opened one of the side
windows, and then, being alone with
Louise, said to her: "You know, Louise,
that from my childhood I have regarded
you as my sister, as one who has been
the confidante of all my troubles, to
whom I have entrusted all my hopes."

"Yes, M. Raoul," she answered softly;
"yes, M. Raoul, I know that."

"You used, on your side, to show the
same friendship towards me, and had the
same confidence in me; why have you not,
on this occasion, been my friend -- why
have you shown suspicion of me?"

Mademoiselle de la Valliere did not
answer. "I fondly thought you loved me,"
said Raoul, whose voice became more and
more agitated; "I fondly thought you
consented to all the plans we had,
together, laid down for our own
happiness, at the time when we wandered
up and down the walks of Cour-Cheverny,
under the avenue of poplar trees leading
to Blois. You do not answer me, Louise.
Is it possible," he inquired, breathing
with difficulty, "that you no longer
love me?"

"I did not say so," replied Louise,
softly.

"Oh! tell me the truth, I implore you.
All my hopes in life are centered in
you. I chose you for your gentle and
simple tastes. Do not suffer yourself to
be dazzled, Louise, now that you are in
the midst of a court where all that is
pure too soon becomes corrupt -- where
all that is young too soon grows old.
Louise, close your ears, so as not to
hear what may be said; shut your eyes,
so as not to see the examples before
you; shut your lips, that you may not
inhale the corrupting influences about
you. Without falsehood or subterfuge,
Louise, am I to believe what
Mademoiselle de Montalais stated?
Louise, did you come to Paris because I
was no longer at Blois?"

La Valliere blushed and concealed her
face in her hands.

"Yes, it was so, then!" exclaimed Raoul,
delightedly; "that was, then, your
reason for coming here. I love you as I
never yet loved you. Thanks, Louise, for
this devotion; but measures must be
taken to place you beyond all insult, to
shield you from every lure. Louise, a
maid of honor in the court of a young
princess in these days of free manners
and inconstant affections ---a maid of
honor is placed as an object of attack
without having any means of defence
afforded her; this state of things
cannot continue, you must be married in
order to be respected."

"Married?"

"Yes, here is my hand, Louise; will you
place yours within it?"

"But your father?"

"My father leaves me perfectly free."

"Yet ---- "

"I understand your scruples, Louise; I
will consult my father."

"Reflect, M. Raoul; wait."

"Wait! it is impossible. Reflect,
Louise, when you are concerned! it would
be insulting, -- give me your hand, dear
Louise; I am my own master. My father
will consent, I know; give me your hand,
do not keep me waiting thus. One word in
answer, one word only; if not, I shall
begin to think that, in order to change
you forever, nothing more was needed
than a single step in the palace, a
single breath of favor, a smile from the
queen, a look from the king."

Raoul had no sooner pronounced this
latter word, than La Valliere became as
pale as death, no doubt from fear at
seeing the young man excite himself.
With a movement as rapid as thought, she
placed both her hands in those of Raoul,
and then fled without adding a syllable;
disappearing without casting a look
behind her. Raoul felt his whole frame
tremble at the contact of her hand; he
received the compact as a solemn bargain
wrung by affection from her child-like
timidity.




CHAPTER 90

The Consent of Athos



Raoul quitted the Palais-Royal full of
ideas that admitted no delay in
execution. He mounted his horse in the
courtyard, and followed the road to
Blois, while the marriage festivities of
Monsieur and the princess of England
were being celebrated with exceeding
animation by the courtiers, but to the
despair of De Guiche and Buckingham.
Raoul lost no time on the road, and in
sixteen hours he arrived at Blois. As he
traveled along, he marshaled his
arguments in the most becoming manner.
Fever also is an argument that cannot be
answered, and Raoul had an attack. Athos
was in his study, making additions to
his memoirs, when Raoul entered,
accompanied by Grimaud. Keen-sighted and
penetrating, a mere glance at his son
told him that something extraordinary
had befallen him.

"You seem to come on a matter of
importance," said he to Raoul, after he
had embraced him, pointing to a seat.

"Yes, monsieur," replied the young man;
"and I entreat you to give me the same
kind attention that has never yet failed
me."

"Speak, Raoul."

"I present the case to you, monsieur,
free from all preface, for that would be
unworthy of you. Mademoiselle de la
Valliere is in Paris as one of Madame's
maids of honor. I have pondered deeply
on the matter; I love Mademoiselle de la
Valliere above everything; and it is not
proper to leave her in a position where
her reputation, her virtue even, may be
assailed. It is my wish, therefore, to
marry her, monsieur, and I have come to
solicit your consent to my marriage."

While this communication was being made
to him, Athos maintained the profoundest
silence and reserve. Raoul, who had
begun his address with an assumption of
self-possession, finished it by allowing
a manifest emotion to escape him at
every word. Athos fixed upon Bragelonne
a searching look, overshadowed indeed by
a slight sadness.

"You have reflected well upon it?" he
inquired.

"Yes, monsieur."

"I believe you are already acquainted
with my views respecting this alliance?"

"Yes, monsieur," replied Raoul, in a low
tone of voice, "but you added, that if I
persisted ---- "

"You do persist, then?"

Bragelonne stammered out an almost
unintelligible assent.

"Your passion," continued Athos,
tranquilly, "must indeed be very great,
since, notwithstanding my dislike to
this union, you persist in wishing it."

Raoul passed his trembling hand across
his forehead to remove the perspiration
that collected there. Athos looked at
him, and his heart was touched by pity.
He rose and said, ----

"It is no matter. My own personal
feelings are not to be taken into
consideration since yours are concerned;
you need my assistance; I am ready to
give it. Tell me what you want."

"Your kind indulgence, first of all,
monsieur," said Raoul, taking hold of
his hand.

"You have mistaken my feelings, Raoul, I
have more than mere indulgence for you
in my heart."

Raoul kissed as devotedly as a lover
could have done the hand he held in his
own.

"Come, come," said Athos, "I am quite
ready; what do you wish me to sign?"

"Nothing whatever, monsieur. only it
would be very kind if you would take the
trouble to write to the king to whom I
belong, and solicit his majesty's
permission for me to marry Mademoiselle
de la Valliere."

"Well thought, Raoul! After, or rather
before myself, you have a master to
consult, that master being the king; it
is loyal in you to submit yourself
voluntarily to this double proof; I will
grant your request without delay,
Raoul."

The count approached the window, and
leaning out, called to Grimaud, who
showed his head from an arbor covered
with jasmine, which he was occupied in
trimming.

"My horses, Grimaud," continued the
count.

"Why this order, monsieur?" inquired
Raoul.

"We shall set off in a few hours."

"Whither?"

"For Paris."

"Paris, monsieur?"

"Is not the king at Paris?"

"Certainly."

"Well, ought we not to go there?"

"Yes, monsieur," said Raoul, almost
alarmed by this kind condescension. "I
do not ask you to put yourself to such
inconvenience, and a letter merely ----
"

"You mistake my position, Raoul; it is
not respectful that a simple gentleman,
such as I am, should write to his
sovereign. I wish to speak, I ought to
speak, to the king, and I will do so. We
will go together, Raoul."

"You overpower me with your kindness,
monsieur."

"How do you think his majesty is
affected?"

"Towards me, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"Excellently well disposed."

"You know that to be so?" continued the
count.

"The king has himself told me so."

"On what occasion?"

"Upon the recommendation of M.
d'Artagnan, I believe, and on account of
an affair in the Place de Greve, when I
had the honor to draw my sword in the
king's service. I have reason to believe
that, vanity apart, I stand well with
his majesty."

"So much the better."

"But I entreat you, monsieur," pursued
Raoul, "not to maintain towards me your
present grave and serious manner. Do not
make me bitterly regret having listened
to a feeling stronger than anything
else."

"That is the second time you have said
so, Raoul; it was quite unnecessary, you
require my formal consent, and you have
it. We need talk no more on the subject,
therefore. Come and see my new
plantations, Raoul."

The young man knew very well, that,
after the expression of his father's
wish, no opportunity of discussion was
left him. He bowed his head, and
followed his father into the garden.
Athos slowly pointed out to him the
grafts, the cuttings, and the avenues he
was planting. This perfect repose of
manner disconcerted Raoul extremely; the
affection with which his own heart was
filled seemed so great that the whole
world could hardly contain it. How,
then, could his father's heart remain
void, and closed to its influence?
Bragelonne, therefore, collecting all
his courage, suddenly exclaimed, ----

"It is impossible, monsieur, you can
have any reason to reject Mademoiselle
de la Valliere? In Heaven's name, she is
so good, so gentle and pure, that your
mind, so perfect in its penetration,
ought to appreciate her accordingly.
Does any secret repugnance, or any
hereditary dislike, exist between you
and her family?"

"Look, Raoul, at that beautiful lily of
the valley," said Athos; "observe how
the shade and the damp situation suit
it, particularly the shadow which that
sycamore-tree casts over it, so that the
warmth, and not the blazing heat of the
sun, filters through its leaves."

Raoul stopped, bit his lips, and then
with the blood mantling in his face, he
said, courageously, -- "One word of
explanation, I beg, monsieur. You cannot
forget that your son is a man."

"In that case," replied Athos, drawing
himself up with sternness, "prove to me
that you are a man, for you do not show
yourself a son. I begged you to wait the
opportunity of forming an illustrious
alliance. I would have obtained a wife
for you from the first ranks of the rich
nobility. I wish you to be distinguished
by the splendor which glory and fortune
confer, for nobility of descent you have
already."

"Monsieur," exclaimed Raoul, carried
away by a first impulse, "I was
reproached the other day for not knowing
who my mother was."

Athos turned pale; then, knitting his
brows like the greatest of all the
heathen deities: -- "I am waiting to
learn the reply you made," he demanded,
in an imperious manner.

"Forgive me! oh, forgive me," murmured
the young man, sinking at once from the
lofty tone he had assumed.

"What was your reply, monsieur?"
inquired the count, stamping his feet
upon the ground.

"Monsieur, my sword was in my hand
immediately, my adversary placed himself
on guard, I struck his sword over the
palisade, and threw him after it."

"Why did you suffer him to live?"

"The king has prohibited duelling, and,
at that moment, I was an ambassador of
the king."

"Very well," said Athos, "but all the
greater reason I should see his
majesty."

"What do you intend to ask him?"

"Authority to draw my sword against the
man who has inflicted this injury upon
me."

"If I did not act as I ought to have
done, I beg you to forgive me."

"Did I reproach you, Raoul?"

"Still, the permission you are going to
ask from the king?"

"I will implore his majesty to sign your
marriage-contract, but on one
condition."

"Are conditions necessary with me,
monsieur? Command, and you shall be
obeyed."

"On one condition, I repeat," continued
Athos; "that you tell me the name of the
man who spoke of your mother in that
way."

"What need is there that you should know
his name; the offense was directed
against myself, and the permission once
obtained from his majesty, to revenge it
is my affair."

"Tell me his name, monsieur."

"I will not allow you to expose
yourself.

"Do you take me for a Don Diego? His
name, I say."

"You insist upon it?"

"I demand it."

"The Vicomte de Wardes."

"Very well," said Athos, tranquilly, "I
know him. But our horses are ready, I
see; and, instead of delaying our
departure for a couple of hours, we will
set off at once. Come, monsieur."




CHAPTER 91

Monsieur becomes jealous of the Duke of
Buckingha



While the Comte de la Fere was
proceeding on his way to Paris,
accompanied by Raoul, the Palais-Royal
was the theatre wherein a scene of what
Moliere would have called excellent
comedy was being performed. Four days
had elapsed since his marriage, and
Monsieur, having breakfasted very
hurriedly, passed into his ante-chamber,
frowning and out of temper. The repast
had not been over-agreeable. Madame had
had breakfast served in her own
apartment, and Monsieur had breakfasted
almost alone; the Chevalier de Lorraine
and Manicamp were the only persons
present at the meal which lasted
three-quarters of an hour without a
single syllable having been uttered.
Manicamp, who was less intimate with his
royal highness than the Chevalier de
Lorraine, vainly endeavored to detect,
from the expression of the prince's
face, what had made him so ill-humored.
The Chevalier de Lorraine, who had no
occasion to speculate about anything,
inasmuch as he knew all, ate his
breakfast with that extraordinary
appetite which the troubles of one's
friends but stimulates, and enjoyed at
the same time both Monsieur's ill-humor
and the vexation of Manicamp. He seemed
delighted, while he went on eating, to
detain the prince, who was very
impatient to move, still at table.
Monsieur at times repented the
ascendancy which he had permitted the
Chevalier de Lorraine to acquire over
him, and which exempted the latter from
any observance of etiquette towards him.
Monsieur was now in one of those moods,
but he dreaded as much as he liked the
chevalier, and contented himself with
nursing his anger without betraying it.
Every now and then Monsieur raised his
eyes to the ceiling, then lowered them
towards the slices of pate which the
chevalier was attacking, and finally,
not caring to betray his resentment, he
gesticulated in a manner which Harlequin
might have envied. At last, however,
Monsieur could control himself no
longer, and at the dessert, rising from
the table in excessive wrath, as we have
related, he left the Chevalier de
Lorraine to finish his breakfast as he
pleased. Seeing Monsieur rise from the
table, Manicamp, napkin in hand, rose
also. Monsieur ran rather than walked,
towards the ante-chamber, where,
noticing an usher in attendance, he gave
him some directions in a low tone of
voice. Then turning back again, but
avoiding passing through the breakfast
apartment, he crossed several rooms,
with the intention of seeking the
queen-mother in her oratory, where she
usually remained.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning.
Anne of Austria was engaged in writing
as Monsieur entered. The queen-mother
was extremely attached to her son, for
he was handsome in person and amiable in
disposition. He was, in fact, more
affectionate, and, it might be, more
effeminate than the king. He pleased his
mother by those trifling sympathizing
attentions all women are glad to
receive. Anne of Austria, who would have
been rejoiced to have had a daughter,
almost found in this, her favorite son,
the attentions, solicitude, and playful
manners of a child of twelve years of
age. All the time he passed with his
mother he employed in admiring her arms,
in giving his opinion upon her
cosmetics, and receipts for compounding
essences, in which she was very
particular; and then, too, he kissed her
hands and cheeks in the most childlike
and endearing manner, and had always
some sweetmeats to offer her, or some
new style of dress to recommend. Anne of
Austria loved the king, or rather the
regal power in her eldest son; Louis
XIV. represented legitimacy by right
divine. With the king, her character was
that of the queen-mother, with Philip
she was simply the mother. The latter
knew that, of all places of refuge, a
mother's heart is the most compassionate
and surest. When quite a child he always
fled there for refuge when he and his
brother quarrelled, often, after having
struck him, which constituted the crime
of high treason on his part, after
certain engagements with hands and
nails, in which the king and his
rebellious subject indulged in their
night-dresses respecting the right to a
disputed bed, having their servant
Laporte as umpire, -- Philip, conqueror,
but terrified at victory, used to flee
to his mother to obtain reinforcements
from her, or at least the assurance of
forgiveness, which Louis XIV. granted
with difficulty, and after an interval.
Anne, from this habit of peaceable
intervention, succeeded in arranging the
disputes of her sons, and in sharing, at
the same time, all their secrets. The
king, somewhat jealous of that maternal
solicitude which was bestowed
particularly upon his brother, felt
disposed to show towards Anne of Austria
more submission and attachment than his
character really dictated. Anne of
Austria had adopted this line of conduct
especially towards the young queen. In
this manner she ruled with almost
despotic sway over the royal household,
and she was already preparing her
batteries to govern with the same
absolute authority the household of her
second son. Anne experienced almost a
feeling of pride whenever she saw any
one enter her apartment with woe-begone
looks, pale cheeks, or red eyes,
gathering from appearances that
assistance was required either by the
weakest or the most rebellious. She was
writing, we have said, when Monsieur
entered her oratory, not with red eyes
or pale cheeks, but restless, out of
temper, and annoyed. With an absent air
he kissed his mother's hands, and sat
himself down before receiving her
permission to do so. Considering the
strict rules of etiquette established at
the court of Anne of Austria, this
forgetfulness of customary civilities
was a sign of preoccupation, especially
on Philip's part, who, of his own
accord, observed a respect towards her
of a somewhat exaggerated character. If,
therefore, he so notoriously failed in
this regard, there must be a serious
cause for it.

"What is the matter, Philip?" inquired
Anne of Austria, turning towards her
son.

"A good many things," murmured the
prince, in a doleful tone of voice.

"You look like a man who has a great
deal to do," said the queen, laying down
her pen. Philip frowned, but did not
reply. "Among the various subjects which
occupy your mind," said Anne of Austria,
"there must surely be one that absorbs
it more than others."

"One indeed has occupied me more than
any other."

"Well, what is it? I am listening."

Philip opened his mouth as if to express
all the troubles his mind was filled
with, and which he seemed to be waiting
only for an opportunity of declaring.
But he suddenly became silent, and a
sigh alone expressed all that his heart
was overflowing with.

"Come, Philip, show a little firmness,"
said the queen-mother. "When one has to
complain of anything, it is generally an
individual who is the cause of it. Am I
not right?"

"I do not say no, madame."

"Whom do you wish to speak about? Come,
take courage."

"In fact, madame, what I might possibly
have to say must be kept a profound
secret; for when a lady is in the
case ---- "

"Ah! you are speaking of Madame, then?"
inquired the queen-mother, with a
feeling of the liveliest curiosity.

"Yes."

"Well, then, if you wish to speak of
Madame, do not hesitate to do so. I am
your mother, and she is no more than a
stranger to me. Yet, as she is my
daughter-in-law, rest assured I shall be
interested, even were it for your own
sake alone, in hearing all you may have
to say about her."

"Pray tell me, madame, in your turn,
whether you have not remarked
something?"

"`Something'! Philip? Your words almost
frighten me, from their want of meaning.
What do you mean by `something'?"

"Madame is pretty, certainly."

"No doubt of it."

"Yet not altogether beautiful."

"No, but as she grows older, she will
probably become strikingly beautiful.
You must have remarked the change which
a few years have already made in her.
Her beauty will improve more and more;
she is now only sixteen years of age. At
fifteen I was, myself, very thin; but
even as she is at present, Madame is
very pretty."

"And consequently others have remarked
it."

"Undoubtedly, for a woman of ordinary
rank is noticed -- and with still
greater reason a princess."

"She has been well brought up, I
suppose?"

"Madame Henrietta, her mother, is a
woman somewhat cold in manner, slightly
pretentious, but full of noble thoughts.
The princess's education may have been
neglected, but her principles, I
believe, are good. Such at least was the
opinion I formed of her when she resided
in France; but she afterwards returned
to England, and I am ignorant what may
have occurred there."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that there are some heads
naturally giddy, which are easily turned
by prosperity."

"That is the very word, madame. I think
the princess rather giddy."

"We must not exaggerate, Philip; she is
clever and witty, and has a certain
amount of coquetry very natural in a
young woman; but this defect in persons
of high rank and position is a great
advantage at a court. A princess who is
tinged with coquetry usually forms a
brilliant court around her; her smile
stimulates luxury, arouses wit, and even
courage; the nobles, too, fight better
for a prince whose wife is beautiful."

"Thank you extremely, madame," said
Philip, with some temper; "you really
have drawn some very alarming pictures
for me."

"In what respect?" asked the queen, with
pretended simplicity.

"You know, madame," said Philip,
dolefully, "whether I had or had not a
very great dislike to getting married."

"Now, indeed, you alarm me. You have
some serious cause of complaint against
Madame."

"I do not precisely say it is serious."

"In that case, then, throw aside your
doleful looks. If you show yourself to
others in your present state, people
will take you for a very unhappy
husband."

"The fact is," replied Philip, "I am not
altogether satisfied as a husband, and I
shall not be sorry if others know it."

"For shame, Philip."

"Well, then, madame, I will tell you
frankly that I do not understand the
life I am required to lead."

"Explain yourself."

"My wife does not seem to belong to me;
she is always leaving me for some reason
or another. In the mornings there are
visits, correspondences, and toilettes;
in the evenings, balls and concerts."

"You are jealous, Philip."

"I! Heaven forbid. Let others act the
part of a jealous husband, not I. But I
am annoyed."

"All these things you reproach your wife
with are perfectly innocent, and, so
long as you have nothing of greater
importance ---- "

"Yet, listen; without being very
blamable, a woman can excite a good deal
of uneasiness. Certain visitors may be
received, certain preferences shown,
which expose young women to remark, and
which are enough to drive out of their
senses even those husbands who are least
disposed to be jealous."

"Ah! now we are coming to the real point
at last, and not without some
difficulty. You speak of frequent
visits, and certain preferences -- very
good; for the last hour we have been
beating about the bush, and at last you
have broached the true question. This is
more serious than I thought. It is
possible, then, that Madame can have
given you grounds for these complaints
against her?"

"Precisely so."

"What, your wife, married only four days
ago, prefers some other person to
yourself? Take care, Philip, you
exaggerate your grievances; in wishing
to prove everything, you prove nothing."

The prince, bewildered by his mother's
serious manner wished to reply, but he
could only stammer out some
unintelligible words.

"You draw back, then?" said Anne of
Austria. "I prefer that, as it is an
acknowledgment of your mistake."

"No!" exclaimed Philip, "I do not draw
back, and I will prove all I asserted. I
spoke of preference and of visits, did I
not? Well, listen."

Anne of Austria prepared herself to
listen, with that love of gossip which
the best woman living and the best
mother, were she a queen even, always
finds in being mixed up with the petty
squabbles of a household.

"Well," said Philip, "tell me one
thing."

"What is that?"

"Why does my wife retain an English
court about her?" said Philip, as he
crossed his arms and looked his mother
steadily in the face, as if he were
convinced that she could not answer the
question.

"For a very simple reason," returned
Anne of Austria; "because the English
are her countrymen, because they have
expended large sums in order to
accompany her to France, and because it
would be hardly polite -- not politic,
certainly -- to dismiss abruptly those
members of the English nobility who have
not shrunk from any devotion or from any
sacrifice."

"A wonderful sacrifice indeed," returned
Philip, "to desert a wretched country to
come to a beautiful one, where a greater
effect can be produced for a crown than
can be procured elsewhere for four!
Extraordinary devotion, really, to
travel a hundred leagues in company with
a woman one is in love with!"

"In love, Philip! think what you are
saying. Who is in love with Madame?"

"The Duke of Buckingham. Perhaps you
will defend him, too."

Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at
the same time. The name of the Duke of
Buckingham recalled certain
recollections of a very tender and
melancholy nature. "The Duke of
Buckingham?" she murmured.

"Yes; one of those arm-chair
soldiers ---- "

"The Buckinghams are loyal and brave,"
said Anne of Austria, courageously.

"This is too bad; my own mother takes
the part of my wife's lover against me,"
exclaimed Philip, incensed to such an
extent that his weak organization was
effected almost to tears.

"Philip, my son," exclaimed Anne of
Austria, "such an expression is unworthy
of you. Your wife has no lover and, had
she one, it would not be the Duke of
Buckingham. The members of that family,
I repeat are loyal and discreet, and the
rights of hospitality are sure to be
respected by them."

"The Duke of Buckingham is an
Englishman, madame," said Philip; "and
may I ask if the English so very
religiously respect what belongs to
princes of France?"

Anne blushed a second time, and turned
aside under the pretext of taking her
pen from her desk again, but in reality
to conceal her confusion from her son.
"Really, Philip," she said, "you seem to
discover expressions for the purpose of
embarrassing me, and your anger blinds
you while it alarms me; reflect a
little."

"There is no need for reflection,
madame. I can see with my own eyes."

"Well, and what do you see?"

"That Buckingham never quits my wife. He
presumes to make presents to her, and
she ventures to accept them. Yesterday
she was talking about sachets a la
violette; well, our French perfumers,
you know very well, madame, for you have
over and over again asked for it without
success -- our French perfumers, I say,
have never been able to procure this
scent. The duke, however, wore about him
a sachet a la violette, and I am sure
that the one my wife has came from him."

"Indeed, monsieur," said Anne of
Austria, "you build your pyramids on
needle points; be careful. What harm, I
ask you, can there be in a man giving to
his countrywoman a receipt for a new
essence? These strange ideas, I protest,
painfully recall your father to me; he
who so frequently and so unjustly made
me suffer."

"The Duke of Buckingham's father was
probably more reserved and more
respectful than his son," said Philip,
thoughtlessly, not perceiving how deeply
he had wounded his mother's feelings.
The queen turned pale, and pressed her
clenched hands upon her bosom; but,
recovering herself immediately, she
said, "You came here with some intention
or another, I suppose?"

"Certainly."

"What was it?"

"I came, madame, intending to complain
energetically, and to inform you that I
will not submit to such behavior from
the Duke of Buckingham."

"What do you intend to do, then?"

"I shall complain to the king."

"And what do you expect the king to
reply?"

"Very well, then," said Monsieur, with
an expression of stern determination on
his countenance, which offered a
singular contrast to its usual
gentleness. "Very well. I will right
myself!"

"What do you call righting yourself?"
inquired Anne of Austria, in alarm.

"I will have the Duke of Buckingham quit
the princess, I will have him quit
France, and I will see that my wishes
are intimated to him."

"You will intimate nothing of the kind,
Philip," said the queen, "for if you act
in that manner, and violate hospitality
to that extent, I will invoke the
severity of the king against you."

"Do you threaten me, madame?" exclaimed
Philip, almost in tears; "do you
threaten me in the midst of my
complaints!"

"I do not threaten you; I do but place
an obstacle in the path of your hasty
anger. I maintain that, to adopt towards
the Duke of Buckingham, or any other
Englishman, any rigorous measure -- to
take even a discourteous step towards
him, would be to plunge France and
England into the most disastrous
disagreement. Can it be possible that a
prince of the blood, the brother of the
king of France, does not know how to
hide an injury, even did it exist in
reality, where political necessity
requires it?" Philip made a movement.
"Besides," continued the queen, "the
injury is neither true nor possible, and
it is merely a matter of silly
jealousy."

"Madame, I know what I know."

"Whatever you may know, I can only
advise you to be patient."

"I am not patient by disposition,
madame."

The queen rose, full of severity, and
with an icy ceremonious manner. "Explain
what you really require, monsieur," she
said.

"I do not require anything, madame; I
simply express what I desire. If the
Duke of Buckingham does not, of his own
accord, discontinue his visits to my
apartments I shall forbid him entrance."

"That is a point you will refer to the
king," said Anne of Austria, her heart
swelling as she spoke, and her voice
trembling with emotion.

"But, madame," exclaimed Philip,
striking his hands together, "act as my
mother and not as the queen, since I
speak to you as a son; it is simply a
matter of a few minutes' conversation
between the duke and myself."

"It is that very conversation I forbid,"
said the queen, resuming her authority,
"because it is unworthy of you."

"Be it so; I will not appear in the
matter, but I shall intimate my will to
Madame."

"Oh!" said the queen-mother, with a
melancholy arising from reflection,
"never tyrannize over a wife -- never
behave too haughtily or imperiously
towards your own. A woman unwillingly
convinced is unconvinced."

"What is to be done, then? -- I will
consult my friends about it."

"Yes, your double-dealing advisers, your
Chevalier de Lorraine -- your De Wardes.
Intrust the conduct of this affair to
me. You wish the Duke of Buckingham to
leave, do you not?"

"As soon as possible, madame."

"Send the duke to me, then; smile upon
your wife, behave to her, to the king,
to every one, as usual. But follow no
advice but mine. Alas! I too well know
what any household comes to that is
troubled by advisers."

"You shall be obeyed, madame."

"And you will be satisfied at the
result. Send the duke to me."

"That will not be difficult."

"Where do you suppose him to be?"

"At my wife's door, whose levee he is
probably awaiting."

"Very well." said Anne of Austria,
calmly. "Be good enough to tell the duke
that I shall be charmed if he will pay
me a visit."

Philip kissed his mother's hand, and
started off to find the Duke of
Buckingham.




CHAPTER 92

Forever!



The Duke of Buckingham, obedient to the
queen-mother's invitation, presented
himself in her apartments half an hour
after the departure of the Duc
d'Orleans. When his name was announced
by the gentleman-usher in attendance,
the queen, who was sitting with her
elbow resting on a table, and her head
buried in her hands, rose, and smilingly
received the graceful and respectful
salutation which the duke addressed to
her. Anne of Austria was still
beautiful. It is well known that at her
then somewhat advanced age, her long
auburn hair, perfectly formed hands, and
bright ruby lips, were still the
admiration of all who saw her. On the
present occasion, abandoned entirely to
a remembrance which evoked all the past
in her heart, she looked almost as
beautiful as in the days of her youth,
when her palace was open to the visits
of the Duke of Buckingham's father, then
a young and impassioned man, as well as
an unfortunate prince, who lived for her
alone, and died with her name upon his
lips. Anne of Austria fixed upon
Buckingham a look so tender in its
expression, that it denoted, not alone
the indulgence of maternal affection,
but a gentleness of expression like the
coquetry of a woman who loves.

"Your majesty," said Buckingham,
respectfully, "desired to speak to me."

"Yes, duke," said the queen, in English;
"will you be good enough to sit down?"

The favor which Anne of Austria thus
extended to the young man, and the
welcome sound of the language of a
country from which the duke had been
estranged since his stay in France,
deeply affected him. He immediately
conjectured that the queen had a request
to make of him. After having abandoned
the first few moments to the
irrepressible emotions she experienced,
the queen resumed the smiling air with
which she had received him. "What do you
think of France?" she said, in French.

"It is a lovely country, madame,"
replied the duke.

"Had you ever seen it before?"

"Once only, madame."

"But, like all true Englishmen, you
prefer England?"

"I prefer my own native land to France,"
replied the duke; "but if your majesty
were to ask me which of the two cities,
London or Paris, I should prefer as a
residence, I should be forced to answer,
Paris."

Anne of Austria observed the ardent
manner with which these words had been
pronounced. "I am told my lord, you have
rich possessions in your own country and
that you live in a splendid and
time-honored palace."

"It was my father's residence," replied
Buckingham, casting down his eyes.

"Those are indeed great advantages and
souvenirs," replied the queen, alluding,
in spite of herself, to recollections
from which it is impossible voluntarily
to detach one's self.

"In fact," said the duke, yielding to
the melancholy influence of this opening
conversation, "sensitive persons live as
much in the past or the future, as in
the present."

"That is very true," said the queen, in
a low tone of voice. "It follows, then,
my lord,' she added, "that you, who are
a man of feeling, will soon quit France
in order to shut yourself up with your
wealth and your relics of the past."

Buckingham raised his head and said, "I
think not, madame."

"What do you mean?"

"On the contrary, I think of leaving
England in order to take up my residence
in France."

It was now Anne of Austria's turn to
exhibit surprise. "Why?" she said. "Are
you not in favor with the new king?"

"Perfectly so, madame, for his majesty's
kindness to me is unbounded."

"It cannot," said the queen, "be because
your fortune has diminished, for it is
said to be enormous."

"My income, madame, has never been so
large."

"There is some secret cause, then?"

"No, madame," said Buckingham, eagerly,
"there is nothing secret in my reason
for this determination. I prefer
residence in France; I like a court so
distinguished by its refinement and
courtesy; I like the amusements,
somewhat serious in their nature, which
are not the amusements of my own
country, and which are met with in
France."

Anne of Austria smiled shrewdly.
"Amusements of a serious nature?" she
said. "Has your Grace well reflected on
their seriousness?" The duke hesitated.
"There is no amusement so serious,"
continued the queen, "as to prevent a
man of your rank ---- "

"Your majesty seems to insist greatly on
that point," interrupted the duke.

"Do you think so, my lord?"

"If you will forgive me for saying so,
it is the second time you have vaunted
the attractions of England at the
expense of the delight which all
experience who live in France."

Anne of Austria approached the young
man, and placing her beautiful hand upon
his shoulder, which trembled at the
touch, said, "Believe me, monsieur,
nothing can equal a residence in one's
own native country. I have very
frequently had occasion to regret Spain.
I have lived long, my lord, very long
for a woman, and I confess to you, that
not a year has passed I have not
regretted Spain."

"Not one year, madame?" said the young
duke coldly. "Not one of those years
when you reigned Queen of Beauty -- as
you still are, indeed?"

"A truce to flattery, duke, for I am old
enough to be your mother." She
emphasized these latter words in a
manner, and with a gentleness, which
penetrated Buckingham's heart. "Yes,"
she said, "I am old enough to be your
mother; and for this reason, I will give
you a word of advice."

"That advice being that I should return
to London?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, my lord."

The duke clasped his hands with a
terrified gesture which could not fail
of its effect upon the queen, already
disposed to softer feelings by the
tenderness of her own recollections. "It
must be so," added the queen.

"What!" he again exclaimed, "am I
seriously told that I must leave, --
that I must exile myself, -- that I am
to flee at once?"

"Exile yourself, did you say? One would
fancy France was your native country."

"Madame, the country of those who love
is the country of those whom they love."

"Not another word, my lord; you forget
whom you are addressing."

Buckingham threw himself on his knees.
"Madame, you are the source of
intelligence, of goodness, and of
compassion; you are the first person in
this kingdom, not only by your rank, but
the first person in the world on account
of your angelic attributes. I have said
nothing, madame. Have I, indeed, said
anything you should answer with such a
cruel remark? What have I betrayed?"

"You have betrayed yourself," said the
queen, in a low tone of voice.

"I have said nothing, -- I know
nothing."

"You forget you have spoken and thought
in the presence of a woman, and
besides ---- "

"Besides," said the duke, "no one knows
you are listening to me."

"On the contrary, it is known; you have
all the defects and all the qualities of
youth."

"I have been betrayed or denounced,
then?"

"By whom?"

"By those who, at Havre, had, with
infernal perspicacity, read my heart
like an open book."

"I do not know whom you mean."

"M. de Bragelonne, for instance."

"I know the name without being
acquainted with the person to whom it
belongs. M. de Bragelonne has said
nothing."

"Who can it be, then? If any one,
madame, had had the boldness to notice
in me that which I do not myself wish to
behold ---- "

"What would you do, duke?"

"There are secrets which kill those who
discover them."

"He, then, who has discovered your
secret, madman that you are, still
lives; and, what is more, you will not
slay him, for he is armed on all
sides, -- he is a husband, a jealous
man, -- he is the second gentleman in
France, -- he is my son, the Duc
d'Orleans."

The duke turned pale as death. "You are
very cruel, madame," he said.

"You see, Buckingham," said Anne of
Austria, sadly, "how you pass from one
extreme to another, and fight with
shadows, when it would seem so easy to
remain at peace with yourself."

"If we fight, madame, we die on the
field of battle," replied the young man,
gently, abandoning himself to the most
gloomy depression.

Anne ran towards him and took him by the
hand. "Villiers," she said, in English,
with a vehemence of tone which nothing
could resist, "what is it you ask? Do
you ask a mother to sacrifice her
son, -- a queen to consent to the
dishonor of her house? Child that you
are, do not dream of it. What! in order
to spare your tears am I to commit these
crimes? Villiers! you speak of the dead;
the dead, at least, were full of respect
and submission; they resigned themselves
to an order of exile; they carried their
despair away with them in their hearts,
like a priceless possession, because the
despair was caused by the woman they
loved, and because death, thus
deceptive, was like a gift or a favor
conferred upon them."

Buckingham rose, his features distorted,
and his hands pressed against his heart.
"You are right, madame," he said, "but
those of whom you speak had received
their order of exile from the lips of
the one whom they loved; they were not
driven away; they were entreated to
leave, and were not laughed at."

"No," murmured Anne of Austria, "they
were not forgotten. But who says you are
driven away, or that you are exiled? Who
says that your devotion will not be
remembered? I do not speak on any one's
behalf but my own, when I tell you to
leave. Do me this kindness -- grant me
this favor; let me, for this also, be
indebted to one of your name."

"It is for your sake, then, madame?"

"For mine alone."

"No one whom I shall leave behind me
will venture to mock, -- no prince even
who shall say, `I required it.'"

"Listen to me, duke," and hereupon the
dignified features of the queen assumed
a solemn expression. "I swear to you
that no one commands in this matter but
myself. I swear to you that, not only
shall no one either laugh or boast in
any way, but no one even shall fail in
the respect due to your rank. Rely upon
me, duke, as I rely upon you."

"You do not explain yourself, madame; my
heart is full of bitterness, and I am in
utter despair; no consolation, however
gentle and affectionate, can afford me
relief."

"Do you remember your mother, duke?"
replied the queen, with a winning smile.

"Very slightly, madame; yet I remember
how she used to cover me with her
caresses and her tears whenever I wept."

"Villiers," murmured the queen, passing
her arm round the young man's neck,
"look upon me as your mother, and
believe that no one shall ever make my
son weep."

"I thank you, madame," said the young
man, affected and almost suffocated by
his emotion, "I feel there is indeed
still room in my heart for a gentler and
nobler sentiment than love."

The queen-mother looked at him and
pressed his hand. "Go," she said.

"When must I leave? Command me."

"At any time that may suit you, my
lord," resumed the queen; "you will
choose your own day of departure.
Instead, however, of setting off to-day,
as you would doubtless wish to do, or
to-morrow, as others may have expected,
leave the day after to-morrow, in the
evening; but announce to-day that it is
your wish to leave."

"My wish?" murmured the young duke.

"Yes, duke."

"And shall I never return to France?"

Anne of Austria reflected for a moment,
seemingly absorbed in sad and serious
thought. "It would be a consolation for
me," she said, "if you were to return on
the day when I shall be carried to my
final resting-place at Saint-Denis
beside the king, my husband."

"Madame, you are goodness itself; the
tide of prosperity is setting in on you;
your cup brims over with happiness, and
many long years are yet before you."

"In that case you will not come for some
time, then," said the queen, endeavoring
to smile.

"I shall not return," said Buckingham,
"young as I am. Death does not reckon by
years; it is impartial; some die young,
some reach old age."

"I will not harbor any sorrowful ideas,
duke. Let me comfort you; return in two
years. I perceive from your face that
the very idea which saddens you so much
now, will have disappeared before six
months have passed, and will be not only
dead but forgotten in the period of
absence I have assigned you.'

"I think you judged me better a little
while ago madame," replied the young
man, "when you said that time is
powerless against members of the family
of Buckingham."

"Silence," said the queen, kissing the
duke upon the forehead with an affection
she could not restrain. "Go, go; spare
me and forget yourself no longer. I am
the queen; you are the subject of the
king of England. King Charles awaits
your return. Adieu, Villiers, --
farewell."

"Forever!" replied the young man, and he
fled, endeavoring to master his emotion.

Anne leaned her head upon her hands, and
then looking at herself in the glass,
murmured, "It has been truly said, that
a woman who has truly loved is always
young, and that the bloom of twenty
years ever lies concealed in some secret
cloister of the heart."




CHAPTER 93

King Louis XIV. does not think
Mademoiselle de la Valliere either rich
enough or pretty enough for a Gentleman
of the Rank of the Vicomte de Bragelonne



Raoul and the Comte de la Fere reached
Paris the evening of the same day on
which Buckingham had held the
conversation with the queen-mother. The
count had scarcely arrived, when,
through Raoul, he solicited an audience
of the king. His majesty had passed a
portion of the morning in looking over,
with Madame and the ladies of the court,
various goods of Lyons manufacture, of
which he had made his sister-in-law a
present. A court dinner had succeeded,
then cards, and afterwards, according to
his usual custom, the king, leaving the
card-tables at eight o'clock, passed
into his cabinet in order to work with
M. Colbert and M. Fouquet. Raoul entered
the ante-chamber at the very moment the
two ministers quitted it, and the king,
perceiving him through the half-closed
door, said, "What do you want, M. de
Bragelonne?"

The young man approached: "An audience,
sire," he replied, "for the Comte de la
Fere, who has just arrived from Blois,
and is most anxious to have an interview
with your majesty."

"I have an hour to spare between cards
and supper," said the king. "Is the
Comte de la Fere at hand?"

"He is below, and awaits your majesty's
permission."

"Let him come up at once," said the
king, and five minutes afterwards Athos
entered the presence of Louis XIV. He
was received by the king with that
gracious kindness of manner which Louis,
with a tact beyond his years, reserved
for the purpose of gaining those who
were not to be conquered by ordinary
favors. "Let me hope, comte," said the
king, "that you have come to ask me for
something."

"I will not conceal from your majesty,"
replied the comte, "that I am indeed
come for that purpose."

"That is well," said the king, joyously.

"It is not for myself, sire."

"So much the worse; but, at least, I
will do for your protege what you refuse
to permit me to do for you."

"Your majesty encourages me. I have come
to speak on behalf of the Vicomte de
Bragelonne."

"It is the same as if you spoke on your
own behalf, comte."

"Not altogether so, sire. I am desirous
of obtaining from your majesty that
which I cannot ask for myself. The
vicomte thinks of marrying."

"He is still very young; but that does
not matter. He is an eminently
distinguished man, I will choose a wife
for him."

"He has already chosen one, sire, and
only awaits your consent."

"It is only a question, then, of signing
the marriage-contract?" Athos bowed.
"Has he chosen a wife whose fortune and
position accord with your own
anticipations?"

Athos hesitated for a moment. "His
affianced wife is of good birth, but has
no fortune."

"That is a misfortune we can remedy."

"You overwhelm me with gratitude, sire;
but your majesty will permit me to offer
a remark?"

"Do so, comte."

"Your majesty seems to intimate an
intention of giving a marriage-portion
to this young lady."

"Certainly."

"I should regret, sire, if the step I
have taken towards your majesty should
be attended by this result."

"No false delicacy, comte; what is the
bride's name?"

"Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la
Valliere," said Athos, coldly."

"I seem to know that name," said the
king, as if reflecting; "there was a
Marquis de la Valliere"

"Yes, sire, it is his daughter."

"But he died, and his widow married
again M. de Saint-Remy, I think, steward
of the wager Madame's household."

"Your majesty is correctly informed."

"More than that, the young lady has
lately become one of the princess's
maids of honor."

"Your majesty is better acquainted with
her history than I am."

The king again reflected, and glancing
at the comte's anxious countenance,
said: "The young lady does not seem to
me to be very pretty, comte."

"I am not quite sure," replied Athos.

"I have seen her, but she hardly struck
me as being so."

"She seems to be a good and modest girl,
but has little beauty, sire."

"Beautiful fair hair, however."

"I think so."

"And her blue eyes are tolerably good."

"Yes, sire."

"With regard to beauty, then, the match
is but an ordinary one. Now for the
money side of the question."

"Fifteen to twenty thousand francs dowry
at the very outside, sire; the lovers
are disinterested enough; for myself, I
care little for money."

"For superfluity, you mean; but a
needful amount is of importance. With
fifteen thousand francs, without landed
property, a woman cannot live at court.
We will make up the deficiency; I will
do it for De Bragelonne." The king again
remarked the coldness with which Athos
received the remark.

"Let us pass from the question of money
to that of rank," said Louis XIV.; "the
daughter of the Marquis de la Valliere,
that is well enough; but there is that
excellent Saint-Remy, who somewhat
damages the credit of the family; and
you, comte, are rather particular, I
believe, about your own family."

"Sire, I no longer hold to anything but
my devotion to your majesty."

The king again paused. "A moment, comte.
You have surprised me in no little
degree from the beginning of your
conversation. You came to ask me to
authorize a marriage, and you seem
greatly disturbed in having to make the
request. Nay, pardon me, comte, but I am
rarely deceived, young as I am; for
while with some persons I place my
friendship at the disposal of my
understanding, with others I call my
distrust to my aid, by which my
discernment is increased. I repeat that
you do not prefer your request as though
you wished it success."

"Well, sire, that is true."

"I do not understand you, then; refuse."

"Nay, sire; I love De Bragelonne with my
whole heart; he is smitten with
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, he weaves
dreams of bliss for the future; I am not
one who is willing to destroy the
illusions of youth. This marriage is
objectionable to me, but I implore your
majesty to consent to it forthwith, and
thus make Raoul happy."

"Tell me, comte, is she in love with
him?"

"If your majesty requires me to speak
candidly, I do not believe in
Mademoiselle de la Valliere's affection;
the delight at being at court, the honor
of being in the service of Madame,
counteract in her head whatever
affection she may happen to have in her
heart; it is a marriage similar to many
others which already exist at court; but
De Bragelonne wishes it, and so let it
be."

"And yet you do not resemble those
easy-tempered fathers who volunteer as
stepping-stones for their children,"
said the king.

"I am determined enough against the
viciously disposed, but not so against
men of upright character. Raoul is
suffering; he is in great distress of
mind: his disposition, naturally light
and cheerful, has become gloomy and
melancholy. I do not wish to deprive
your majesty of the services he may be
able to render."

"I understand you," said the king; "and
what is more, I understand your heart,
too, comte."

"There is no occasion, therefore,"
replied the comte, "to tell your majesty
that my object is to make these
children, or rather Raoul, happy."

"And I, too, as much as yourself, comte,
wish to secure M. de Bragelonne's
happiness."

"I only await your majesty's signature.
Raoul will have the honor of presenting
himself before your majesty to receive
your consent."

"You are mistaken, comte," said the
king, firmly; "I have just said that I
desire to secure M. de Bragelonne's
happiness, and from the present moment,
therefore, I oppose his marriage."

"But, sire," exclaimed Athos, "your
majesty has promised!"

"Not so, comte, I did not promise you,
for it is opposed to my own views."

"I appreciate your majesty's considerate
and generous intentions in my behalf;
but I take the liberty of recalling to
you that I undertook to approach you as
an ambassador."

"An ambassador, comte, frequently asks,
but does not always obtain what he
asks."

"But, sire, it will be such a blow for
De Bragelonne."

"My hand shall deal the blow; I will
speak to the vicomte."

"Love, sir, is overwhelming in its
might."

"Love can be resisted, comte. I myself
can assure you of that."

"When one has the soul of a king, --
your own, for instance, sire."

"Do not make yourself uneasy on the
subject. I have certain views for De
Bragelonne. I do not say that he shall
not marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere,
but I do not wish him to marry so young;
I do not wish him to marry her until she
has acquired a fortune; and he, on his
side, no less deserves favor, such as I
wish to confer upon him. In a word,
comte, I wish them to wait."

"Yet once more, sire."

"Comte, you told me you came to request
a favor."

"Assuredly, sire."

"Grant me one, then, instead; let us
speak no longer upon this matter. It is
probable that, before long, war may be
declared. I require men about me who are
unfettered. I should hesitate to send
under fire a married man, or a father of
a family. I should hesitate also, on De
Bragelonne's account, to endow with a
fortune, without some sound reason for
it, a young girl, a perfect stranger;
such an act would sow jealousy amongst
my nobility." Athos bowed, and remained
silent.

"Is that all you wished to ask me?"
added Louis XIV.

"Absolutely all, sire; and I take my
leave of your majesty. Is it, however,
necessary that I should inform Raoul?"

"Spare yourself the trouble and
annoyance. Tell the vicomte that at my
levee to-morrow morning I will speak to
him. I shall expect you this evening,
comte, to join my card-table."

"I am in traveling-costume, sire."

"A day will come, I hope, when you will
leave me no more. Before long, comte,
the monarchy will be established in such
a manner as to enable me to offer a
worthy hospitality to men of your
merit."

"Provided, sire, a monarch reigns
grandly in the hearts of his subjects,
the palace he inhabits matters little,
since he is worshipped in a temple."
With these words Athos left the cabinet,
and found De Bragelonne, who was
awaiting him anxiously.

"Well, monsieur?" said the young man.

"The king, Raoul, is well intentioned
towards us both; not, perhaps, in the
sense you suppose, but he is kind, and
generously disposed to our house."

"You have bad news to communicate to me,
monsieur," said the young man, turning
very pale.

"The king himself will inform you
tomorrow morning that it is not bad
news."

"The king has not signed, however?"

"The king wishes himself to settle the
terms of the contract, and he desires to
make it so grand that he requires time
for consideration. Throw the blame
rather on your own impatience, than on
the king's good feeling towards you."

Raoul, in utter consternation, on
account of his knowledge of the count's
frankness as well as his diplomacy,
remained plunged in dull and gloomy
stupor.

"Will you not go with me to my
lodgings?" said Athos.

"I beg your pardon, monsieur; I will
follow you," he stammered out, following
Athos down the staircase.

"Since I am here," said Athos, suddenly,
"cannot I see M. d'Artagnan?"

"Shall I show you his apartments?" said
De Bragelonne.

"Do so."

"They are on the opposite staircase."

They altered their course, but on
reaching the landing of the grand
staircase, Raoul perceived a servant in
the Comte de Guiche's livery, who ran
towards him as soon as he heard his
voice.

"What is it?" said Raoul.

"This note, monsieur. My master heard of
your return and wrote to you without
delay; I have been looking for you for
the last half-hour."

Raoul approached Athos as he unsealed
the letter. saying, "With your
permission, monsieur."

"Certainly."

"Dear Raoul," wrote the Comte de Guiche,
"I have an affair in hand which requires
immediate attention; I know you have
returned, come to me as soon as
possible."

Hardly had he finished reading it, when
a servant in the livery of the Duke of
Buckingham, turning out of the gallery,
recognized Raoul, and approached him
respectfully, saying, "From his Grace,
monsieur."

"Well, Raoul, as I see you are already
as busy as a general of an army, I shall
leave you, and will find M. d'Artagnan
myself."

"You will excuse me, I trust," said
Raoul.

"Yes, yes, I excuse you; adieu, Raoul;
you will find me at my apartments until
to-morrow; during the day I may set out
for Blois, unless I have orders to the
contrary."

"I shall present my respects to you
to-morrow, monsieur."

As soon as Athos had left, Raoul opened
Buckingham's letter.



"Monsieur de Bragelonne," it ran, "You
are, of all the Frenchmen I have known,
the one with whom I am most pleased; I
am about to put your friendship to the
proof. I have received a certain
message, written in very good French. As
I am an Englishman, I am afraid of not
comprehending it very clearly. The
letter has a good name attached to it,
and that is all I can tell you. Will you
be good enough to come and see me? for I
am told you have arrived from Blois.

"Your devoted

"Villiers, Duke of Buckingham."



"I am going now to see your master,"
said Raoul to De Guiche's servant, as he
dismissed him; "and I shall be with the
Duke of Buckingham in an hour," he
added, dismissing with these words the
duke's messenger.




CHAPTER 94

Sword-thrusts in the Water



Raoul, on betaking himself to De Guiche,
found him conversing with De Wardes and
Manicamp. De Wardes, since the affair of
the barricade, had treated Raoul as a
stranger; they behaved as if they were
not acquainted. As Raoul entered, De
Guiche walked up to him; and Raoul, as
he grasped his friend's hand, glanced
rapidly at his two companions, hoping to
be able to read on their faces what was
passing in their minds. De Wardes was
cold and impenetrable; Manicamp seemed
absorbed in the contemplation of some
trimming to his dress. De Guiche led
Raoul to an adjoining cabinet, and made
him sit down, saying, "How well you
look!"

"That is singular," replied Raoul, "for
I am far from being in good spirits."

"It is your case, then, Raoul, as it is
my own, -- our love affairs do not
progress."

"So much the better, count, as far as
you are concerned; the worst news would
be good news."

"In that case do not distress yourself,
for, not only am I very unhappy, but,
what is more, I see others about me who
are happy."

"Really, I do not understand you,"
replied Raoul; "explain yourself."

"You will soon learn. I have tried, but
in vain, to overcome the feeling you saw
dawn in me, increase and take entire
possession of me. I have summoned all
your advice and my own strength to my
aid. I have well weighed the unfortunate
affair in which I have embarked; I have
sounded its depths; that it is an abyss,
I am aware, but it matters little, for I
shall pursue my own course."

"This is madness, De Guiche! you cannot
advance another step without risking
your own ruin to-day, perhaps your life
to-morrow."

"Whatever may happen, I have done with
reflections; listen."

"And you hope to succeed; you believe
that Madame will love you?"

"Raoul, I believe nothing; I hope,
because hope exists in man, and never
abandons him till death."

"But, admitting that you obtain the
happiness you covet, even then, you are
more certainly lost than if you had
failed in obtaining it."

"I beseech you, Raoul, not to interrupt
me any more; you could never convince
me, for I tell you beforehand, I do not
wish to be convinced; I have gone so far
I cannot recede; I have suffered so
much, death itself would be a boon. I no
longer love to madness, Raoul, I am
being engulfed by a whirlpool of
jealousy."

Raoul struck his hands together with an
expression resembling anger. "Well?"
said he.

"Well or ill matters little. This is
what I claim from you, my friend, my
almost brother. During the last three
days Madame has been living in a perfect
intoxication of gayety. On the first
day, I dared not look at her; I hated
her for not being as unhappy as myself.
The next day I could not bear her out of
my sight; and she, Raoul -- at least I
thought I remarked it -- she looked at
me, if not with pity, at least with
gentleness. But between her looks and
mine, a shadow intervened; another's
smile invited hers. Beside her horse
another's always gallops, which is not
mine; in her ear another's caressing
voice, not mine, unceasingly vibrates.
Raoul, for three days past my brain has
been on fire; flame, not blood, courses
through my veins. That shadow must be
driven away, that smile must be
quenched; that voice must be silenced."

"You wish Monsieur's death," exclaimed
Raoul.

"No, no, I am not jealous of the
husband; I am jealous of the lover."

"Of the lover?" said Raoul.

"Have you not observed it, you who were
formerly so keen-sighted?"

"Are you jealous of the Duke of
Buckingham?"

"To the very death."

"Again jealous?"

"This time the affair will be easy to
arrange between us; I have taken the
initiative, and have sent him a letter."

"It was you, then, who wrote to him?"

"How do you know that?"

"I know it, because he told me so. Look
at this;" and he handed De Guiche the
letter he had received nearly at the
same moment as his own. De Guiche read
it eagerly, and said, "He is a brave
man, and more than that, a gallant man."

"Most certainly the duke is a gallant
man; I need not ask if you wrote to him
in a similar style."

"He will show you my letter when you
call on him on my behalf."

"But that is almost out of the
question."

"What is?"

"That I shall call on him for that
purpose."

"Why so?"

"The duke consults me as you do."

"I suppose you will give me the
preference! Listen to me, Raoul, I wish
you to tell his Grace -- it is a very
simple matter -- that to-day, to-morrow,
the following day, or any other day he
may choose. I will meet him at
Vincennes."

"Reflect, De Guiche."

"I thought I told you I have reflected."

"The duke is a stranger here; he is on a
mission which renders his person
inviolable.... Vincennes is close to the
Bastile."

"The consequences concern me."

"But the motive for this meeting? What
motive do you wish me to assign?"

"Be perfectly easy on that score, he
will not ask any. The duke must be as
sick of me as I am of him. I implore
you, therefore, seek the duke, and if it
is necessary to entreat him to accept my
offer, I will do so."

"That is useless. The duke has already
informed me that he wishes to speak to
me. The duke is now playing cards with
the king. Let us both go there. I will
draw him aside in the gallery: you will
remain aloof. Two words will be
sufficient."

"That is well arranged. I will take De
Wardes to keep me in countenance."

"Why not Manicamp? De Wardes can join us
at any time; we can leave him here."

"Yes, that is true."

"He knows nothing?"

"Positively nothing. You continue still
on an unfriendly footing, then?"

"Has he not told you anything?"

"Nothing."

"I do not like the man, and, as I never
liked him, the result is, that I am on
no worse terms with him to-day than I
was yesterday."

"Let us go, then."

The four descended the stairs. De
Guiche's carriage was waiting at the
door, and took them to the Palais-Royal.
As they were going along, Raoul was
engaged in devising his scheme of
action. The sole depositary of two
secrets, he did not despair of
concluding some arrangement between the
two parties. He knew the influence he
exercised over Buckingham, and the
ascendency he had acquired over De
Guiche, and affairs did not look utterly
hopeless. On their arrival in the
gallery, dazzling with the blaze of
light, where the most beautiful and
illustrious women of the court moved to
and fro, like stars in their own
atmosphere, Raoul could not prevent
himself for a moment forgetting De
Guiche in order to seek out Louise, who,
amidst her companions, like a dove
completely fascinated, gazed long and
fixedly upon the royal circle, which
glittered with jewels and gold. All its
members were standing, the king alone
being seated. Raoul perceived
Buckingham, who was standing a few
places from Monsieur, in a group of
French and English, who were admiring
his aristocratic carriage and the
incomparable magnificence of his
costume. Some of the older courtiers
remembered having seen his father, but
their recollections were not prejudicial
to the son.

Buckingham was conversing with Fouquet,
who was talking with him aloud about
Belle-Isle. "I cannot speak to him at
present," said Raoul.

"Wait, then, and choose your
opportunity, but finish everything
speedily. I am on thorns."

"See, our deliverer approaches," said
Raoul, perceiving D'Artagnan, who,
magnificently dressed in his new uniform
of captain of the musketeers, had just
made his entry in the gallery; and he
advanced towards D'Artagnan.

"The Comte de la Fere has been looking
for you, chevalier," said Raoul.

"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "I have just
left him."

"I thought you would have passed a
portion of the evening together."

"We have arranged to meet again."

As he answered Raoul, his absent looks
were directed on all sides, as if
seeking some one in the crowd, or
looking for something in the room.
Suddenly his gaze became fixed, like
that of an eagle on its prey. Raoul
followed the direction of his glance,
and noticed that De Guiche and
D'Artagnan saluted each other, but he
could not distinguish at whom the
captain's inquiring and haughty glance
was aimed.

"Chevalier," said Raoul, "there is no
one here but yourself who can render me
a service."

"What is it, my dear vicomte?"

"It is simply to go and interrupt the
Duke of Buckingham, to whom I wish to
say two words, and, as the duke is
conversing with M. Fouquet, you
understand that it would not do for me
to throw myself into the middle of the
conversation."

"Ah, ah, is M. Fouquet there?" inquired
D'Artagnan.

"Do you not see him?"

"Yes, now I do. But do you think I have
a greater right than you have?"

"You are a more important personage."

"Yes, you're right; I am captain of the
musketeers; I have had the post promised
me so long, and have enjoyed it for so
brief a period, that I am always
forgetting my dignity."

"You will do me this service, will you
not?"

"M. Fouquet -- the deuce!"

"Are you not on good terms with him?"

"It is rather he who may not be on good
terms with me; however, since it must be
done some day or another ---- "

"Stay; I think he is looking at you; or
is it likely that it might be ---- "

"No, no, don't deceive yourself, it is
indeed me for whom this honor is
intended."

"The opportunity is a good one, then?"

"Do you think so?"

"Pray go."

"Well, I will."

De Guiche had not removed his eyes from
Raoul, who made a sign to him that all
was arranged. D'Artagnan walked straight
up to the group, and civilly saluted M.
Fouquet as well as the others.

"Good evening, M. d'Artagnan; we were
speaking of Belle-Isle," said Fouquet,
with that usage of society, and that
perfect knowledge of the language of
looks, which require half a lifetime
thoroughly to acquire, and which some
persons, notwithstanding all their
study, never attain.

"Of Belle-Isle-en-Mer! Ah!" said
D'Artagnan. "It belongs to you, I
believe, M. Fouquet?"

"M. Fouquet has just told me that he had
presented it to the king," said
Buckingham.

"Do you know Belle-Isle, chevalier?"
inquired Fouquet.

"I have only been there once," replied
D'Artagnan, with readiness and
good-humor.

"Did you remain there long?"

"Scarcely a day."

"Did you see much of it while you were
there?"

"All that could be seen in a day."

"A great deal can be seen with
observation as keen as yours," said
Fouquet; at which D'Artagnan bowed.

During this Raoul made a sign to
Buckingham. "M. Fouquet," said
Buckingham, "I leave the captain with
you, he is more learned than I am in
bastions, scarps, and counter-scarps,
and I will join one of my friends, who
has just beckoned me." Saying this,
Buckingham disengaged himself from the
group, and advanced towards Raoul,
stopping for a moment at the table where
the queen-mother, the young queen, and
the king were playing together.

"Now, Raoul," said De Guiche, "there he
is; be firm and quick."

Buckingham, having made some
complimentary remark to Madame,
continued his way towards Raoul, who
advanced to meet him, while De Guiche
remained in his place, though he
followed him with his eyes. The maneuver
was so arranged that the young men met
in an open space which was left vacant,
between the group of players and the
gallery, where they walked, stopping now
and then for the purpose of saying a few
words to some of the graver courtiers
who were walking there. At the moment
when the two lines were about to unite,
they were broken by a third. It was
Monsieur who advanced toward the Duke of
Buckingham. Monsieur had his most
engaging smile on his red and perfumed
lips.

"My dear duke," said he, with the most
affectionate politeness; "is it really
true what I have just been told?"

Buckingham turned round, he had not
noticed Monsieur approach; but had
merely heard his voice. He started in
spite of his command over himself, and a
slight pallor overspread his face.
"Monseigneur," he asked, "what has been
told you that surprises you so much?"

"That which throws me into despair, and
will, in truth, be a real cause of
mourning for the whole court."

"Your highness is very kind, for I
perceive that you allude to my
departure."

"Precisely."

Guiche had overheard the conversation
from where he was standing, and started
in his turn. "His departure," he
murmured. "What does he say?"

Philip continued with the same gracious
air, "I can easily conceive, monsieur,
why the king of Great Britain recalls
you; we all know that King Charles II.;
who appreciates true gentlemen, cannot
dispense with you. But it cannot be
supposed we can let you go without great
regret; and I beg you to receive the
expression of my own."

"Believe me, monseigneur," said the
duke, "that if I quit the court of
France ---- "

"Because you are recalled; but, if you
suppose the expression of my own wish on
the subject might possibly have any
influence with the king, I will gladly
volunteer to entreat his majesty Charles
II. to leave you with us a little while
longer."

"I am overwhelmed, monseigneur, by so
much kindness," replied Buckingham, "but
I have received positive commands. My
residence in France was limited; I have
prolonged it at the risk of displeasing
my gracious sovereign. It is only this
very day that I recollected I ought to
have set off four days ago."

"Indeed," said Monsieur.

"Yes, but," added Buckingham, raising
his voice in such a manner that the
princess could hear him, -- "but I
resemble that dweller in the East, who
turned mad, and remained so for several
days, owing to a delightful dream that
he had had, but who one day awoke, if
not completely cured, in some respects
rational at least. The court of France
has its intoxicating properties, which
are not unlike this dream, my lord; but
at last I wake and leave it. I shall be
unable, therefore, to prolong my
residence, as your highness has so
kindly invited me to do."

"When do you leave?" inquired Philip,
with an expression full of interest.

"To-morrow, monseigneur. My carriages
have been ready for three days."

The Duc d'Orleans made a movement of the
head, which seemed to signify, "Since
you are determined, duke, there is
nothing to be said." Buckingham returned
the gesture, concealing under a smile a
contraction of his heart; and then
Monsieur moved away in the same
direction by which he had approached. At
the same moment, however, De Guiche
advanced from the opposite direction.
Raoul feared that the impatient young
man might possibly make the proposition
himself, and hurried forward before him.

"No, no, Raoul, all is useless now,"
said Guiche, holding both his hands
toward the duke, and leading him behind
a column. "Forgive me, duke, for what I
wrote to you, I was mad; give me back my
letter."

"It is true," said the duke, "you cannot
owe me a grudge any longer now."

"Forgive me, duke; my friendship, my
lasting friendship is yours."

"There is certainly no reason why you
should bear me any ill-will from the
moment I leave her never to see her
again."

Raoul heard these words, and
comprehending that his presence was now
useless between the two young men, who
had now only friendly words to exchange,
withdrew a few paces; a movement which
brought him closer to De Wardes, who was
conversing with the Chevalier de
Lorraine respecting the departure of
Buckingham. "A strategic retreat," said
De Wardes.

"Why so?"

"Because the dear duke saves a
sword-thrust by it." At which reply both
laughed.

Raoul, indignant, turned round
frowningly, flushed with anger and his
lip curling with disdain. The Chevalier
de Lorraine turned on his heel, but De
Wardes remained and waited.

"You will not break yourself of the
habit," said Raoul to De Wardes, "of
insulting the absent; yesterday it was
M. d'Artagnan, to-day it is the Duke of
Buckingham."

"You know very well, monsieur," returned
De Wardes, "that I sometimes insult
those who are present."

De Wardes was close to Raoul, their
shoulders met, their faces approached,
as if to mutually inflame each other by
the fire of their looks and of their
anger. It could be seen that the one was
at the height of fury, the other at the
end of his patience. Suddenly a voice
was heard behind them full of grace and
courtesy saying, "I believe I heard my
name pronounced."

They turned round and saw D'Artagnan,
who, with a smiling eye and a cheerful
face, had just placed his hand on De
Wardes's shoulder. Raoul stepped back to
make room for the musketeer. De Wardes
trembled from head to foot, turned pale,
but did not move. D'Artagnan, still with
the same smile, took the place which
Raoul abandoned to him.

"Thank you, my dear Raoul," he said. "M.
de Wardes, I wish to talk with you. Do
not leave us Raoul; every one can hear
what I have to say to M. de Wardes." His
smile immediately faded away, and his
glance became cold and sharp as a sword.

"I am at your orders, monsieur," said De
Wardes.

"For a very long time," resumed
D'Artagnan, "I have sought an
opportunity of conversing with you;
to-day is the first time I have found
it. The place is badly chosen, I admit,
but you will perhaps have the goodness
to accompany me to my apartments, which
are on the staircase at the end of this
gallery."

"I follow you, monsieur," said De
Wardes.

"Are you alone here?" said D'Artagnan.

"No; I have M. Manicamp and M. de
Guiche, two of my friends."

"That's well," said D'Artagnan; "but two
persons are not sufficient; you will be
able to find a few others, I trust."

"Certainly," said the young man, who did
not know what object D'Artagnan had in
view. "As many as you please."

"Are they friends?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Real friends?"

"No doubt of it."

"Very well, get a good supply, then. Do
you come, too, Raoul; bring M. de Guiche
and the Duke of Buckingham."

"What a disturbance," replied De Wardes,
attempting to smile. The captain
slightly signed to him with his hand, as
though to recommend him to be patient,
and then led the way to his apartments.




CHAPTER 95

Sword-thrusts in the Water (concluded)



D'Artagnan's apartment was not
unoccupied, for the Comte de la Fere,
seated in the recess of a window,
awaited him. "Well," said he to
D'Artagnan, as he saw him enter.

"Well," said the latter, "M. de Wardes
has done me the honor to pay me a visit,
in company with some of his own friends,
as well as of ours." In fact, behind the
musketeer appeared De Wardes and
Manicamp followed by De Guiche and
Buckingham, who looked surprised, not
knowing what was expected of them. Raoul
was accompanied by two or three
gentlemen; and, as he entered, glanced
round the room, and perceiving the
count, he went and placed himself by his
side. D'Artagnan received his visitors
with all the courtesy he was capable of;
he preserved his unmoved and unconcerned
look. All the persons present were men
of distinction, occupying posts of honor
and credit at the court. After he had
apologized to each of them for any
inconvenience he might have put them to,
he turned towards De Wardes, who, in
spite of his customary self-command,
could not prevent his face betraying
some surprise mingled with not a little
uneasiness.

"Now, monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "since
we are no longer within the precincts of
the king's palace, and since we can
speak out without failing in respect to
propriety, I will inform you why I have
taken the liberty to request you to
visit me here, and why I have invited
these gentlemen to be present at the
same time. My friend, the Comte de la
Fere, has acquainted me with the
injurious reports you are spreading
about myself. You have stated that you
regard me as your mortal enemy, because
I was, so you affirm, that of your
father."

"Perfectly true, monsieur, I have said
so," replied De Wardes, whose pallid
face became slightly tinged with color.

"You accuse me, therefore, of a crime,
or a fault, or of some mean and cowardly
act. Have the goodness to state your
charge against me in precise terms."

"In the presence of witnesses?"

"Most certainly in the presence of
witnesses; and you see I have selected
them as being experienced in affairs of
honor."

"You do not appreciate my delicacy,
monsieur. I have accused you, it is
true; but I have kept the nature of the
accusation a perfect secret. I entered
into no details; but have rested
satisfied by expressing my hatred in the
presence of those on whom a duty was
almost imposed to acquaint you with it.
You have not taken the discreetness I
have shown into consideration, although
you were interested in remaining silent.
I can hardly recognize your habitual
prudence in that, M. d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan, who was quietly biting the
corner of his mustache, said, "I have
already had the honor to beg you to
state the particulars of the grievances
you say you have against me."

"Aloud?"

"Certainly, aloud."

"In that case, I will speak."

"Speak, monsieur," said D'Artagnan,
bowing; "we are all listening to you."

"Well, monsieur, it is not a question of
a personal injury towards myself, but
one towards my father."

"That you have already stated."

"Yes, but there are certain subjects
which are only approached with
hesitation."

"If that hesitation, in your case,
really does exist, I entreat you to
overcome it."

"Even if it refer to a disgraceful
action?"

"Yes; in every and any case."

Those who were present at this scene
had, at first, looked at each other with
a good deal of uneasiness. They were
reassured, however, when they saw that
D'Artagnan manifested no emotion
whatever.

De Wardes still maintained the same
unbroken silence. "Speak, monsieur,"
said the musketeer; "you see you are
keeping us waiting."

"Listen, then: -- My father loved a lady
of noble birth, and this lady loved my
father." D'Artagnan and Athos exchanged
looks. De Wardes continued: "M.
d'Artagnan found some letters which
indicated a rendezvous, substituted
himself, under disguise, for the person
who was expected, and took advantage of
the darkness."

"That is perfectly true," said
D'Artagnan.

A slight murmur was heard from those
present. "Yes, I was guilty of that
dishonorable action. You should have
added, monsieur, since you are so
impartial, that, at the period when the
circumstance which you have just
related, happened, I was not
one-and-twenty years of age."

"Such an action is not the less shameful
on that account," said De Wardes; "and
it is quite sufficient for a gentleman
to have attained the age of reason, to
avoid committing an act of indelicacy."

A renewed murmur was heard, but this
time of astonishment, and almost of
doubt.

"It was a most shameful deception, I
admit," said D'Artagnan, "and I have not
waited for M. de Wardes's reproaches to
reproach myself for it, and very
bitterly, too. Age has, however, made me
more reasonable, and above all, more
upright; and this injury has been atoned
for by a long and lasting regret. But I
appeal to you, gentlemen; this affair
took place in 1626, at a period, happily
for yourselves, known to you by
tradition only, at a period when love
was not over scrupulous, when
consciences did not distill, as in the
present day, poison and bitterness. We
were young soldiers, always fighting, or
being attacked, our swords always in our
hands, or at least ready to be drawn
from their sheaths. Death then always
stared us in the face, war hardened us,
and the cardinal pressed us sorely. I
have repented of it, and more than
that -- I still repent it, M. de
Wardes."

"I can well understand that, monsieur,
for the action itself needed repentance;
but you were not the less the cause of
that lady's disgrace. She, of whom you
have been speaking, covered with shame,
borne down by the affront you brought
upon her, fled, quitted France, and no
one ever knew what became of her."

"Stay," said the Comte de la Fere,
stretching his hand towards De Wardes,
with a peculiar smile upon his face,
"you are mistaken; she was seen; and
there are persons even now present, who,
having often heard her spoken of, will
easily recognize her by the description
I am about to give. She was about
five-and-twenty years of age, slender in
form, of a pale complexion, and
fair-haired; she was married in
England."

"Married?" exclaimed De Wardes.

"So, you were not aware she was married?
You see we are far better informed than
yourself. Do you happen to know she was
usually styled `My Lady,' without the
addition of any name to that
description?"

"Yes, I know that."

"Good Heavens!" murmured Buckingham.

"Very well, monsieur. That woman, who
came from England, returned to England
after having thrice attempted M.
d'Artagnan's life. That was but just,
you will say, since M. d'Artagnan had
insulted her. But that which was not
just was, that, when in England, this
woman, by her seductions, completely
enslaved a young man in the service of
Lord de Winter, by name Felton. You
change color, my lord," said Athos
turning to the Duke of Buckingham, "and
your eyes kindle with anger and sorrow.
Let your Grace finish the recital, then,
and tell M. de Wardes who this woman was
who placed the knife in the hand of your
father's murderer."

A cry escaped from the lips of all
present. The young duke passed his
handkerchief across his forehead, which
was covered with perspiration. A dead
silence ensued among the spectators.

"You see, M. de Wardes," said
D'Artagnan, whom this recital had
impressed more and more, as his own
recollection revived as Athos spoke,
"you see that my crime did not cause the
destruction of any one's soul, and that
the soul in question may fairly be
considered to have been altogether lost
before my regret. It is, however, an act
of conscience on my part. Now this
matter is settled, therefore, it remains
for me to ask with the greatest
humility, your forgiveness for this
shameless action, as most certainly I
should have asked it of your father, if
he were still alive, and if I had met
him after my return to France,
subsequent to the death of King Charles
I."

"That is too much, M. d'Artagnan,"
exclaimed many voices, with animation.

"No, gentlemen," said the captain. "And
now, M. de Wardes, I hope all is
finished between us, and that you will
have no further occasion to speak ill of
me again. Do you consider it completely
settled?"

De Wardes bowed, and muttered to himself
inarticulately.

"I trust also," said D'Artagnan,
approaching the young man closely, "that
you will no longer speak ill of any one,
as it seems you have the unfortunate
habit of doing; for a man so
puritanically conscientious as you are,
who can reproach an old soldier for a
youthful freak five-and-thirty years
after it happened, will allow me to ask
whether you who advocate such excessive
purity of conscience, will undertake on
your side to do nothing contrary either
to conscience or the principle of honor.
And now, listen attentively to what I am
going to say, M. de Wardes, in
conclusion. Take care that no tale, with
which your name may be associated,
reaches my ear."

"Monsieur," said De Wardes, "it is
useless threatening to no purpose."

"I have not yet finished, M. de Wardes,
and you must listen to me still
further." The circle of listeners, full
of eager curiosity, drew closer. "You
spoke just now of the honor of a woman,
and of the honor of your father. We were
glad to hear you speak in that manner;
for it is pleasing to think that such a
sentiment of delicacy and rectitude, and
which did not exist, it seems, in our
minds, lives in our children; and it is
delightful too, to see a young man, at
an age when men from habit become the
destroyers of the honor of women,
respect and defend it."

De Wardes bit his lips and clenched his
hands, evidently much disturbed to learn
how this discourse, the commencement of
which was announced in so threatening a
manner, would terminate.

"How did it happen, then, that you
allowed yourself to say to M. de
Bragelonne that he did not know who his
mother was?"

Raoul's eye flashed, as, darting
forward, he exclaimed, -- "Chevalier,
this is a personal affair of my own!" At
which exclamation, a smile, full of
malice, passed across De Wardes's face.

D'Artagnan put Raoul aside, saying, --
"Do not interrupt me, young man." And
looking at De Wardes in an authoritative
manner, he continued: -- "I am now
dealing with a matter which cannot be
settled by means of the sword. I discuss
it before men of honor, all of whom have
more than once had their swords in their
hands in affairs of honor. I selected
them expressly. These gentlemen well
know that every secret for which men
fight ceases to be a secret. I again put
my question to M. de Wardes. What was
the subject of conversation when you
offended this young man, in offending
his father and mother at the same time?"

"It seems to me," returned De Wardes,
"that liberty of speech is allowed, when
it is supported by every means which a
man of courage has at his disposal."

"Tell me what the means are by which a
man of courage can sustain a slanderous
expression."

"The sword."

"You fail, not only in logic, in your
argument, but in religion and honor. You
expose the lives of many others, without
referring to your own, which seems to be
full of hazard. Besides, fashions pass
away, monsieur, and the fashion of
duelling has passed away, without
referring in any way to the edicts of
his majesty which forbid it. Therefore,
in order to be consistent with your own
chivalrous notions, you will at once
apologize to M. de Bragelonne; you will
tell him how much you regret having
spoken so lightly, and that the nobility
and purity of his race are inscribed,
not in his heart alone, but still more
in every action of his life. You will do
and say this, M. de Wardes, as I, an old
officer, did and said just now to your
boy's mustache."

"And if I refuse?" inquired De Wardes.

"In that case the result will be -- "

"That which you think you will prevent,"
said De Wardes, laughing; "the result
will be that your conciliatory address
will end in a violation of the king's
prohibition."

"Not so," said the captain, "you are
quite mistaken."

"What will be the result, then?"

"The result will be that I shall go to
the king, with whom I am on tolerably
good terms, to whom I have been happy
enough to render certain services dating
from a period when you were not born,
and who at my request, has just sent me
an order in blank for M. Baisemeaux de
Montlezun, governor of the Bastile; and
I shall say to the king: `Sire, a man
has in a most cowardly way insulted M.
de Bragelonne by insulting his mother; I
have written this man's name upon the
lettre de cachet which your majesty has
been kind enough to give me, so that M.
de Wardes is in the Bastile for three
years.'" And D'Artagnan drawing the
order signed by the king from his
pocket, held it towards De Wardes.

Remarking that the young man was not
quite convinced, and received the
warning as an idle threat, he shrugged
his shoulders and walked leisurely
towards the table, upon which lay a
writing-case and a pen, the length of
which would have terrified the
topographical Porthos. De Wardes then
saw that nothing could well be more
seriously intended than the threat in
question for the Bastile, even at that
period, was already held in dread. He
advanced a step towards Raoul, and, in
an almost unintelligible voice, said, --
"I offer my apologies in the terms which
M. d'Artagnan just now dictated, and
which I am forced to make to you."

"One moment, monsieur," said the
musketeer, with the greatest
tranquillity, "you mistake the terms of
the apology. I did not say, `and which I
am forced to make'; I said, `and which
my conscience induces me to make.' This
latter expression, believe me, is better
than the former; and it will be far
preferable, since it will be the most
truthful expression of your own
sentiments."

"I subscribe to it," said De Wardes;
"but submit, gentlemen, that a thrust of
a sword through the body, as was the
custom formerly, was far better than
tyranny like this."

"No, monsieur," replied Buckingham; "for
the sword-thrust, when received, was no
indication that a particular person was
right or wrong; it only showed that he
was more or less skillful in the use of
the weapon."

"Monsieur!" exclaimed De Wardes.

"There, now," interrupted D'Artagnan,
"you are going to say something very
rude, and I am rendering you a service
by stopping you in time."

"Is that all, monsieur?" inquired De
Wardes.

"Absolutely everything," replied
D'Artagnan, "and these gentlemen, as
well as myself, are quite satisfied with
you."

"Believe me monsieur, that your
reconciliations are not successful."

"In what way?"

"Because, as we are now about to
separate. I would wager that M. de
Bragelonne and myself are greater
enemies than ever."

"You are deceived, monsieur, as far as I
am concerned," returned Raoul; "for I do
not retain the slightest animosity in my
heart against you."

This last blow overwhelmed De Wardes. He
cast his eyes around him like a man
bewildered. D'Artagnan saluted most
courteously the gentlemen who had been
present at the explanation; and every
one, on leaving the room, shook hands
with him; but not one hand was held out
towards De Wardes. "Oh!" exclaimed the
young man, abandoning himself to the
rage which consumed him, "can I not find
some one on whom to wreak my vengeance?"

"You can, monsieur, for I am here,"
whispered a voice full of menace in his
ear.

De Wardes turned round, and saw the Duke
of Buckingham, who, having probably
remained behind with that intention, had
just approached him. "You, monsieur?"
exclaimed De Wardes.

"Yes, I! I am no subject of the king of
France; I am not going to remain on the
territory, since I am about setting off
for England. I have accumulated in my
heart such a mass of despair and rage,
that I, too, like yourself, need to
revenge myself upon some one. I approve
M. d'Artagnan's principles profoundly,
but I am not bound to apply them to you.
I am an Englishman, and, in my turn, I
propose to you what you proposed to
others to no purpose. Since you,
therefore, are so terribly incensed,
take me as a remedy. In thirty-four
hours' time I shall be at Calais. Come
with me; the journey will appear shorter
if together, than if alone. We will
fight, when we get there, upon the sands
which are covered by the rising tide,
and which form part of the French
territory during six hours of the day,
but belong to the territory of Heaven
during the other six."

"I accept willingly," said De Wardes.

"I assure you," said the duke, "that if
you kill me, you will be rendering me an
infinite service."

"I will do my utmost to make myself
agreeable to you, duke," said De Wardes.

"It is agreed, then, that I carry you
off with me?"

"I shall be at your commands. I needed
some real danger and some mortal risk to
run, to tranquilize me."

"In that case, I think you have met with
what you are looking for. Farewell, M.
de Wardes; to-morrow morning, my valet
will tell you the exact hour of our
departure; we can travel together like
two excellent friends. I generally
travel as fast as I can. Adieu."

Buckingham saluted De Wardes, and
returned towards the king's apartments;
De Wardes, irritated beyond measure,
left the Palais-Royal, and hurried
through the streets homeward to the
house where he lodged.




CHAPTER 96

Baisemeaux de Montlezun



After the austere lesson administered to
De Wardes, Athos and D'Artagnan together
descended the staircase which led to the
courtyard of the Palais-Royal. "You
perceive," said Athos to D'Artagnan,
"that Raoul cannot, sooner or later,
avoid a duel with De Wardes, for De
Wardes is as brave as he is vicious and
wicked."

"I know such fellows well," replied
D'Artagnan; "I had an affair with the
father. I assure you that, although at
that time I had good muscles and a sort
of brute courage -- I assure you that
the father did me some mischief. But you
should have seen how I fought it out
with him. Ah, Athos, such encounters
never take place in these times! I had a
hand which could never remain at rest, a
hand like quicksilver, -- you knew its
quality, for you have seen me at work.
My sword was no longer a piece of steel;
it was a serpent that assumed every form
and every length, seeking where it might
thrust its head; in other words, where
it might fix its bite. I advanced half a
dozen paces, then three, and then, body
to body, I pressed my antagonist
closely, then I darted back again ten
paces. No human power could resist that
ferocious ardor. Well, De Wardes, the
father, with the bravery of his race,
with his dogged courage, occupied a good
deal of my time; and my fingers, at the
end of the engagement, were, I well
remember, tired enough."

"It is, then, as I said," resumed Athos,
"the son will always be looking out for
Raoul, and will end by meeting him; and
Raoul can easily be found when he is
sought for."

"Agreed; but Raoul calculates well; he
bears no grudge against De Wardes, -- he
has said so; he will wait until he is
provoked, and in that case his position
is a good one. The king will not be able
to get out of temper about the matter;
besides we shall know how to pacify his
majesty. But why so full of these fears
and anxieties? You don't easily get
alarmed."

"I will tell you what makes me anxious;
Raoul is to see the king to-morrow, when
his majesty will inform him of his
wishes respecting a certain marriage.
Raoul, loving as he does, will get out
of temper, and once in an angry mood, if
he were to meet De Wardes, the shell
would explode."

"We will prevent the explosion."

"Not I," said Athos, "for I must return
to Blois. All this gilded elegance of
the court, all these intrigues, sicken
me. I am no longer a young man who can
make terms with the meannesses of the
day. I have read in the Great Book many
things too beautiful and too
comprehensive, to longer take any
interest in the trifling phrases which
these men whisper among themselves when
they wish to deceive others. In one
word, I am weary of Paris wherever and
whenever you are not with me; and as I
cannot have you with me always, I wish
to return to Blois."

"How wrong you are, Athos; how you
gainsay your origin and the destiny of
your noble nature. Men of your stamp are
created to continue, to the very last
moment, in full possession of their
great faculties. Look at my sword, a
Spanish blade, the one I wore at
Rochelle; it served me for thirty years
without fail; one day in the winter it
fell upon the marble floor on the Louvre
and was broken. I had a hunting-knife
made of it which will last a hundred
years yet. You, Athos, with your
loyalty, your frankness, your cool
courage and your sound information, are
the very man kings need to warn and
direct them. Remain here; Monsieur
Fouquet will not last as long as my
Spanish blade."

"Is it possible," said Athos, smiling,
"that my friend, D'Artagnan, who, after
having raised me to the skies, making me
an object of worship, casts me down from
the top of Olympus, and hurls me to the
ground? I have more exalted ambition,
D'Artagnan. To be a minister -- to be a
slave, -- never! Am I not still greater?
I am nothing. I remember having heard
you occasionally call me `the great
Athos;' I defy you, therefore, if I were
minister, to continue to bestow that
title upon me. No, no; I do not yield
myself in this manner."

"We will not speak of it any more, then;
renounce everything, even the brotherly
feeling which unites us."

"It is almost cruel what you say."

D'Artagnan pressed Athos's hand warmly.
"No, no; renounce everything without
fear. Raoul can get on without you. I am
at Paris."

"In that case I shall return to Blois.
We will take leave of each other
to-night, to-morrow at daybreak I shall
be on my horse again."

"You cannot return to your hotel alone;
why did you not bring Grimaud with you?"

"Grimaud takes his rest now; he goes to
bed early, for my poor old servant gets
easily fatigued. He came from Blois with
me, and I compelled him to remain within
doors; for if, in retracing the forty
leagues which separate us from Blois, he
needed to draw breath even, he would die
without a murmur. But I don't want to
lose Grimaud."

"You shall have one of my musketeers to
carry a torch for you. Hola! some one
there," called out D'Artagnan, leaning
over the gilded balustrade. The heads of
seven or eight musketeers appeared. "I
wish some gentleman who is so disposed
to escort the Comte de la Fere," cried
D'Artagnan.

"Thank you for your readiness,
gentlemen," said Athos; "I regret to
have occasion to trouble you in this
manner."

"I would willingly escort the Comte de
la Fere," said some one, "if I had not
to speak to Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Who is that?" said D'Artagnan, looking
into the darkness.

"I, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Heaven forgive me, if that is not
Monsieur Baisemeaux's voice."

"It is, monsieur."

"What are you doing in the courtyard, my
dear Baisemeaux?"

"I am waiting your orders, my dear
Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"Wretch that I am," thought D'Artagnan;
"true, you have been told, I suppose,
that some one was to be arrested, and
have come yourself, instead of sending
an officer?"

"I came because I had occasion to speak
to you."

"You did not send to me?"

"I waited until you were disengaged,"
said Monsieur Baisemeaux, timidly.

"I leave you, D'Artagnan," said Athos.

"Not before I have presented Monsieur
Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the governor of
the Bastile."

Baisemeaux and Athos saluted each other.

"Surely you must know each other," said
D'Artagnan.

"I have an indistinct recollection of
Monsieur Baisemeaux," said Athos.

"You remember, my dear, Baisemeaux, the
king's guardsman with whom we used
formerly to have such delightful
meetings in the cardinal's time?"

"Perfectly," said Athos, taking leave of
him with affability.

"Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, whose nom
de guerre was Athos," whispered
D'Artagnan to Baisemeaux.

"Yes, yes, a brave man, one of the
celebrated four."

"Precisely so. But, my dear Baisemeaux,
shall we talk now?"

"If you please."

"In the first place, as for the
orders -- there are none. The king does
not intend to arrest the person in
question."

"So much the worse," said Baisemeaux
with a sigh.

"What do you mean by so much the worse?"
exclaimed D'Artagnan, laughing.

"No doubt of it," returned the governor,
"my prisoners are my income."

"I beg your pardon, I did not see it in
that light."

"And so there are no orders," repeated
Baisemeaux with a sigh. "What an
admirable situation yours is captain,"
he continued, after a pause,
"captain-lieutenant of the musketeers."

"Oh, it is good enough; but I don't see
why you should envy me; you, governor of
the Bastile, the first castle in
France."

"I am well aware of that," said
Baisemeaux, in a sorrowful tone of
voice.

"You say that like a man confessing his
sins. I would willingly exchange my
profits for yours."

"Don't speak of profits to me if you
wish to save me the bitterest anguish of
mind."

"Why do you look first on one side and
then on the other, as if you were afraid
of being arrested yourself, you whose
business it is to arrest others?"

"I was looking to see whether any one
could see or listen to us; it would be
safer to confer more in private, if you
would grant me such a favor."

"Baisemeaux, you seem to forget we are
acquaintances of five and thirty years'
standing. Don't assume such sanctified
airs; make yourself quite comfortable; I
don't eat governors of the Bastile raw."

"Heaven be praised!"

"Come into the courtyard with me, it's a
beautiful moonlight night; we will walk
up and down arm in arm under the trees,
while you tell me your pitiful tale." He
drew the doleful governor into the
courtyard, took him by the arm as he had
said, and, in his rough, good-humored
way, cried: "Out with it, rattle away,
Baisemeaux; what have you got to say?"

"It's a long story."

"You prefer your own lamentations, then;
my opinion is, it will be longer than
ever. I'll wager you are making fifty
thousand francs out of your pigeons in
the Bastile."

"Would to heaven that were the case, M.
d'Artagnan."

"You surprise me, Baisemeaux; just look
at you, acting the anchorite. I should
like to show you your face in a glass,
and you would see how plump and
florid-looking you are, as fat and round
as a cheese, with eyes like lighted
coals; and if it were not for that ugly
wrinkle you try to cultivate on your
forehead, you would hardly look fifty
years old, and you are sixty, if I am
not mistaken."

"All quite true."

"Of course I knew it was true, as true
as the fifty thousand francs profit you
make," at which remark Baisemeaux
stamped on the ground.

"Well, well," said D'Artagnan, "I will
add up your accounts for you: you were
captain of M. Mazarin's guards; and
twelve thousand francs a year would in
twelve years amount to one hundred and
forty thousand francs."

"Twelve thousand francs! Are you mad?"
cried Baisemeaux; "the old miser gave me
no more than six thousand, and the
expenses of the post amounted to six
thousand five hundred francs. M.
Colbert, who deducted the other six
thousand francs, condescended to allow
me to take fifty pistoles as a
gratification; so that, if it were not
for my little estate at Montlezun, which
brings me in twelve thousand francs a
year, I could not have met my
engagements."

"Well, then, how about the fifty
thousand francs from the Bastile? There,
I trust, you are boarded and lodged, and
get your six thousand francs salary
besides."

"Admitted!"

"Whether the year be good or bad, there
are fifty prisoners, who, on an average,
bring you in a thousand francs a year
each."

"I don't deny it."

"Well, there is at once an income of
fifty thousand francs; you have held the
post three years, and must have received
in that time one hundred and fifty
thousand francs."

"You forget one circumstance, dear M.
d'Artagnan."

"What is that?"

"That while you received your
appointment as captain from the king
himself, I received mine as governor
from Messieurs Tremblay and Louviere."

"Quite right, and Tremblay was not a man
to let you have the post for nothing."

"Nor Louviere either: the result was,
that I gave seventy-five thousand francs
to Tremblay as his share."

"Very agreeable that! and to Louviere?"

"The very same."

"Money down?"

"No: that would have been impossible.
The king did not wish, or rather M.
Mazarin did not wish, to have the
appearance of removing those two
gentlemen, who had sprung from the
barricades; he permitted them therefore,
to make certain extravagant conditions
for their retirement."

"What were those conditions?"

"Tremble...three years' income for the
good-will."

"The deuce! so that the one hundred and
fifty thousand francs have passed into
their hands."

"Precisely so."

"And beyond that?"

"A sum of one hundred and fifty thousand
francs, or fifteen thousand pistoles,
whichever you please, in three
payments."

"Exorbitant."

"Yes, but that is not all."

"What besides?"

"In default of the fulfillment by me of
any one of those conditions, those
gentlemen enter upon their functions
again. The king has been induced to sign
that."

"It is monstrous, incredible!"

"Such is the fact, however."

"I do indeed pity you, Baisemeaux. But
why, in the name of fortune, did M.
Mazarin grant you this pretended favor?
It would have been far better to have
refused you altogether."

"Certainly, but he was strongly
persuaded to do so by my protector."

"Who is he?"

"One of your own friends, indeed; M.
d'Herblay."

"M. d'Herblay! Aramis!"

"Just so; he has been very kind towards
me."

"Kind! to make you enter into such a
bargain!"

"Listen! I wished to leave the
cardinal's service. M. d'Herblay spoke
on my behalf to Louviere and Tremblay --
they objected; I wished to have the
appointment very much, for I knew what
it could be made to produce; in my
distress I confided in M. d'Herblay, and
he offered to become my surety for the
different payments."

"You astound me! Aramis become your
surety?"

"Like a man of honor; he procured the
signature; Tremblay and Louviere
resigned their appointments, I have paid
every year twenty-five thousand francs
to these two gentlemen; on the
thirty-first of May every year, M.
d'Herblay himself comes to the Bastile,
and brings me five thousand pistoles to
distribute between my crocodiles."

"You owe Aramis one hundred and fifty
thousand francs, then?"

"That is the very thing which is the
cause of my despair, for I only owe him
one hundred thousand."

"I don't quite understand you."

"He came and settled with the vampires
only two years. To-day, however, is the
thirty-first of May, and he has not been
yet, and to-morrow, at midday, the
payment falls due; if, therefore, I
don't pay to-morrow, those gentlemen
can, by the terms of the contract, break
off the bargain; I shall be stripped of
everything; I shall have worked for
three years, and given two hundred and
fifty thousand francs for nothing,
absolutely for nothing at all, dear M.
d'Artagnan."

"This is very strange," murmured
D'Artagnan.

"You can now imagine that I may well
have wrinkles on my forehead, can you
not?"

"Yes, indeed!"

"And you can imagine, too, that
notwithstanding I may be as round as a
cheese, with a complexion like an apple,
and my eyes like coals on fire, I may
almost be afraid that I shall not have a
cheese or an apple left me to eat, and
that my eyes will be left me only to
weep with."

"It is really a very grievous affair."

"I have come to you, M. d'Artagnan, for
you are the only man who can get me out
of my trouble."

"In what way?"

"You are acquainted with the Abbe
d'Herblay and you know that he is a
somewhat mysterious gentleman."

"Yes."

"Well, you can, perhaps, give me the
address of his presbytery, for I have
been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he is no
longer there."

"I should think not, indeed. He is
Bishop of Vannes."

"What! Vannes in Bretagne?"

"Yes."

The little man began to tear his hair,
saying, "How can I get to Vannes from
here by midday to-morrow? I am a lost
man."

"Your despair quite distresses me."

"Vannes, Vannes!" cried Baisemeaux.

"But listen; a bishop is not always a
resident. M. d'Herblay may not possibly
be so far away as you fear."

"Pray tell me his address."

"I really don't know it."

"In that case I am lost. I will go and
throw myself at the king's feet."

"But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe
what you tell me; besides, since the
Bastile is capable of producing fifty
thousand francs a year, why have you not
tried to screw one hundred thousand out
of it?"

"Because I am an honest man, M.
d'Artagnan, and because my prisoners are
fed like ambassadors."

"Well, you're in a fair way to get out
of your difficulties; give yourself a
good attack of indigestion with your
excellent living, and put yourself out
of the way between this and midday
to-morrow."

"How can you be hard-hearted enough to
laugh?"

"Nay, you really afflict me. Come,
Baisemeaux, if you can pledge me your
word of honor, do so, that you will not
open your lips to any one about what I
am going to say to you."

"Never, never!"

"You wish to put your hand on Aramis?"

"At any cost!"

"Well, go and see where M. Fouquet is."

"Why, what connection can there be ----
"

"How stupid you are! Don't you know that
Vannes is in the diocese of Belle-Isle,
or Belle-Isle in the diocese of Vannes?
Belle-Isle belongs to M. Fouquet, and M.
Fouquet nominated M. d'Herblay to that
bishopric!"

"I see, I see; you restore me to life
again."

"So much the better. Go and tell M.
Fouquet very simply that you wish to
speak to M. d'Herblay."

"Of course, of course," exclaimed
Baisemeaux, delightedly.

"But," said D'Artagnan, checking him by
a severe look, "your word of honor?"

"I give you my sacred word of honor,"
replied the little man, about to set off
running.

"Where are you going?"

"To M. Fouquet's house."

"It is useless doing that, M. Fouquet is
playing at cards with the king. All you
can do is to pay M. Fouquet a visit
early to-morrow morning."

"I will do so. Thank you."

"Good luck attend you," said D'Artagnan.

"Thank you."

"This is a strange affair," murmured
D'Artagnan, as he slowly ascended the
staircase after he had left Baisemeaux.
"What possible interest can Aramis have
in obliging Baisemeaux in this manner?
Well, I suppose we shall learn some day
or another."




CHAPTER 97

The King's Card-table



Fouquet was present, as D'Artagnan had
said, at the king's card-table. It
seemed as if Buckingham's departure had
shed a balm on the lacerated hearts of
the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant
with delight, made a thousand
affectionate signs to his mother. The
Count de Guiche could not separate
himself from Buckingham and while
playing, conversed with him upon the
circumstance of his projected voyage.
Buckingham, thoughtful, and kind in his
manner, like a man who has adopted a
resolution, listened to the count, and
from time to time cast a look full of
regret and hopeless affection at Madame.
The princess, in the midst of her
elation of spirits, divided her
attention between the king, who was
playing with her, Monsieur, who quietly
joked her about her enormous winnings,
and De Guiche, who exhibited an
extravagant delight. Of Buckingham she
took but little notice; for her, this
fugitive, this exile, was now simply a
remembrance, no longer a man. Light
hearts are thus constituted; while they
themselves continue untouched, they
roughly break off with every one who may
possibly interfere with their little
calculations of selfish comfort. Madame
had received Buckingham's smiles and
attentions and sighs while he was
present; but what was the good of
sighing, smiling and kneeling at a
distance? Can one tell in what direction
the winds in the Channel, which toss
mighty vessels to and fro, carry such
sighs as these. The duke could not fail
to mark this change, and his heart was
cruelly hurt. Of a sensitive character,
proud and susceptible of deep
attachment, he cursed the day on which
such a passion had entered his heart.
The looks he cast, from time to time at
Madame, became colder by degrees at the
chilling complexion of his thoughts. He
could hardly yet despair, but he was
strong enough to impose silence upon the
tumultuous outcries of his heart. In
exact proportion, however, as Madame
suspected this change of feeling, she
redoubled her activity to regain the ray
of light she was about to lose; her
timid and indecisive mind was displayed
in brilliant flashes of wit and humor.
At any cost she felt that she must be
remarked above everything and every one,
even above the king himself. And she was
so, for the queens, notwithstanding
their dignity, and the king, despite the
respect which etiquette required, were
all eclipsed by her. The queens, stately
and ceremonious, were softened and could
not restrain their laughter. Madame
Henrietta, the queen-mother, was dazzled
by the brilliancy which cast distinction
upon her family, thanks to the wit of
the grand-daughter of Henry IV. The
king, jealous, as a young man and as a
monarch, of the superiority of those who
surrounded him, could not resist
admitting himself vanquished by a
petulance so thoroughly French in its
nature, whose energy was more than ever
increased by English humor. Like a
child, he was captivated by her radiant
beauty, which her wit made still more
dazzling. Madame's eyes flashed like
lightning. Wit and humor escaped from
her scarlet lips, like persuasion from
the lips of Nestor of old. The whole
court, subdued by her enchanting grace,
noticed for the first time that laughter
could be indulged in before the greatest
monarch in the world, like people who
merited their appellation of the
wittiest and most polished people in
Europe.

Madame, from that evening, achieved and
enjoyed a success capable of bewildering
all not born to those altitudes termed
thrones; which, in spite of their
elevation, are sheltered from such
giddiness. From that very moment Louis
XIV. acknowledged Madame as a person to
be recognized. Buckingham regarded her
as a coquette deserving the cruelest
tortures, and De Guiche looked upon her
as a divinity; the courtiers as a star
whose light might some day become the
focus of all favor and power. And yet
Louis XIV., a few years previously, had
not even condescended to offer his hand
to that "ugly girl" for a ballet; and
Buckingham had worshipped this coquette
"on both knees." De Guiche had once
looked upon this divinity as a mere
woman; and the courtiers had not dared
to extol this star in her upward
progress, fearful to disgust the monarch
whom such a dull star had formerly
displeased.

Let us see what was taking place during
this memorable evening at the king's
card-table. The young queen, although
Spanish by birth, and the niece of Anne
of Austria, loved the king, and could
not conceal her affection. Anne of
Austria, a keen observer, like all
women, and imperious, like every queen,
was sensible of Madame's power, and
acquiesced in it immediately, a
circumstance which induced the young
queen to raise the siege and retire to
her apartments. The king hardly paid any
attention to her departure,
notwithstanding the pretended symptoms
of indisposition by which it was
accompanied. Encouraged by the rules of
etiquette, which he had begun to
introduce at the court as an element of
every relation of life, Louis XIV. did
not disturb himself; he offered his hand
to Madame without looking at Monsieur
his brother, and led the young princess
to the door of her apartments. It was
remarked that at the threshold of the
door, his majesty, freed from every
restraint, or not equal to the
situation, sighed very deeply. The
ladies present -- for nothing escapes a
woman's glance -- Mademoiselle
Montalais, for instance -- did not fail
to say to each other, "the king sighed,"
and "Madame sighed too." This had been
indeed the case. Madame had sighed very
noiselessly, but with an accompaniment
very far more dangerous for the king's
repose. Madame had sighed, first closing
her beautiful black eyes, next opening
them, and then, laden, as they were,
with an indescribable mournfulness of
expression, she had raised them towards
the king, whose face at that moment
visibly heightened in color. The
consequence of these blushes, of these
interchanged sighs, and of this royal
agitation, was, that Montalais had
committed an indiscretion which had
certainly affected her companion, for
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, less clear
sighted, perhaps, turned pale when the
king blushed; and her attendance being
required upon Madame, she tremblingly
followed the princess without thinking
of taking the gloves, which court
etiquette required her to do. True it is
that this young country girl might
allege as her excuse the agitation into
which the king seemed to be thrown, for
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, busily
engaged in closing the door, had
involuntarily fixed her eyes upon the
king, who, as he retired backwards, had
his face towards it. The king returned
to the room where the card-tables were
set out. He wished to speak to the
different persons there, but it was easy
to see that his mind was absent. He
jumbled different accounts together,
which was taken advantage of by some of
the noblemen who had retained those
habits since the time of Monsieur
Mazarin -- who had a poor memory, but
was a good calculator. In this way
Monsieur Manicamp, with a thoughtless
and absent air -- for M. Manicamp was
the honestest man in the world
appropriated twenty thousand francs,
which were littering the table, and
which did not seem to belong to any
person in particular. In the same way,
Monsieur de Wardes, whose head was
doubtless a little bewildered by the
occurrences of the evening, somehow
forgot to leave behind him the sixty
double louis which he had won for the
Duke of Buckingham, and which the duke,
incapable, like his father, of soiling
his hands with coin of any sort, had
left lying on the table before him. The
king only recovered his attention in
some degree at the moment that Monsieur
Colbert, who had been narrowly observant
for some minutes, approached, and,
doubtless, with great respect, yet with
much perseverance, whispered a counsel
of some sort into the still tingling
ears of the king. The king, at the
suggestion, listened with renewed
attention and immediately looking around
him, said, "Is Monsieur Fouquet no
longer here?"

"Yes, sire, I am here," replied the
superintendent, till then engaged with
Buckingham, and approached the king, who
advanced a step towards him with a
smiling yet negligent air. "Forgive me,"
said Louis, "if I interrupt your
conversation; but I claim your attention
wherever I may require your services."

"I am always at the king's service,"
replied Fouquet.

"And your cash-box too," said the king,
laughing with a false smile.

"My cash-box more than anything else,"
said Fouquet, coldly.

"The fact is, I wish to give a fete at
Fontainebleau -- to keep open house for
fifteen days, and I shall require ---- "
and he stopped glancing at Colbert.
Fouquet waited without showing
discomposure; and the king resumed,
answering Colbert's icy smile, "four
million francs."

"Four million," repeated Fouquet, bowing
profoundly. And his nails, buried in his
bosom, were thrust into his flesh, but
the tranquil expression of his face
remained unaltered. "When will they be
required, sire?"

"Take your time, -- I mean -- no, no, as
soon as possible."

"A certain time will be necessary,
sire."

"Time!" exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly.

"The time, monsieur," said the
superintendent, with the haughtiest
disdain, "simply to count the money: a
million can only be drawn and weighed in
a day."

"Four days then," said Colbert.

"My clerks," replied Fouquet, addressing
himself to the king, "will perform
wonders on his majesty's service, and
the sum shall be ready in three days."

It was for Colbert now to turn pale.
Louis looked at him astonished. Fouquet
withdrew without any parade or weakness,
smiling at his numerous friends, in
whose countenances alone he read the
sincerity of their friendship -- an
interest partaking of compassion.
Fouquet, however, should not be judged
by his smile, for, in reality he felt as
if he had been stricken by death. Drops
of blood beneath his coat stained the
fine linen that clothed his chest. His
dress concealed the blood, and his smile
the rage which devoured him. His
domestics perceived, by the manner in
which he approached his carriage, that
their master was not in the best of
humors: the result of their discernment
was, that his orders were executed with
that exactitude of maneuver which is
found on board a man-of-war, commanded
during a storm by an ill-tempered
captain. The carriage, therefore, did
not simply roll along -- it flew.
Fouquet had hardly time to recover
himself during the drive; on his arrival
he went at once to Aramis, who had not
yet retired for the night. As for
Porthos, he had supped very agreeably
off a roast leg of mutton, two
pheasants, and a perfect heap of
cray-fish; he then directed his body to
be anointed with perfumed oils, in the
manner of the wrestlers of old; and when
this anointment was completed, he had
himself wrapped in flannels and placed
in a warm bed. Aramis, as we have
already said, had not retired. Seated at
his ease in a velvet dressing-gown, he
wrote letter after letter in that fine
and hurried handwriting, a page of which
contained a quarter of a volume. The
door was thrown hurriedly open, and the
superintendent appeared, pale, agitated,
anxious. Aramis looked up:
"Good-evening," said he, and his
searching look detected his host's
sadness and disordered state of mind.
"Was your play as good as his
majesty's?" asked Aramis, by way of
beginning the conversation.

Fouquet threw himself upon a couch, and
then pointed to the door to the servant
who had followed him; when the servant
had left he said, "Excellent."

Aramis, who had followed every movement
with his eyes, noticed that he stretched
himself upon the cushions with a sort of
feverish impatience. "You have lost as
usual?" inquired Aramis, his pen still
in his hand.

"Even more than usual," replied Fouquet.

"You know how to support losses?"

"Sometimes."

"What, Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!"

"There is play and play, Monsieur
d'Herblay."

"How much have you lost?" inquired
Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.

Fouquet collected himself a moment, and
then, without the slightest emotion,
said, "The evening has cost me four
millions," and a bitter laugh drowned
the last vibration of these words.

Aramis, who did not expect such an
amount, dropped his pen. "Four
millions," he said; "you have lost four
millions, -- impossible!"

"Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me,"
replied the superintendent, with a
similar bitter laugh.

"Ah, now I understand; so, so, a new
application for funds?"

"Yes, and from the king's own lips. It
was impossible to ruin a man with a more
charming smile. What do you think of
it?"

"It is clear that your destruction is
the object in view."

"That is your opinion?"

"Still. Besides, there is nothing in it
which should astonish you, for we have
foreseen it all along"

"Yes; but I did not expect four
millions."

"No doubt the amount is serious, but,
after all, four millions are not quite
the death of a man, especially when the
man in question is Monsieur Fouquet."

"My dear D'Herblay, if you knew the
contents of my coffers, you would be
less easy."

"And you promised?"

"What could I do?"

"That's true."

"The very day I refuse, Colbert will
procure the money; whence I know not,
but he will procure it: and I shall be
lost."

"There is no doubt of that. In how many
days did you promise these four
millions?"

"In three days. The king seemed
exceedingly pressed."

"In three days?"

"When I think," resumed Fouquet, "that
just now as I passed along the streets,
the people cried out, `There is the rich
Monsieur Fouquet,' it is enough to turn
my brain."

"Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth
so much trouble," said Aramis, calmly,
sprinkling some sand over the letter he
had just written.

"Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil
without a remedy."

"There is only one remedy for you, --
pay."

"But it is very uncertain whether I have
the money. Everything must be exhausted;
Belle-Isle is paid for; the pension has
been paid; and money, since the
investigation of the accounts of those
who farm the revenue, is scarce.
Besides, admitting that I pay this time,
how can I do so on another occasion?
When kings have tasted money, they are
like tigers who have tasted flesh, they
devour everything. The day will
arrive -- must arrive -- when I shall
have to say, `Impossible, sire,' and on
that very day I am a lost man."

Aramis raised his shoulders slightly,
saying:

"A man in your position, my lord, is
only lost when he wishes to be so."

"A man, whatever his position may be,
cannot hope to struggle against a king."

"Nonsense; when I was young I wrestled
successfully with the Cardinal
Richelieu, who was king of France, --
nay more -- cardinal."

"Where are my armies, my troops, my
treasures? I have not even Belle-Isle."

"Bah! necessity is the mother of
invention, and when you think all is
lost, something will be discovered which
will retrieve everything."

"Who will discover this wonderful
something?"

"Yourself."

"I! I resign my office of inventor."

"Then I will."

"Be it so. But set to work without
delay."

"Oh! we have time enough!"

"You kill me, D'Herblay, with your
calmness," said the superintendent,
passing his handkerchief over his face.

"Do you not remember that I one day told
you not to make yourself uneasy, if you
possessed courage? Have you any?"

"I believe so."

"Then don't make yourself uneasy."

"It is decided, then, that, at the last
moment, you will come to my assistance."

"It will only be the repayment of a debt
I owe you."

"It is the vocation of financiers to
anticipate the wants of men such as
yourself, D'Herblay."

"If obligingness is the vocation of
financiers, charity is the virtue of the
clergy. Only, on this occasion, do you
act, monsieur. You are not yet
sufficiently reduced, and at the last
moment we will see what is to be done."

"We shall see, then, in a very short
time."

"Very well. However, permit me to tell
you that, personally, I regret
exceedingly that you are at present so
short of money, because I was myself
about to ask you for some."

"For yourself?"

"For myself, or some of my people, for
mine or for ours."

"How much do you want?"

"Be easy on that score; a roundish sum,
it is true, but not too exorbitant."

"Tell me the amount."

"Fifty thousand francs."

"Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has
always fifty thousand francs. Why the
deuce cannot that knave Colbert be as
easily satisfied as you are -- and I
should give myself far less trouble than
I do. When do you need this sum?"

"To-morrow morning; but you wish to know
its destination."

"Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no
explanation."

"To-morrow is the first of June."

"Well?"

"One of our bonds becomes due."

"I did not know we had any bond."

"Certainly, to-morrow we pay our last
third instalment."

"What third?"

"Of the one hundred and fifty thousand
francs to Baisemeaux."

"Baisemeaux? Who is he?"

"The governor of the Bastile."

"Yes, I remember. On what grounds am I
to pay one hundred and fifty thousand
francs for that man?"

"On account of the appointment which he,
or rather we, purchased from Louviere
and Tremblay."

"I have a very vague recollection of the
matter."

"That is likely enough, for you have so
many affairs to attend to. However, I do
not believe you have any affair in the
world of greater importance than this
one."

"Tell me, then, why we purchased this
appointment."

"Why, in order to render him a service
in the first place, and afterwards
ourselves."

"Ourselves? You are joking."

"Monseigneur, the time may come when the
governor of the Bastile may prove a very
excellent acquaintance."

"I have not the good fortune to
understand you, D'Herblay."

"Monseigneur, we had our own poets, our
own engineer, our own architect, our own
musicians, our own printer, and our own
painters; we needed our own governor of
the Bastile."

"Do you think so?"

"Let us not deceive ourselves,
monseigneur; we are very much opposed to
paying the Bastile a visit," added the
prelate, displaying, beneath his pale
lips, teeth which were still the same
beautiful teeth so much admired thirty
years previously by Marie Michon.

"And you think it is not too much to pay
one hundred and fifty thousand francs
for that? I thought you generally put
out money at better interest than that."

"The day will come when you will admit
your mistake."

"My dear D'Herblay, the very day on
which a man enters the Bastile, he is no
longer protected by his past."

"Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly
regular; besides, that good fellow
Baisemeaux has not a courtier's heart. I
am certain, my lord, that he will not
remain ungrateful for that money,
without taking into account, I repeat,
that I retain the acknowledgments."

"It is a strange affair! usury in a
matter of benevolence."

"Do not mix yourself up with it,
monseigneur; if there be usury, it is I
who practice it, and both of us reap the
advantage from it -- that is all."

"Some intrigue, D'Herblay?"

"I do not deny it."

"And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?"

"Why not? -- there are worse accomplices
than he. May I depend, then, upon the
five thousand pistoles to-morrow?"

"Do you want them this evening?"

"It would be better, for I wish to start
early; poor Baisemeaux will not be able
to imagine what has become of me, and
must be upon thorns."

"You shall have the amount in an hour.
Ah, D'Herblay, the interest of your one
hundred and fifty thousand francs will
never pay my four millions for me."

"Why not, monseigneur."

"Good-night, I have business to transact
with my clerks before I retire."

"A good night's rest, monseigneur."

"D'Herblay, you wish things that are
impossible."

"Shall I have my fifty thousand francs
this evening?"

"Yes."

"Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety --
it is I who tell you to do so."

Notwithstanding this assurance, and the
tone in which it was given, Fouquet left
the room shaking his head, and heaving a
sigh.




CHAPTER 98

M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun's Accounts



The clock of St. Paul was striking seven
as Aramis, on horseback, dressed as a
simple citizen, that is to say, in
colored suit, with no distinctive mark
about him, except a kind of
hunting-knife by his side, passed before
the Rue du Petit-Muse, and stopped
opposite the Rue des Tourelles, at the
gate of the Bastile. Two sentinels were
on duty at the gate; they made no
difficulty about admitting Aramis, who
entered without dismounting, and they
pointed out the way he was to go by a
long passage with buildings on both
sides. This passage led to the
drawbridge, or, in other words, to the
real entrance. The drawbridge was down,
and the duty of the day was about being
entered upon. The sentinel at the outer
guardhouse stopped Aramis's further
progress, asking him, in a rough tone of
voice, what had brought him there.
Aramis explained, with his usual
politeness, that a wish to speak to M.
Baisemeaux de Montlezun had occasioned
his visit. The first sentinel then
summoned a second sentinel, stationed
within an inner lodge, who showed his
face at the grating, and inspected the
new arrival most attentively. Aramis
reiterated the expression of his wish to
see the governor, whereupon the sentinel
called to an officer of lower grade, who
was walking about in a tolerably
spacious courtyard and who, in turn, on
being informed of his object, ran to
seek one of the officers of the
governor's staff. The latter, after
having listened to Aramis's request,
begged him to wait a moment, then went
away a short distance, but returned to
ask his name. "I cannot tell it you,
monsieur," said Aramis, "I need only
mention that I have matters of such
importance to communicate to the
governor, that I can only rely
beforehand upon one thing, that M. de
Baisemeaux will be delighted to see me;
nay, more than that, when you have told
him that it is the person whom he
expected on the first of June, I am
convinced he will hasten here himself."
The officer could not possibly believe
that a man of the governor's importance
should put himself out for a person of
so little importance as the
citizen-looking visitor on horseback.
"It happens most fortunately, monsieur,"
he said, "that the governor is just
going out, and you can perceive his
carriage with the horses already
harnessed, in the courtyard yonder;
there will be no occasion for him to
come to meet you, as he will see you as
he passes by." Aramis bowed to signify
his assent; he did not wish to inspire
others with too exalted an opinion of
himself, and therefore waited patiently
and in silence, leaning upon the
saddle-bow of his horse. Ten minutes had
hardly elapsed when the governor's
carriage was observed to move. The
governor appeared at the door, and got
into the carriage, which immediately
prepared to start. The same ceremony was
observed for the governor himself as
with a suspected stranger; the sentinel
at the lodge advanced as the carriage
was about to pass under the arch, and
the governor opened the carriage-door,
himself setting the example of obedience
to orders; so that, in this way, the
sentinel could convince himself that no
one quitted the Bastile improperly. The
carriage rolled along under the archway,
but at the moment the iron-gate was
opened, the officer approached the
carriage, which had been again stopped,
and said something to the governor, who
immediately put his head out of the
door-way, and perceived Aramis on
horseback at the end of the drawbridge.
He immediately uttered almost a shout of
delight, and got out, or rather darted
out of his carriage, running towards
Aramis, whose hands he seized, making a
thousand apologies. He almost embraced
him. "What a difficult matter to enter
the Bastile!" said Aramis. "Is it the
same for those who are sent here against
their wills, as for those who come of
their own accord?"

"A thousand pardons, my lord. How
delighted I am to see your Grace!"

"Hush! What are you thinking of, my dear
M. Baisemeaux? What do you suppose would
be thought of a bishop in my present
costume?"

"Pray, excuse me, I had forgotten. Take
this gentleman's horse to the stables,"
cried Baisemeaux.

"No, no," said Aramis; "I have five
thousand pistoles in the saddle-bags."

The governor's countenance became so
radiant, that if the prisoners had seen
him they would have imagined some prince
of the blood royal had arrived. "Yes,
you are right, the horse shall be taken
to the government house. Will you get
into the carriage, my dear M. d'Herblay?
and it shall take us back to my house."

"Get into a carriage to cross a
courtyard! do you believe I am so great
an invalid? No, no, we will go on foot."

Baisemeaux then offered his arm as a
support, but the prelate did not accept
it. They arrived in this manner at the
government house, Baisemeaux rubbing his
hands and glancing at the horse from
time to time, while Aramis was looking
at the bleak bare walls. A tolerably
handsome vestibule and a staircase of
white stone led to the governor's
apartments, who crossed the
ante-chamber, the dining-room, where
breakfast was being prepared, opened a
small side door, and closeted himself
with his guest in a large cabinet, the
windows of which opened obliquely upon
the courtyard and the stables.
Baisemeaux installed the prelate with
that all-inclusive politeness of which a
good man, or a grateful man, alone
possesses the secret. An arm-chair, a
footstool, a small table beside him, on
which to rest his hand, everything was
prepared by the governor himself. With
his own hands, too, he placed upon the
table, with much solicitude, the bag
containing the gold, which one of the
soldiers had brought up with the most
respectful devotion; and the soldier
having left the room, Baisemeaux himself
closed the door after him, drew aside
one of the window-curtains, and looked
steadfastly at Aramis to see if the
prelate required anything further.

"Well, my lord," he said, still standing
up, "of all men of their word, you still
continue to be the most punctual."

"In matters of business, dear M. de
Baisemeaux, exactitude is not a virtue
only, it is a duty as well."

"Yes, in matters of business, certainly;
but what you have with me is not of that
character; it is a service you are
rendering me."

"Come, confess, dear M. de Baisemeaux,
that, notwithstanding this exactitude,
you have not been without a little
uneasiness."

"About your health, I certainly have,"
stammered out Baisemeaux.

"I wished to come here yesterday, but I
was not able, as I was too fatigued,"
continued Aramis. Baisemeaux anxiously
slipped another cushion behind his
guest's back. "But," continued Aramis,
"I promised myself to come and pay you a
visit to-day, early in the morning."

"You are really very kind, my lord."

"And it was a good thing for me I was
punctual, I think."

"What do you mean?"

"Yes, you were going out." At which
latter remark Baisemeaux colored and
said, "It is true I was going out."

"Then I prevent you," said Aramis;
whereupon the embarrassment of
Baisemeaux became visibly greater. "I am
putting you to inconvenience," he
continued, fixing a keen glance upon the
poor governor; "if I had known that, I
should not have come."

"How can your lordship imagine that you
could ever inconvenience me?"

"Confess you were going in search of
money."

"No," stammered out Baisemeaux, "no! I
assure you I was going to ---- "

"Does the governor still intend to go to
M. Fouquet?" suddenly called out the
major from below. Baisemeaux ran to the
window like a madman. "No, no," he
exclaimed in a state of desperation,
"who the deuce is speaking of M.
Fouquet? are you drunk below there? why
an I interrupted when I am engaged on
business?"

"You were going to M. Fouquet's," said
Aramis biting his lips, "to M. Fouquet,
the abbe, or the superintendent?"

Baisemeaux almost made up his mind to
tell an untruth, but he could not summon
courage to do so. "To the
superintendent," he said.

"It is true, then, that you were in want
of money, since you were going to a
person who gives it away!"

"I assure you, my lord ---- "

"You were afraid?"

"My dear lord, it was the uncertainty
and ignorance in which I was as to where
you were to be found."

"You would have found the money you
require at M. Fouquet's, for he is a man
whose hand is always open."

"I swear that I should never have
ventured to ask M. Fouquet for money. I
only wished to ask him for your
address."

"To ask M. Fouquet for my address?"
exclaimed Aramis, opening his eyes in
real astonishment.

"Yes," said Baisemeaux, greatly
disturbed by the glance which the
prelate fixed upon him, -- "at M.
Fouquet's certainly."

"There is no harm in that, dear M.
Baisemeaux, only I would ask, why ask my
address of M. Fouquet?"

"That I might write to you."

"I understand," said Aramis, smiling,
"but that is not what I meant; I do not
ask you what you required my address
for; I only ask why you should go to M.
Fouquet for it?"

"Oh!" said Baisemeaux, "as Belle-Isle is
the property of M. Fouquet, and as
Belle-Isle is in the diocese of Vannes,
and as you are bishop of Vannes ---- "

"But, my dear Baisemeaux, since you knew
I was bishop of Vannes, you had no
occasion to ask M. Fouquet for my
address."

"Well, monsieur," said Baisemeaux,
completely at bay, "if I have acted
indiscreetly, I beg your pardon most
sincerely."

"Nonsense," observed Aramis, calmly:
"how can you possibly have acted
indiscreetly?" And while he composed his
face, and continued to smile cheerfully
on the governor, he was considering how
Baisemeaux, who was not aware of his
address, knew, however, that Vannes was
his residence. "I shall clear all this
up," he said to himself, and then
speaking aloud, added, -- "Well, my dear
governor, shall we now arrange our
little accounts?"

"I am at your orders, my lord; but tell
me beforehand, my lord, whether you will
do me the honor to breakfast with me as
usual?"

"Very willingly, indeed."

"Thai's well," said Baisemeaux, as he
struck the bell before him three times.

"What does that mean?" inquired Aramis.

"That I have some one to breakfast with
me, and that preparations are to be made
accordingly."

"And you rang thrice. Really, my dear
governor, I begin to think you are
acting ceremoniously with me."

"No, indeed. Besides, the least I can do
is to receive you in the best way I
can."

"But why so?"

"Because not even a prince could have
done what you have done for me."

"Nonsense! nonsense!"

"Nay, I assure you ---- "

"Let us speak of other matters," said
Aramis. "Or rather, tell me how your
affairs here are getting on."

"Not over well."

"The deuce!"

"M. de Mazarin was not hard enough."

"Yes, I see; you require a government
full of suspicion -- like that of the
old cardinal, for instance."

"Yes; matters went on better under him.
The brother of his `gray eminence' made
his fortune here."

"Believe me, my dear governor," said
Aramis, drawing closer to Baisemeaux, "a
young king is well worth an old
cardinal. Youth has its suspicions, its
fits of anger, its prejudices, as old
age has its hatreds, its precautions,
and its fears. Have you paid your three
years' profits to Louviere and
Tremblay?"

"Most certainly I have."

"So that you have nothing more to give
them than the fifty thousand francs I
have brought with me?"

"Nothing."

"Have you not saved anything, then?"

"My lord, in giving the fifty thousand
francs of my own to these gentlemen, I
assure you that I give them everything I
gain. I told M. d'Artagnan so yesterday
evening."

"Ah!" said Aramis, whose eyes sparkled
for a moment, but became immediately
afterwards as unmoved as before; "so you
have seen my old friend D'Artagnan; how
was he?"

"Wonderfully well."

"And what did you say to him, M. de
Baisemeaux?"

"I told him," continued the governor,
not perceiving his own thoughtlessness,
"I told him that I fed my prisoners too
well."

"How many have you?" inquired Aramis, in
an indifferent tone of voice.

"Sixty."

"Well, that is a tolerably round
number."

"In former times, my lord, there were,
during certain years, as many as two
hundred."

"Still a minimum of sixty is not to be
grumbled at."

"Perhaps not; for, to anybody but
myself, each prisoner would bring in two
hundred and fifty pistoles; for
instance, for a prince of the blood I
have fifty francs a day."

"Only you have no prince of the blood;
at least, I suppose so," said Aramis,
with a slight tremor in his voice.

"No, thank Heaven! -- I mean, no,
unfortunately."

"What do you mean by unfortunately?"

"Because my appointment would be
improved by it. So, fifty francs per day
for a prince of the blood, thirty-six
for a marechal of France ---- "

"But you have as many marechals of
France, I suppose, as you have princes
of the blood?"

"Alas! no more. It is true
lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay
twenty-six francs, and I have two of
them. After that, come councilors of
parliament, who bring me fifteen francs,
and I have six of them."

"I did not know," said Aramis, "that
councilors were so productive."

"Yes, but from fifteen francs I sink at
once to ten francs; namely, for an
ordinary judge, and for an
ecclesiastic."

"And you have seven, you say; an
excellent affair."

"Nay, a bad one, and for this reason.
How can I possibly treat these poor
fellows, who are of some good, at all
events, otherwise than as a councilor of
parliament?"

"Yes, you are right; I do not see five
francs difference between them."

"You understand; if I have a fine fish,
I pay four or five francs for it; if I
get a fine fowl, it costs me a franc and
a half. I fatten a good deal of poultry,
but I have to buy grain, and you cannot
imagine the army of rats that infest
this place."

"Why not get half a dozen cats to deal
with them?"

"Cats, indeed; yes, they eat them, but I
was obliged to give up the idea because
of the way in which they treated my
grain. I have been obliged to have some
terrier dogs sent me from England to
kill the rats. These dogs,
unfortunately, have tremendous
appetites; they eat as much as a
prisoner of the fifth order, without
taking into account the rabbits and
fowls they kill."

Was Aramis really listening or not? No
one could have told; his downcast eyes
showed the attentive man; but the
restless hand betrayed the man absorbed
in thought -- Aramis was meditating.

"I was saying," continued Baisemeaux,
"that a good-sized fowl costs me a franc
and a half, and that a fine fish costs
me four or five francs. Three meals are
served at the Bastile, and, as the
prisoners, having nothing to do, are
always eating, a ten-franc man costs me
seven francs and a half."

"But did you not say that you treated
those at ten francs like those at
fifteen?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Very well! Then you gain seven francs
and a half upon those who pay you
fifteen francs."

"I must compensate myself somehow," said
Baisemeaux, who saw how he had been
snapped up.

"You are quite right, my dear governor;
but have you no prisoners below ten
francs?"

"Oh, yes! we have citizens and
barristers at five francs.

"And do they eat, too?"

"Not a doubt about it; only you
understand that they do not get fish or
poultry, nor rich wines at every meal;
but at all events thrice a week they
have a good dish at their dinner."

"Really, you are quite a philanthropist,
my dear governor, and you will ruin
yourself."

"No, understand me; when the
fifteen-franc has not eaten his fowl, or
the ten-franc has left his dish
unfinished, I send it to the five-franc
prisoner; it is a feast for the poor
devil, and one must be charitable, you
know."

"And what do you make out of your
five-franc prisoners?"

"A franc and a half."

"Baisemeaux, you're an honest fellow; in
honest truth I say so."

"Thank you, my lord. But I feel most for
the small tradesmen and bailiffs'
clerks, who are rated at three francs.
They do not often see Rhine carp or
Channel sturgeon."

"But do not the five-franc gentlemen
sometimes leave some scraps?"

"Oh! my lord, do not believe I am so
stingy as that; I delight the heart of
some poor little tradesman or clerk by
sending him a wing of a red partridge, a
slice of venison, or a slice of a
truffled pasty, dishes which he never
tasted except in his dreams; these are
the leavings of the twenty-four franc
prisoners; and as he eats and drinks, at
dessert he cries `Long live the King,'
and blesses the Bastile; with a couple
of bottles of champagne, which cost me
five sous, I made him tipsy every
Sunday. That class of people call down
blessings upon me, and are sorry to
leave the prison. Do you know that I
have remarked, and it does me infinite
honor, that certain prisoners, who have
been set at liberty, have, almost
immediately afterwards, got imprisoned
again? Why should this be the case,
unless it be to enjoy the pleasures of
my kitchen? It is really the fact."

Aramis smiled with an expression of
incredulity.

"You smile," said Baisemeaux.

"I do," returned Aramis.

"I tell you that we have names which
have been inscribed on our books thrice
in the space of two years."

"I must see it before I believe it,"
said Aramis.

"Well, I can show it to you, although it
is prohibited to communicate the
registers to strangers; and if you
really wish to see it with your own
eyes ---- "

"I should be delighted, I confess."

"Very well," said Baisemeaux, and he
took out of a cupboard a large register.
Aramis followed him most anxiously with
his eyes, and Baisemeaux returned,
placed the register upon the table, and
turned over the leaves for a minute, and
stayed at the letter M.

"Look here," said he, "Martinier,
January, 1659; Martinier, June, 1660;
Martinier, March, 1661. Mazarinades,
etc.; you understand it was only a
pretext; people were not sent to the
Bastile for jokes against M. Mazarin;
the fellow denounced himself in order to
get imprisoned here."

"And what was his object?"

"None other than to return to my kitchen
at three francs a day,."

"Three francs -- poor devil!"

"The poet, my lord, belongs to the
lowest scale, the same style of board as
the small tradesman and bailiff's clerk;
but I repeat, it is to those people only
that I give these little surprises."

Aramis mechanically turned over the
leaves of the register, continuing to
read the names, but without appearing to
take any interest in the names he read.

"In 1661, you perceive," said
Baisemeaux, "eighty entries; and in
1659, eighty also."

"Ah!" said Aramis. "Seldon; I seem to
know that name. Was it not you who spoke
to me about a certain young man?"

"Yes, a poor devil of a student, who
made -- What do you call that where two
Latin verses rhyme together?"

"A distich."

"Yes; that is it."

"Poor fellow; for a distich."

"Do you know that he made this distich
against the Jesuits?"

"That makes no difference; the
punishment seems very severe."

"Do not pity him; last year you seemed
to interest yourself in him."

"Yes, I did so."

"Well, as your interest is all-powerful
here, my lord, I have treated him since
that time as a prisoner at fifteen
francs."

"The same as this one, then," said
Aramis, who had continued turning over
the leaves, and who had stopped at one
of the names which followed Martinier.

"Yes, the same as that one."

"Is that Marchiali an Italian?" said
Aramis, pointing with his finger to the
name which had attracted his attention.

"Hush!" said Baisemeaux.

"Why hush?" said Aramis, involuntarily
clenching his white hand.

"I thought I had already spoken to you
about that Marchiali."

"No, it is the first time I ever heard
his name pronounced."

"That may be, but perhaps I have spoken
to you about him without naming him."

"Is he an old offender?" asked Aramis,
attempting to smile.

"On the contrary, he is quite young."

"Is his crime, then, very heinous?"

"Unpardonable."

"Has he assassinated any one?"

"Bah!"

"An incendiary, then?"

"Bah!"

"Has he slandered any one?"

"No, no! It is he who -- " and
Baisemeaux approached Aramis's ear,
making a sort of ear-trumpet of his
hands, and whispered: "It is he who
presumes to resemble the ---- "

"Yes, yes." said Aramis, "I now remember
you already spoke about it last year to
me; but the crime appeared to me so
slight.

"Slight, do you say?"

"Or rather, so involuntary."

"My lord, it is not involuntarily that
such a resemblance is detected."

"Well, the fact is, I had forgotten it.
But, my dear host," said Aramis, closing
the register, "if I am not mistaken, we
are summoned."

Baisemeaux took the register, hastily
restored it to its place in the closet,
which he locked, and put the key in his
pocket. "Will it be agreeable to your
lordship to breakfast now?" said he;
"for you are right in supposing that
breakfast was announced."

"Assuredly, my dear governor," and they
passed into the dining-room.




CHAPTER 99

The Breakfast at Monsieur de
Baisemeaux's



Aramis was generally temperate; but on
this occasion, while taking every care
of his constitution, he did ample
justice to Baisemeaux's breakfast,
which, in all respects, was most
excellent. The latter, on his side, was
animated with the wildest gayety; the
sight of the five thousand pistoles,
which he glanced at from time to time,
seemed to open his heart. Every now and
then he looked at Aramis with an
expression of the deepest gratitude;
while the latter, leaning back in his
chair, took a few sips of wine from his
glass, with the air of a connoisseur.
"Let me never hear any ill words against
the fare of the Bastile," said he, half
closing his eyes; "happy are the
prisoners who can get only half a bottle
of such Burgundy every day."

"All those at fifteen francs drink it,"
said Baisemeaux. "It is very old
Volnay."

"Does that poor student, Seldon, drink
such good wine?"

"Oh, no!"

"I thought I heard you say he was
boarded at fifteen francs."

"He! no, indeed; a man who makes
districts -- distichs, I mean -- at
fifteen francs! No, no! it is his
neighbor who is at fifteen francs."

"Which neighbor?"

"The other, second Bertaudiere."

"Excuse me, my dear governor; but you
speak a language which requires quite an
apprenticeship to understand."

"Very true," said the governor. "Allow
me to explain: second Bertaudiere is the
person who occupies the second floor of
the tower of the Bertaudiere."

"So that Bertaudiere is the name of one
of the towers of the Bastile? The fact
is, I think I recollect hearing that
each tower has a name of its own.
Whereabouts is the one you are speaking
of?"

"Look," said Baisemeaux, going to the
window. "It is that tower to the
left ---the second one."

"Is the prisoner at fifteen francs
there?"

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"Seven or eight years, nearly."

"What do you mean by nearly? Do you not
know the dates more precisely?"

"It was not in my time, M. d'Herblay."

"But I should have thought that Louviere
or Tremblay would have told you."

"The secrets of the Bastile are never
handed over with the keys of the
governorship."

"Indeed! Then the cause of his
imprisonment is a mystery -- a state
secret."

"Oh no! I do not suppose it is a state
secret, but a secret -- like everything
else that happens at the Bastile."

"But," said Aramis, "why do you speak
more freely of Seldon than of second
Bertaudiere?"

"Because, in my opinion, the crime of
the man who writes a distich is not so
great as that of the man who
resembles ---- "

"Yes, yes, I understand you. Still, do
not the turnkeys talk with your
prisoners?"

"Of course."

"The prisoners, I suppose, tell them
they are not guilty?"

"They are always telling them that; it
is a matter of course; the same song
over and over again."

"But does not the resemblance you were
speaking about just now strike the
turnkeys?"

"My dear M. d'Herblay, it is only for
men attached to the court, as you are,
to take trouble about such matters."

"You're right, you're right, my dear M.
Baisemeaux. Let me give you another
taste of this Volnay."

"Not a taste merely, a full glass; fill
yours too."

"Nay, nay! You are a musketeer still, to
the very tips of your fingers, while I
have become a bishop. A taste for me; a
glass for yourself."

"As you please." And Aramis and the
governor nodded to each other, as they
drank their wine. "But," said Aramis,
looking with fixed attention at the
ruby-colored wine he had raised to the
level of his eyes, as if he wished to
enjoy it with all his senses at the same
moment, "but what you might call a
resemblance, another would not, perhaps,
take any notice of."

"Most certainly he would, though, if it
were any one who knew the person he
resembles."

"I really think, dear M. Baisemeaux,
that it can be nothing more than a
resemblance of your own creation."

"Upon my honor, it is not so."

"Stay," continued Aramis, "I have seen
many persons very like the one we are
speaking of; but, out of respect, no one
ever said anything about it."

"Very likely; because there is
resemblance and resemblance. This is a
striking one, and, if you were to see
him, you would admit it to be so."

"If I were to see him, indeed," said
Aramis, in an indifferent tone; "but in
all probability I never shall."

"Why not?"

"Because if I were even to put my foot
inside one of those horrible dungeons, I
should fancy I was buried there
forever."

"No, no; the cells are very good places
to live in."

"I really do not, and cannot believe it,
and that is a fact."

"Pray do not speak ill of second
Bertaudiere. It is really a good room,
very nicely furnished and carpeted. The
young fellow has by no means been
unhappy there; the best lodging the
Bastile affords has been his. There is a
chance for you."

"Nay, nay," said Aramis, coldly; "you
will never make me believe there are any
good rooms in the Bastile; and, as for
your carpets, they exist only in your
imagination. I should find nothing but
spiders, rats, and perhaps toads, too."

"Toads?" cried Baisemeaux.

"Yes, in the dungeons."

"Ah! I don't say there are not toads in
the dungeons," replied Baisemeaux.
"But -- will you be convinced by your
own eyes?" he continued, with a sudden
impulse.

"No, certainly not."

"Not even to satisfy yourself of the
resemblance which you deny, as you do
the carpets?"

"Some spectral-looking person, a mere
shadow; an unhappy, dying man."

"Nothing of the kind -- as brisk and
vigorous a young fellow as ever lived."

"Melancholy and ill-tempered, then?"

"Not at all; very gay and lively."

"Nonsense; you are joking."

"Will you follow me?" said Baisemeaux.

"What for?"

"To go the round of the Bastile."

"Why?"

"You will then see for yourself -- see
with your own eyes."

"But the regulations?"

"Never mind them. To-day my major has
leave of absence; the lieutenant is
visiting the post on the bastions; we
are sole masters of the situation."

"No, no, my dear governor; why, the very
idea of the sound of the bolts makes me
shudder. You will only have to forget me
in second or fourth Bertaudiere, and
then ---- "

"You are refusing an opportunity that
may never present itself again. Do you
know that, to obtain the favor I propose
to you gratis, some of the princes of
the blood have offered me as much as
fifty thousand francs."

"Really! he must be worth seeing, then?"

"Forbidden fruit, my lord, forbidden
fruit. You who belong to the church
ought to know that."

"Well, if I had any curiosity, it would
be to see the poor author of the
distich."

"Very well, we will see him, too; but if
I were at all curious, it would be about
the beautiful carpeted room and its
lodger."

"Furniture is very commonplace; and a
face with no expression in it offers
little or no interest."

"But a boarder at fifteen francs is
always interesting."

"By the by, I forgot to ask you about
that. Why fifteen francs for him, and
only three francs for poor Seldon?"

"The distinction made in that instance
was a truly noble act, and one which
displayed the king's goodness of heart
to great advantage."

"The king's, you say."

"The cardinal's, I mean. `This unhappy
man,' said M. Mazarin, `is destined to
remain in prison forever.'"

"Why so?"

"Why, it seems that his crime is a
lasting one, and, consequently, his
punishment ought to be so, too."

"Lasting?"

"No doubt of it, unless he is fortunate
enough to catch the small-pox, and even
that is difficult, for we never get any
impure air here."

"Nothing can be more ingenious than your
train of reasoning, my dear M. de
Baisemeaux. Do you, however, mean to say
that this unfortunate man must suffer
without interruption or termination?"

"I did not say he was to suffer, my
lord, a fifteen-franc boarder does not
suffer."

"He suffers imprisonment, at all
events."

"No doubt; there is no help for that,
but this suffering is sweetened for him.
You must admit that this young fellow
was not born to eat all the good things
he does eat; for instance, such things
as we have on the table now; this pasty
that has not been touched, these
crawfish from the River Marne, of which
we have hardly taken any, and which are
almost as large as lobsters; all these
things will at once be taken to second
Bertaudiere, with a bottle of that
Volnay which you think so excellent.
After you have seen it you will believe
it, I hope."

"Yes, my dear governor, certainly; but
all this time you are thinking only of
your very happy fifteen-franc prisoner,
and you forget poor Seldon, my protege."

"Well, out of consideration for you, it
shall be a gala day for him; he shall
have some biscuits and preserves with
this small bottle of port."

"You are a good-hearted fellow; I have
said so already, and I repeat it, my
dear Baisemeaux."

"Well, let us set off, then," said the
governor, a little bewildered, partly
from the wine he had drunk, and partly
from Aramis's praises.

"Do not forget that I only go to oblige
you," said the prelate.

"Very well; but you will thank me when
you get there."

"Let us go, then."

"Wait until I have summoned the jailer,"
said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell
twice, at which summons a man appeared.
"I am going to visit the towers," said
the governor. "No guards, no drums, no
noise at all."

"If I were not to leave my cloak here,"
said Aramis, pretending to be alarmed;
"I should really think I was going to
prison on my own account."

The jailer preceded the governor, Aramis
walking on his right hand; some of the
soldiers who happened to be in the
courtyard drew themselves up in line, as
stiff as posts, as the governor passed
along. Baisemeaux led the way down
several steps which conducted to a sort
of esplanade; thence they arrived at the
draw-bridge, where the sentinels on duty
received the governor with the proper
honors. The governor turned toward
Aramis, and, speaking in such a tone
that the sentinels could not lose a
word, he observed, -- "I hope you have a
good memory, monsieur?"

"Why?" inquired Aramis.

"On account of your plans and your
measurements, for you know that no one
is allowed, not architects even, to
enter where the prisoners are, with
paper, pens or pencil."

"Good," said Aramis to himself, "it
seems I am an architect, then. It sounds
like one of D'Artagnan's jokes, who
perceived in me the engineer of
Belle-Isle." Then he added aloud: "Be
easy on that score, monsieur; in our
profession, a mere glance and a good
memory are quite sufficient."

Baisemeaux did not change countenance,
and the soldiers took Aramis for what he
seemed to be. "Very well; we will first
visit la Bertaudiere, "said Baisemeaux,
still intending the sentinels to hear
him. Then, turning to the jailer, he
added: "You will take the opportunity of
carrying to No. 2 the few dainties I
pointed out."

"Dear M. de Baisemeaux," said Aramis,
"you are always forgetting No. 3."

"So I am," said the governor; and upon
that, they began to ascend. The number
of bolts, gratings, and locks for this
single courtyard would have sufficed for
the safety of an entire city. Aramis was
neither an imaginative nor a sensitive
man; he had been somewhat of a poet in
his youth, but his heart was hard and
indifferent, as the heart of every man
of fifty-five years of age is, who has
been frequently and passionately
attached to women in his lifetime, or
rather who has been passionately loved
by them. But when he placed his foot
upon the worn stone steps, along which
so many unhappy wretches had passed,
when he felt himself impregnated, as it
were, with the atmosphere of those
gloomy dungeons, moistened with tears,
there could be but little doubt he was
overcome by his feelings, for his head
was bowed and his eyes became dim, as he
followed Baisemeaux without a syllable.




CHAPTER 100

The Second Floor of la Bertaudiere



On the second flight of stairs, whether
from fatigue or emotion, the breathing
of the visitor began to fail him, and he
leaned against the wall. "Will you begin
with this one?" said Baisemeaux; "for
since we are going to both, it matters
very little whether we ascend from the
second to the third story, or descend
from the third to the second."

"No, no," exclaimed Aramis, eagerly,
"higher, if you please; the one above is
the more urgent." They continued their
ascent. "Ask the jailer for the keys,"
whispered Aramis. Baisemeaux did so,
took the keys, and, himself, opened the
door of the third room. The jailer was
the first to enter; he placed upon the
table the provisions, which the
kind-hearted governor called dainties,
and then left the room. The prisoner had
not stirred; Baisemeaux then entered,
while Aramis remained at the threshold,
from which place he saw a youth about
eighteen years of age, who, raising his
head at the unusual noise, jumped off
the bed, as he perceived the governor,
and clasping his hands together, began
to cry out, "My mother, my mother," in
tones which betrayed such deep distress
that Aramis, despite his command over
himself, felt a shudder pass through his
frame. "My dear boy," said Baisemeaux,
endeavoring to smile, "I have brought
you a diversion and an extra, -- the one
for the mind, the other for the body;
this gentleman has come to take your
measure, and here are some preserves for
your dessert."

"Oh, monsieur," exclaimed the young man,
"keep me in solitude for a year, let me
have nothing but bread and water for a
year, but tell me that at the end of a
year I shall leave this place, tell me
that at the end of a year I shall see my
mother again."

"But I have heard you say that your
mother was very poor, and that you were
very badly lodged when you were living
with her, while here -- upon my word!"

"If she were poor, monsieur, the greater
reason to restore her only means of
support to her. Badly lodged with her!
Oh, monsieur, every one is always well
lodged when he is free."

"At all events, since you yourself admit
you have done nothing but write that
unhappy distich ---- "

"But without any intention, I swear. Let
me be punished -- cut off the hand which
wrote it, I will work with the other --
but restore my mother to me."

"My boy," said Baisemeaux, "you know
very well that it does not depend upon
me; all I can do for you is to increase
your rations, give you a glass of port
wine now and then, slip in a biscuit for
you between a couple of plates."

"Great heaven!" exclaimed the young man,
falling backward and rolling on the
ground.

Aramis, unable to bear this scene any
longer, withdrew as far as the landing.
"Unhappy, wretched man," he murmured.

"Yes, monsieur, he is indeed very
wretched," said the jailer; "but it is
his parents' fault.

"In what way?"

"No doubt. Why did they let him learn
Latin? Too much knowledge, you see; it
is that which does harm. Now I, for
instance, can't read or write, and
therefore I am not in prison." Aramis
looked at the man, who seemed to think
that being a jailer in the Bastile was
not being in prison. As for Baisemeaux,
noticing the little effect produced by
his advice and his port wine, he left
the dungeon quite upset. "You have
forgotten to close the door," said the
jailer.

"So I have," said Baisemeaux, "there are
the keys, do you do it."

"I will solicit the pardon of that poor
boy," said Aramis.

"And if you do not succeed," said
Baisemeaux, "at least beg that he may be
transferred to the ten-franc list, by
which both he and I shall be gainers."

"If the other prisoner calls out for his
mother in a similar manner," said
Aramis, "I prefer not to enter at all,
but will take my measure from outside."

"No fear of that, monsieur architect,
the one we are now going to see is as
gentle as a lamb; before he could call
after his mother he must open his lips,
and he never says a word."

"Let us go in, then," said Aramis,
gloomily.

"Are you the architect of the prisons,
monsieur?" said the jailer.

"I am."

"It is odd, then, that you are not more
accustomed to all this."

Aramis perceived that, to avoid giving
rise to any suspicions he must summon
all his strength of mind to his
assistance. Baisemeaux, who carried the
keys, opened the door. "Stay outside,"
he said to the jailer, "and wait for us
at the bottom of the steps." The jailer
obeyed and withdrew.

Baisemeaux entered first and opened the
second door himself. By the light which
filtered through the iron-barred window,
could be seen a handsome young man,
short in stature, with closely cut hair,
and a beard beginning to grow; he was
sitting on a stool, his elbow resting on
an armchair, and all the upper part of
his body reclining against it. His
dress, thrown upon the bed, was of rich
black velvet, and he inhaled the fresh
air which blew in upon his breast
through a shirt of the very finest
cambric. As the governor entered, the
young man turned his head with a look
full of indifference; and on recognizing
Baisemeaux, he arose and saluted him
courteously. But when his eyes fell upon
Aramis, who remained in the background,
the latter trembled, turned pale, and
his hat, which he held in his hand, fell
upon the ground, as if all his muscles
had become relaxed at once. Baisemeaux,
habituated to the presence of his
prisoner, did not seem to share any of
the sensations which Aramis experienced,
but, with all the zeal of a good
servant, he busied himself in arranging
on the table the pasty and crawfish he
had brought with him. Occupied in this
manner, he did not remark how disturbed
his guest had become. When he had
finished, however, he turned to the
young prisoner and said: "You are
looking very well, -- are you so?"

"Quite well, I thank you, monsieur,"
replied the young man.

The effect of the voice was such as
almost to overpower Aramis, and
notwithstanding his control over
himself, he advanced a few steps towards
him, with his eyes wide open and his
lips trembling. The movement he made was
so marked that Baisemeaux,
notwithstanding his preoccupation,
observed it. "This gentleman is an
architect who has come to examine your
chimney," said Baisemeaux, "does it
smoke?"

"Never, monsieur."

"You were saying just now," said the
governor, rubbing his hands together,
"that it was not possible for a man to
be happy in prison; here, however, is
one who is so. You have nothing to
complain of, I hope?"

"Nothing."

"Do you ever feel weary?" said Aramis.

"Never."

"Ha, ha," said Baisemeaux, in a low tone
of voice; "was I right?"

"Well, my dear governor, it is
impossible not to yield to evidence. Is
it allowed to put any question to him?"

"As many as you like."

"Very well; be good enough to ask him if
he knows why he is here."

"This gentleman requests me to ask you,"
said Baisemeaux, "if you are aware of
the cause of your imprisonment?"

"No, monsieur," said the young man,
unaffectedly, "I am not."

"That is hardly possible," said Aramis,
carried away by his feelings in spite of
himself; "if you were really ignorant of
the cause of your detention, you would
be furious."

"I was so during the early days of my
imprisonment."

"Why are you not so now?"

"Because I have reflected."

"That is strange," said Aramis.

"Is it not odd?" said Baisemeaux.

"May one venture to ask you, monsieur,
on what you have reflected?"

"I felt that as I had committed no
crime, Heaven could not punish me."

"What is a prison, then," inquired
Aramis, "if it be not a punishment?"

"Alas! I cannot tell, said the young
man; "all that I can tell you now is the
very opposite of what I felt seven years
ago."

"To hear you converse, to witness your
resignation, one might almost believe
that you liked your imprisonment?"

"I endure it.

"In the certainty of recovering your
freedom some day, I suppose?"

"I have no certainty; hope I have, and
that is all; and yet I acknowledge that
this hope becomes less every day."

"Still, why should you not again be
free, since you have already been so?"

"That is precisely the reason," replied
the young man, "which prevents me
expecting liberty; why should I have
been imprisoned at all if it had been
intended to release me afterwards?"

"How old are you?"

"I do not know."

"What is your name?"

"I have forgotten the name by which I
was called."

"Who are your parents?"

"I never knew them."

"But those who brought you up?"

"They did not call me their son."

"Did you ever love any one before coming
here?"

"I loved my nurse, and my flowers."

"Was that all?"

"I also loved my valet."

"Do you regret your nurse and your
valet?"

"I wept very much when they died."

"Did they die since you have been here,
or before you came?"

"They died the evening before I was
carried off."

"Both at the same time?"

"Yes, both at the same time."

"In what manner were you carried off?"

"A man came for me, directed me to get
into a carriage, which was closed and
locked, and brought me here."

"Would you be able to recognize that man
again?"

"He was masked."

"Is not this an extraordinary tale?"
said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice,
to Aramis, who could hardly breathe.

"It is indeed extraordinary," he
murmured.

"But what is still more extraordinary
is, that he has never told me so much as
he has just told you."

"Perhaps the reason may be that you have
never questioned him," said Aramis.

"It's possible," replied Baisemeaux; "I
have no curiosity. Have you looked at
the room? it's a fine one, is it not?"

"Very much so."

"A carpet ---- "

"Beautiful."

"I'll wager he had nothing like it
before he came here."

"I think so, too." And then again
turning towards the young man, he said,
"Do you not remember to have been
visited at some time or another by a
strange lady or gentleman?"

"Yes, indeed; thrice by a woman, who
each time came to the door in a
carriage, and entered covered with a
veil, which she raised when we were
together and alone."

"Do you remember that woman?"

"Yes."

"What did she say to you?"

The young man smiled mournfully, and
then replied, "She inquired, as you have
just done, if I were happy, and if I
were getting weary?"

"What did she do on arriving, and on
leaving you?"

"She pressed me in her arms, held me in
her embrace, and kissed me."

"Do you remember her?"

"Perfectly."

"Do you recall her features distinctly?"

"Yes."

"You would recognize her, then, if
accident brought her before you, or led
you into her presence?"

"Most certainly."

A flush of fleeting satisfaction passed
across Aramis's face. At this moment
Baisemeaux heard the jailer approaching.
"Shall we leave?" he said, hastily, to
Aramis.

Aramis, who probably had learnt all that
he cared to know, replied, "When you
like."

The young man saw them prepare to leave,
and saluted them politely. Baisemeaux
replied merely by a nod of the head,
while Aramis, with a respect, arising
perhaps from the sight of such
misfortune, saluted the prisoner
profoundly. They left the room,
Baisemeaux closing the door behind them.

"Well," said Baisemeaux, as they
descended the staircase, "what do you
think of it all?"

"I have discovered the secret, my dear
governor," he said.

"Bah! what is the secret, then?"

"A murder was committed in that house."

"Nonsense."

"But attend; the valet and nurse died
the same day."

"Well."

"And by poison. What do you think?"

"That it is very likely to be true."

"What! that that young man is an
assassin?"

"Who said that? What makes you think
that poor young fellow could be an
assassin?"

"The very thing I was saying. A crime
was committed in his house," said
Aramis, "and that was quite sufficient;
perhaps he saw the criminals, and it was
feared that he might say something."

"The deuce! if I only thought that ----
"

"Well?"

"I would redouble the surveillance."

"Oh, he does not seem to wish to
escape."

"You do not know what prisoners are."

"Has he any books?"

"None; they are strictly prohibited, and
under M. de Mazarin's own hand."

"Have you the writing still?"

"Yes, my lord; would you like to look at
it as you return to take your cloak?

"I should, for I like to look at
autographs."

"Well, then, this one is of the most
unquestionable authenticity; there is
only one erasure."

"Ah, ah! an erasure; and in what
respect?"

"With respect to a figure. At first
there was written: `To be boarded at
fifty francs.'"

"As princes of the blood, in fact?"

"But the cardinal must have seen his
mistake, you understand; for he canceled
the zero, and has added a one before the
five. But, by the by ---- "

"What?"

"You do not speak of the resemblance."

"I do not speak of it, dear M. de
Baisemeaux, for a very simple reason --
because it does not exist."

"The deuce it doesn't."

"Or, if it does exist, it is only in
your own imagination; but, supposing it
were to exist elsewhere, I think it
would be better for you not to speak
about it."

"Really."

"The king, Louis XIV. -- you
understand -- would be excessively angry
with you, if he were to learn that you
contributed in any way to spread the
report that one of his subjects has the
effrontery to resemble him."

"It is true, quite true," said
Baisemeaux, thoroughly alarmed; "but I
have not spoken of the circumstance to
any one but yourself, and you
understand, monseigneur, that I
perfectly rely on your discretion."

"Oh, be easy."

"Do you still wish to see the note?"

"Certainly."

While engaged in this manner in
conversation, they had returned to the
governor's apartments; Baisemeaux took
from the cupboard a private register,
like the one he had already shown
Aramis, but fastened by a lock, the key
which opened it being one of a small
bunch of keys which Baisemeaux always
carried with him. Then placing the book
upon the table, he opened it at the
letter "M," and showed Aramis the
following note in the column of
observations: "No books at any time; all
linen and clothes of the finest and best
quality to be procured; no exercise;
always the same jailer; no
communications with any one. Musical
instruments; every liberty and every
indulgence which his welfare may
require, to be boarded at fifteen
francs. M. de Baisemeaux can claim more
if the fifteen francs be not
sufficient."

"Ah," said Baisemeaux, "now I think of
it, I shall claim it."

Aramis shut the book. "Yes," he said,
"it is indeed M. de Mazarin's
handwriting; I recognize it well. Now,
my dear governor," he continued, as if
this last communication had exhausted
his interest, "let us now turn to our
own little affairs."

"Well, what time for repayment do you
wish me to take? Fix it yourself."

"There need not be any particular period
fixed; give me a simple acknowledgment
for one hundred and fifty thousand
francs."

"When to be made payable?"

"When I require it; but, you understand,
I shall only wish it when you yourself
do."

"Oh, I am quite easy on that score,"
said Baisemeaux, smiling; "but I have
already given you two receipts."

"Which I now destroy," said Aramis; and
after having shown the two receipts to
Baisemeaux, he destroyed them. Overcome
by so great a mark of confidence,
Baisemeaux unhesitatingly wrote out an
acknowledgment of a debt of one hundred
and fifty thousand francs, payable at
the pleasure of the prelate. Aramis, who
had, by glancing over the governor's
shoulder, followed the pen as he wrote,
put the acknowledgment into his pocket
without seeming to have read it, which
made Baisemeaux perfectly easy. "Now,"
said Aramis, "you will not be angry with
me if I were to carry off one of your
prisoners?"

"What do you mean?"

"By obtaining his pardon, of course.
Have I not already told you that I took
a great interest in poor Seldon?"

"Yes, quite true, you did so."

"Well?"

"That is your affair; do as you think
proper. I see you have an open hand, and
an arm that can reach a great way."

"Adieu, adieu." And Aramis left,
carrying with him the governor's best
wishes.




CHAPTER 101

The Two Friends



At the very time M. de Baisemeaux was
showing Aramis the prisoners in the
Bastile, a carriage drew up at Madame de
Belliere's door, and, at that still
early hour, a young woman alighted, her
head muffled in a silk hood. When the
servants announced Madame Vanel to
Madame de Belliere, the latter was
engaged, or rather was absorbed, in
reading, a letter, which she hurriedly
concealed. She had hardly finished her
morning toilette, her maid being still
in the next room. At the name ---at the
footsteps of Marguerite Vanel -- Madame
de Belliere ran to meet her. She fancied
she could detect in her friend's eyes a
brightness which was neither that of
health nor of pleasure. Marguerite
embraced her, pressed her hands, and
hardly allowed her time to speak.
"Dearest," she said, "have you forgotten
me? Have you quite given yourself up to
the pleasures of the court?"

"I have not even seen the marriage
fetes."

"What are you doing with yourself,
then?"

"I am getting ready to leave for
Belliere."

"For Belliere?"

"Yes."

"You are becoming rustic in your tastes,
then; I delight to see you so disposed.
But you are pale."

"No, I am perfectly well."

"So much the better; I was becoming
uneasy about you. You do not know what I
have been told."

"People say so many things."

"Yes, but this is very singular."

"How well you know how to excite
curiosity, Marguerite."

"Well, I was afraid of vexing you."

"Never; you have yourself always admired
me for my evenness of temper."

"Well, then, it is said that -- no, I
shall never be able to tell you."

"Do not let us talk about it, then,"
said Madame de Belliere, who detected
the ill-nature that was concealed by all
these prefaces, yet felt the most
anxious curiosity on the subject.

"Well, then, my dear marquise, it is
said that, for some time past, you no
longer continue to regret Monsieur de
Belliere as you used to."

"It is an ill-natured report,
Marguerite. I do regret and shall always
regret, my husband; but it is now two
years since he died. I am only
twenty-eight years old, and my grief at
his loss ought not always to control
every action and thought of my life.
You, Marguerite, who are the model of a
wife, would not believe me if I were to
say so."

"Why not? Your heart is so soft and
yielding." she said, spitefully.

"Yours is so too, Marguerite, and yet I
did not perceive that you allowed
yourself to be overcome by grief when
your heart was wounded." These words
were in direct allusion to Marguerite's
rupture with the superintendent, and
were also a veiled but direct reproach
made against her friend's heart.

As if she only awaited this signal to
discharge her shaft, Marguerite
exclaimed, "Well, Elise, it is said you
are in love." And she looked fixedly at
Madame de Belliere, who blushed against
her will.

"Women never escape slander," replied
the marquise, after a moment's pause.

"No one slanders you, Elise."

"What! -- people say that I am in love,
and yet they do not slander me!"

"In the first place, if it be true, it
is no slander, but simply a
scandal-loving report. In the next
place -- for you did not allow me to
finish what I was saying -- the public
does not assert that you have abandoned
yourself to this passion. It represents
you, on the contrary, as a virtuous but
loving woman, defending yourself with
claws and teeth, shutting yourself up in
your own house as in a fortress; in
other respects, as impenetrable as that
of Danae, notwithstanding Danae's tower
was made of brass."

"You are witty, Marguerite," said Madame
de Belliere, angrily.

"You always flatter me, Elise. In short,
however you are reported to be
incorruptible and unapproachable. You
cannot decide whether the world is
calumniating you or not; but what is it
you are musing about while I am speaking
to you?"

"I?"

"Yes; you are blushing and do not answer
me."

"I was trying," said the marquise,
raising her beautiful eyes brightened
with an indication of growing temper, "I
was trying to discover to what you could
possibly have alluded, you who are so
learned in mythological subjects in
comparing me to Danae."

"You were trying to guess that?" said
Marguerite, laughing.

"Yes; do you not remember that at the
convent, when we were solving our
problems in arithmetic -- ah! what I
have to tell you is learned also, but it
is my turn -- do you not remember, that
if one of the terms were given, we were
to find out the other? Therefore do you
guess now?"

"I cannot conjecture what you mean."

"And yet nothing is more simple. You
pretend that I am in love, do you not?"

"So it is said."

"Very well, it is not said, I suppose,
that I am in love with an abstraction.
There must surely be a name mentioned in
this report."

"Certainly, a name is mentioned."

"Very well; it is not surprising, then,
that I should try to guess this name,
since you do not tell it."

"My dear marquise, when I saw you blush,
I did not think you would have to spend
much time in conjectures."

"It was the word Danae which you used
that surprised me. Danae means a shower
of gold, does it not?"

"That is to say that the Jupiter of
Danae changed himself into a shower of
gold for her."

"My lover, then, he whom you assign
me ---- "

"I beg your pardon; I am your friend,
and assign you no one."

"That may be; but those who are ill
disposed towards me."

"Do you wish to hear the name?"

"I have been waiting this half hour for
it."

"Well, then, you shall hear it. Do not
be shocked; he is a man high in power."

"Good," said the marquise, as she
clenched her hands like a patient at the
approach of the knife.

"He is a very wealthy man," continued
Marguerite; "the wealthiest, it may be.
In a word, it is ---- "

The marquise closed her eyes for a
moment.

"It is the Duke of Buckingham," said
Marguerite, bursting into laughter. This
perfidy had been calculated with extreme
ability; the name that was pronounced,
instead of the name which the marquise
awaited, had precisely the same effect
upon her as the badly sharpened axes
that had hacked, without destroying,
Messieurs de Chalais and De Thou upon
the scaffold. She recovered herself,
however, and said, "I was perfectly
right in saying you were a witty woman,
for you are making the time pass away
most agreeably. This joke is a most
amusing one, for I have never seen the
Duke of Buckingham."

"Never?" said Marguerite, restraining
her laughter.

"I have never even left my own house
since the duke has been at Paris."

"Oh!" resumed Madame Vanel, stretching
out her foot towards a paper which was
lying on the carpet near the window; "it
is not necessary for people to see each
other, since they can write." The
marquise trembled, for this paper was
the envelope of the letter she was
reading as her friend had entered, and
was sealed with the superintendent's
arms. As she leaned back on the sofa on
which she was sitting, Madame de
Belliere covered the paper with the
thick folds of her large silk dress, and
so concealed it.

"Come, Marguerite, tell me, is it to
tell me all these foolish reports that
you have come to see me so early in the
day?"

"No, I came to see you, in the first
place, and to remind you of those habits
of our earlier days, so delightful to
remember, when we used to wander about
together at Vincennes, and, sitting
beneath an oak, or in some sylvan shade,
used to talk of those we loved, and who
loved us."

"Do you propose that we should go out
together now?"

"My carriage is here, and I have three
hours at my disposal."

"I am not dressed yet, Marguerite; but
if you wish that we should talk
together, we can, without going to the
woods of Vincennes, find in my own
garden here, beautiful trees, shady
groves, a greensward covered with
daisies and violets, the perfume of
which can be perceived from where we are
sitting."

"I regret your refusal, my dear
marquise, for I wanted to pour out my
whole heart into yours."

"I repeat again, Marguerite, my heart is
yours just as much in this room, or
beneath the lime-trees in the garden
here, as it would be under the oaks in
the wood yonder."

"It is not the same thing for me. In
approaching Vincennes, marquise, my
ardent aspirations approach nearer to
that object towards which they have for
some days past been directed." The
marquise suddenly raised her head. "Are
you surprised, then, that I am still
thinking of Saint-Mande?"

"Of Saint-Mande?" exclaimed Madame de
Belliere; and the looks of both women
met each other like two resistless
swords.

"You, so proud!" said the marquise,
disdainfully.

"I, so proud!" replied Madame Vanel.
"Such is my nature. I do not forgive
neglect -- I cannot endure infidelity.
When I leave any one who weeps at my
abandonment, I feel induced still to
love him; but when others forsake me and
laugh at their infidelity, I love
distractedly."

Madame de Belliere could not restrain an
involuntary movement.

"She is jealous," said Marguerite to
herself.

"Then," continued the marquise, "you are
quite enamored of the Duke of
Buckingham -- I mean of M. Fouquet?"
Elise felt the allusion, and her blood
seemed to congeal in her heart. "And you
wished to go to Vincennes, -- to
Saint-Mande, even?"

"I hardly know what I wished: you would
have advised me perhaps."

"In what respect?"

"You have often done so."

"Most certainly I should not have done
so in the present instance, for I do not
forgive as you do. I am less loving,
perhaps; when my heart has been once
wounded, it remains so always."

"But M. Fouquet has not wounded you,"
said Marguerite Vanel, with the most
perfect simplicity.

"You perfectly understand what I mean.
M. Fouquet has not wounded me; I do not
know of either obligation or injury
received at his hands, but you have
reason to complain of him. You are my
friend, and I am afraid I should not
advise you as you would like."

"Ah! you are prejudging the case."

"The sighs you spoke of just now are
more than indications."

"You overwhelm me," said the young woman
suddenly, as if collecting her whole
strength, like a wrestler preparing for
a last struggle; "you take only my evil
dispositions and my weaknesses into
calculation, and do not speak of my pure
and generous feelings. If, at this
moment, I feel instinctively attracted
towards the superintendent, if I even
make an advance to him, which, I
confess, is very probable, my motive for
it is, that M. Fouquet's fate deeply
affects me, and because he is, in my
opinion, one of the most unfortunate men
living."

"Ah!" said the marquise, placing her
hand upon her heart, "something new,
then, has occurred?"

"Do you not know it?"

"I am utterly ignorant of everything
about him," said Madame de Belliere,
with the poignant anguish that suspends
thought and speech, and even life
itself.

"In the first place, then, the king's
favor is entirely withdrawn from M.
Fouquet, and conferred on M. Colbert."

"So it is stated."

"It is very clear, since the discovery
of the plot of Belle-Isle."

"I was told that the discovery of the
fortifications there had turned out to
M. Fouquet's honor."

Marguerite began to laugh in so cruel a
manner that Madame de Belliere could at
that moment have delightedly plunged a
dagger in her bosom. "Dearest,"
continued Marguerite, "there is no
longer any question of M. Fouquet's
honor; his safety is concerned. Before
three days are passed the ruin of the
superintendent will be complete."

"Stay," said the marquise, in her turn
smiling, "that is going a little too
fast."

"I said three days, because I wish to
deceive myself with a hope; but probably
the catastrophe will be complete within
twenty-four hours."

"Why so?"

"For the simplest of all reasons, --
that M. Fouquet has no more money."

"In matters of finance, my dear
Marguerite, some are without money
to-day, who to-morrow can procure
millions."

"That might be M. Fouquet's case when he
had two wealthy and clever friends who
amassed money for him, and wrung it from
every possible or impossible source; but
those friends are dead."

"Money does not die, Marguerite; it may
be concealed, but it can be looked for,
bought and found."

"You see things on the bright side, and
so much the better for you. It is really
very unfortunate that you are not the
Egeria of M. Fouquet; you might now show
him the source whence he could obtain
the millions which the king asked him
for yesterday."

"Millions!" said the marquise, in
terror.

"Four -- an even number."

"Infamous!" murmured Madame de Belliere,
tortured by her friend's merciless
delight.

"M. Fouquet, I should think, must
certainly have four millions," she
replied, courageously.

"If he has those which the king requires
to-day," said Marguerite, "he will not,
perhaps, possess those which the king
will demand in a month or so."

"The king will exact money from him
again, then?"

"No doubt; and that is my reason for
saying that the ruin of poor M. Fouquet
is inevitable. Pride will induce him to
furnish the money, and when he has no
more, he will fall."

"It is true," said the marquise,
trembling; "the plan is a bold one; but
tell me, does M. Colbert hate M. Fouquet
so very much?"

"I think he does not like him. M.
Colbert is powerful; he improves on
close acquaintance, he has gigantic
ideas, a strong will, and discretion, he
will rise."

"He will be superintendent?"

"It is probable. Such is the reason, my
dear marquise, why I felt myself
impressed in favor of that poor man, who
once loved, and even adored me; and why,
when I see him so unfortunate, I forgive
his infidelity which I have reason to
believe he also regrets; and why,
moreover, I should not have been
disinclined to afford him some
consolation, or some good advice; he
would have understood the step I had
taken, and would have thought kindly of
me for it. It is gratifying to be loved,
you know. Men value love more highly
when they are no longer blinded by its
influence."

The marquise, bewildered and overcome by
these cruel attacks, which had been
calculated with the greatest nicety and
precision, hardly knew what answer to
return; she even seemed to have lost all
power of thought. Her perfidious
friend's voice had assumed the most
affectionate tone; she spoke as a woman,
but concealed the instincts of a wolf.

"Well," said Madame de Belliere, who had
a vague hope that Marguerite would cease
to overwhelm a vanquished enemy, "why do
you not go and see M. Fouquet?"

"Decidedly, marquise, you have made me
reflect. No, it would be unbecoming for
me to make the first advance. M. Fouquet
no doubt loves me, but he is too proud.
I cannot expose myself to an affront....
besides I have my husband to consider.
You tell me nothing? Very well, I shall
consult M. Colbert on the subject."
Marguerite rose smilingly, as though to
take leave, but the marquise had not the
strength to imitate her. Marguerite
advanced a few paces, in order that she
might continue to enjoy the humiliating
grief in which her rival was plunged,
and then said, suddenly, -- "You do not
accompany me to the door, then?" The
marquise rose, pale and almost lifeless,
without thinking of the envelope, which
had occupied her attention so greatly at
the commencement of the conversation,
and which was revealed at the first step
she took. She then opened the door of
her oratory, and without even turning
her head towards Marguerite Vanel,
entered it, closing the door after her.
Marguerite said, or rather muttered a
few words, which Madame de Belliere did
not even hear. As soon, however, as the
marquise had disappeared, her envious
enemy, not being able to resist the
desire to satisfy herself that her
suspicions were well founded, advanced
stealthily towards it like a panther and
seized the envelope. "Ah!" she said,
gnashing her teeth, "it was indeed a
letter from M. Fouquet she was reading
when I arrived," and then darted out of
the room. During this interval, the
marquise, having arrived behind the
rampart, as it were, of her door, felt
that her strength was failing her; for a
moment she remained rigid, pale and
motionless as a statue, and then, like a
statue shaken on its base by an
earthquake, tottered and fell inanimate
on the carpet. The noise of the fall
resounded at the same moment as the
rolling of Marguerite's carriage leaving
the hotel.




CHAPTER 102

Madame de Belliere's Plate



The blow had been the more painful on
account of its being unexpected. It was
some time before the marquise recovered
herself; but once recovered, she began
to reflect upon the events so
heartlessly announced to her. She
therefore returned, at the risk even of
losing her life in the way, to that
train of ideas which her relentless
friend had forced her to pursue.
Treason, then -- deep menaces, concealed
under the semblance of public
interest -- such were Colbert's
maneuvers. A detestable delight at an
approaching downfall, untiring efforts
to attain this object, means of
seduction no less wicked than the crime
itself -- such were the weapons
Marguerite employed. The crooked atoms
of Descartes triumphed; to the man
without compassion was united a woman
without heart. The marquise perceived,
with sorrow rather than indignation,
that the king was an accomplice in the
plot which betrayed the duplicity of
Louis XIII. in his advanced age, and the
avarice of Mazarin at a period of life
when he had not had the opportunity of
gorging himself with French gold. The
spirit of thus courageous woman soon
resumed its energy, no longer
overwhelmed by indulgence in
compassionate lamentations. The marquise
was not one to weep when action was
necessary, nor to waste time in
bewailing a misfortune as long as means
still existed of relieving it. For some
minutes she buried her face in her cold
fingers, and then, raising her head,
rang for her attendants with a steady
hand, and with a gesture betraying a
fixed determination of purpose. Her
resolution was taken.

"Is everything prepared for my
departure?" she inquired of one of her
female attendants who entered.

"Yes, madame; but it was not expected
that your ladyship would leave for
Belliere for the next few days."

"All my jewels and articles of value,
then, are packed up?"

"Yes, madame; but hitherto we have been
in the habit of leaving them in Paris.
Your ladyship does not generally take
your jewels with you into the country."

"But they are all in order, you say?"

"Yes, in your ladyship's own room."

"The gold plate?"

"In the chest."

"And the silver plate?"

"In the great oak closet."

The marquise remained silent for a few
moments, and then said calmly, "Let my
goldsmith be sent for."

Her attendants quitted the room to
execute the order. The marquise,
however, had entered her own room, and
was inspecting her casket of jewels with
the greatest attention. Never, until
now, had she bestowed such close
attention upon riches in which women
take so much pride; never, until now,
had she looked at her jewels except for
the purpose of making a selection,
according to their settings or their
colors. On this occasion, however, she
admired the size of the rubies and the
brilliancy of the diamonds; she grieved
over every blemish and every defect; she
thought the gold light, and the stones
wretched. The goldsmith, as he entered,
found her thus occupied. "M. Faucheux "
she said, "I believe you supplied me
with my gold service?"

"I did, your ladyship."

"I do not now remember the amount of the
account."

"Of the new service, madame, or of that
which M. de Belliere presented to you on
your marriage? for I have furnished
both."

"First of all, the new one."

"The covers, the goblets, and the
dishes, with their covers, the
eau-epergne, the ice-pails, the dishes
for the preserves, and the tea and
coffee urns, cost your ladyship sixty
thousand francs."

"No more?"

"Your ladyship thought the account very
high."

"Yes, yes; I remember, in fact, that it
was dear; but it was the workmanship, I
suppose?"

"Yes, madame; the designs, the
chasings -- all new patterns."

"What proportion of the cost does the
workmanship form? Do not hesitate to
tell me."

"A third of its value, madame."

"There is the other service, the old
one, that which belonged to my husband?"

"Yes, madame; there is less workmanship
in that than in the other. Its intrinsic
value does not exceed thirty thousand
francs."

"Thirty thousand," murmured the
marquise. "But, M. Faucheux, there is
also the service which belonged to my
mother; all that massive plate which I
did not wish to part with, on account of
the associations connected with it."

"Ah! madame, that would indeed be an
excellent resource for those who, unlike
your ladyship, might not be in a
position to keep their plate. In chasing
that they worked in solid metal. But
that service is no longer in fashion.
Its weight is its only advantage."

"That is all I care about. How much does
it weigh?"

"Fifty thousand livres at the very
least. I do not allude to the enormous
vases for the buffet, which alone weigh
five thousand livres, or ten thousand
the pair."

"One hundred and thirty," murmured the
marquise. "You are quite sure of your
figures, M. Faucheux?"

"Positive, madame. Besides, there is no
difficulty in weighing them."

"The amount is entered in my books."

"Your ladyship is extremely methodical,
I am aware."

"Let us now turn to another subject,"
said Madame de, Belliere; and she opened
one of her jewel-boxes.

"I recognize these emeralds," said M.
Faucheux; "for it was I who had the
setting of them. They are the most
beautiful in the whole court. No, I am
mistaken; Madame de Chatillon has the
most beautiful set; she had them from
Messieurs de Guise; but your set madame,
comes next."

"What are they worth?"

"Mounted?"

"No; supposing I wished to sell them."

"I know very well who would buy them,"
exclaimed M. Faucheux.

"That is the very thing I ask. They
could be sold, then?"

"All your jewels could be sold, madame.
It is well known that you possess the
most beautiful jewels in Paris. You are
not changeable in your tastes; when you
make a purchase it is of the very best;
and what you purchase you do not part
with."

"What could these emeralds be sold for,
then?"

"A hundred and thirty thousand francs."

The marquise wrote down upon her tablets
the amount which the jeweler mentioned.
"The ruby necklace?" she said.

"Are they balas-rubies, madame?"

"Here they are."

"They are beautiful -- magnificent. I
did not know that your ladyship had
these stones."

"What is their value?"

"Two hundred thousand francs. The center
one is alone worth a hundred thousand."

"I thought so," said the marquise. "As
for diamonds, I have them in numbers;
rings, necklaces, sprigs, earrings,
clasps. Tell me their value, M.
Faucheux."

The jeweler took his magnifying-glass
and scales, weighed and inspected them,
and silently made his calculations.
"These stones," he said, "must have cost
your ladyship an income of forty
thousand francs."

"You value them at eight hundred
thousand francs?"

"Nearly so."

"It is about what I imagined ---but the
settings are not included?"

"No, madame; but if I were called upon
to sell or to buy, I should be satisfied
with the gold of the settings alone as
my profit upon the transaction. I should
make a good twenty-five thousand
francs."

"An agreeable sum."

"Very much so, madame."

"Will you accept that profit, then, on
condition of converting the jewels into
money?"

"But you do not intend to sell your
diamonds, I suppose, madame?" exclaimed
the bewildered jeweler.

"Silence, M. Faucheux, do not disturb
yourself about that; give me an answer
simply. You are an honorable man, with
whom my family has dealt for thirty
years; you knew my father and mother,
whom your own father and mother served.
I address you as a friend; will you
accept the gold of the settings in
return for a sum of ready money to be
placed in my hands?"

"Eight hundred thousand francs! it is
enormous."

"I know it."

"Impossible to find."

"Not so."

"But reflect, madame, upon the effect
which will be produced by the sale of
your jewels."

"No one need know it. You can get sets
of false jewels made for me, similar to
the real. Do not answer a word; I insist
upon it. Sell them separately, sell the
stones only."

"In that way it is easy. Monsieur is
looking out for some sets of jewels as
well as single stones for Madame's
toilette. There will be a competition
for them. I can easily dispose of six
hundred thousand francs' worth to
Monsieur. I am certain yours are the
most beautiful."

"When can you do so?"

"In less than three days' time."

"Very well, the remainder you will
dispose of among private individuals.
For the present, make me out a contract
of sale, payment to be made in four
days."

"I entreat you to reflect, madame; for
if you force the sale, you will lose a
hundred thousand francs."

"If necessary, I will lose two hundred;
I wish everything to be settled this
evening. Do you accept?"

"I do, your ladyship. I will not conceal
from you that I shall make fifty
thousand francs by the transaction."

"So much the better for you. In what way
shall I have the money?"

"Either in gold, or in bills of the bank
of Lyons, payable at M. Colbert's."

"I agree," said the marquise, eagerly;
"return home and bring the sum in
question in notes, as soon as possible."

"Yes, madame, but for Heaven's sake ----
"

"Not a word, M. Faucheux. By the by, I
was forgetting the silver plate. What is
the value of that which I have?"

"Fifty thousand francs, madame."

"That makes a million," said the
marquise to herself. "M. Faucheux, you
will take away with you both the gold
and silver plate. I can assign, as a
pretext, that I wish it remodelled on
patterns more in accordance with my own
taste. Melt it down, and return me its
value in money, at once."

"It shall be done, your ladyship."

"You will be good enough to place the
money in a chest, and direct one of your
clerks to accompany the chest, and
without my servants seeing him; and
order him to wait for me in a carriage."

"In Madame de Faucheux's carriage?" said
the jeweler.

"If you will allow it, and I will call
for it at your house."

"Certainly, your ladyship."

"I will direct some of my servants to
convey the plate to your house." The
marquise rung. "Let the small van be
placed at M. Faucheux's disposal," she
said. The jeweler bowed and left the
house, directing that the van should
follow him closely, saying aloud that
the marquise was about to have her plate
melted down in order to have other plate
manufactured of a more modern style.
Three hours afterwards she went to M.
Faucheux's house and received from him
eight hundred thousand francs in gold
inclosed in a chest, which one of the
clerks could hardly carry towards Madame
Faucheux's carriage -- for Madame
Faucheux kept her carriage. As the
daughter of a president of accounts, she
had brought a marriage portion of thirty
thousand crowns to her husband, who was
syndic of the goldsmiths. These thirty
thousand crowns had become very fruitful
during twenty years. The jeweler, though
a millionaire, was a modest man. He had
purchased a substantial carriage, built
in 1648, ten years after the king's
birth. This carriage, or rather house
upon wheels, excited the admiration of
the whole quarter in which he resided --
it was covered with allegorical
paintings, and clouds scattered over
with stars. The marquise entered this
somewhat extraordinary vehicle, sitting
opposite the clerk, who endeavored to
put his knees out of the way, afraid
even of touching the marquise's dress.
It was the clerk, too, who told the
coachman, who was very proud of having a
marquise to drive, to take the road to
Saint-Mande.




CHAPTER 103

The Dowry



Monsieur Faucheux's horses were
serviceable animals, with thickset
knees, and legs that had some difficulty
in moving. Like the carriage, they
belonged to the earlier part of the
century. They were not as fleet as the
English horses of M. Fouquet, and
consequently took two hours to get to
Saint-Mande. Their progress, it might be
said, was majestic. Majesty, however,
precludes hurry. The marquise stopped
the carriage at the door so well known
to her, although she had seen it only
once, under circumstances, it will be
remembered, no less painful than those
which brought her now to it again. She
drew a key from her pocket, and inserted
it in the lock, pushed open the door,
which noiselessly yielded to her touch,
and directed the clerk to carry the
chest upstairs to the first floor. The
weight of the chest was so great that
the clerk was obliged to get the
coachman to assist him with it. They
placed it in a small cabinet, anteroom,
or boudoir rather, adjoining the saloon
where we once saw M. Fouquet at the
marquise's feet. Madame de Belliere gave
the coachman a louis, smiled gracefully
at the clerk, and dismissed them both.
She closed the door after them, and
waited in the room, alone and
barricaded. There was no servant to be
seen about the rooms, but everything was
prepared as though some invisible genius
had divined the wishes and desires of an
expected guest. The fire was laid,
candles in the candelabra, refreshments
upon the table, books scattered about,
fresh-cut flowers in the vases. One
might almost have imagined it an
enchanted house. The marquise lighted
the candles, inhaled the perfume of the
flowers, sat down, and was soon plunged
in profound thought. Her deep musings,
melancholy though they were, were not
untinged with a certain vague joy.
Spread out before her was a treasure, a
million wrung from her fortune as a
gleaner plucks the blue corn-flower from
her crown of flowers. She conjured up
the sweetest dreams. Her principal
thought, and one that took precedence of
all others, was to devise means of
leaving this money for M. Fouquet
without his possibly learning from whom
the gift had come. This idea, naturally
enough, was the first to present itself
to her mind. But although, on
reflection, it appeared difficult to
carry out, she did not despair of
success. She would then ring to summon
M. Fouquet and make her escape, happier
than if, instead of having given a
million, she had herself found one. But,
being there, and having seen the boudoir
so coquettishly decorated that it might
almost be said the least particle of
dust had but the moment before been
removed by the servants; having observed
the drawing-room, so perfectly arranged
that it might almost be said her
presence there had driven away the
fairies who were its occupants, she
asked herself if the glance or gaze of
those whom she had displaced -- whether
spirits, fairies, elves, or human
creatures -- had not already recognized
her. To secure success, it was necessary
that some steps should be seriously
taken, and it was necessary also that
the superintendent should comprehend the
serious position in which he was placed,
in order to yield compliance with the
generous fancies of a woman; all the
fascinations of an eloquent friendship
would be required to persuade him, and,
should this be insufficient, the
maddening influence of a devoted
passion, which, in its resolute
determination to carry conviction, would
not be turned aside. Was not the
superintendent, indeed, known for his
delicacy and dignity of feeling? Would
he allow himself to accept from any
woman that of which she had stripped
herself? No! He would resist, and if any
voice in the world could overcome his
resistance, it would be the voice of the
woman he loved.

Another doubt, and that a cruel one,
suggested itself to Madame de Belliere
with a sharp, acute pain, like a dagger
thrust. Did he really love her? Would
that volatile mind, that inconstant
heart, be likely to be fixed for a
moment, even were it to gaze upon an
angel? Was it not the same with Fouquet,
notwithstanding his genius and his
uprightness of conduct, as with those
conquerors on the field of battle who
shed tears when they have gained a
victory?" I must learn if it be so, and
must judge of that for myself," said the
marquise. "Who can tell whether that
heart, so coveted, is not common in its
impulses, and full of alloy? Who can
tell if that mind, when the touchstone
is applied to it, will not be found of a
mean and vulgar character? Come, come,"
she said, "this is doubting and
hesitating too much -- to the proof."
She looked at the timepiece. "It is now
seven o'clock," she said; "he must have
arrived, it is the hour for signing his
papers." With a feverish impatience she
rose and walked towards the mirror, in
which she smiled with a resolute smile
of devotedness; she touched the spring
and drew out the handle of the bell.
Then, as if exhausted beforehand by the
struggle she had just undergone, she
threw herself on her knees, in utter
abandonment, before a large couch, in
which she buried her face in her
trembling hands. Ten minutes afterwards
she heard the spring of the door sound.
The door moved upon invisible hinges,
and Fouquet appeared. He looked pale,
and seemed bowed down by the weight of
some bitter reflection. He did not
hurry, but simply came at the summons.
The pre-occupation of his mind must
indeed have been very great, that a man
so devoted to pleasure, for whom indeed
pleasure meant everything, should obey
such a summons so listlessly. The
previous night, in fact, fertile in
melancholy ideas, had sharpened his
features, generally so noble in their
indifference of expression, and had
traced dark lines of anxiety around his
eyes. Handsome and noble he still was,
and the melancholy expression of his
mouth, a rare expression with men, gave
a new character to his features, by
which his youth seemed to be renewed.
Dressed in black, the lace in front of
his chest much disarranged by his
feverishly restless hand, the looks of
the superintendent, full of dreamy
reflection, were fixed upon the
threshold of the room which he had so
frequently approached in search of
expected happiness. This gloomy
gentleness of manner, this smiling
sadness of expression, which had
replaced his former excessive joy,
produced an indescribable effect upon
Madame de Belliere, who was regarding
him at a distance.

A woman's eye can read the face of the
man she loves, its every feeling of
pride, its every expression of
suffering; it might almost be said that
Heaven has graciously granted to women,
on account of their very weakness, more
than it has accorded to other creatures.
They can conceal their own feelings from
a man, but from them no man can conceal
his. The marquise divined in a single
glance the whole weight of the
unhappiness of the superintendent. She
divined a night passed without sleep, a
day passed in deceptions. From that
moment she was firm in her own strength,
and she felt that she loved Fouquet
beyond everything else. She arose and
approached him, saying, "You wrote to me
this morning to say you were beginning
to forget me, and that I, whom you had
not seen lately, had no doubt ceased to
think of you. I have come to undeceive
you, monsieur, and the more completely
so, because there is one thing I can
read in your eyes."

"What is that, madame?" said Fouquet,
astonished.

"That you have never loved me so much as
at this moment; in the same manner you
can read, in my present step towards
you, that I have not forgotten you."

"Oh! madame," said Fouquet, whose face
was for a moment lighted up by a sudden
gleam of joy, "you are indeed an angel,
and no man can suspect you. All he can
do is to humble himself before you and
entreat forgiveness."

"Your forgiveness is granted, then,"
said the marquise. Fouquet was about to
throw himself upon his knees. "No, no,"
she said, "sit here by my side. Ah! that
is an evil thought which has just
crossed your mind."

"How do you detect it, madame?"

"By the smile that has just marred the
expression of your countenance, Be
candid, and tell me what your thought
was -- no secrets between friends."

"Tell me, then, madame, why have you
been so harsh these three or four months
past?"

"Harsh?"

"Yes; did you not forbid me to visit
you?"

"Alas!" said Madame de Belliere,
sighing, "because your visit to me was
the cause of your being visited with a
great misfortune; because my house is
watched; because the same eyes that have
seen you already might see you again;
because I think it less dangerous for
you that I should come here than that
you should come to my house; and,
lastly, because I know you to be already
unhappy enough not to wish to increase
your unhappiness further."

Fouquet started, for these words
recalled all the anxieties connected
with his office of superintendent -- he
who, for the last few minutes, had
indulged in all the wild aspirations of
the lover. "I unhappy?" he said,
endeavoring to smile: "indeed, marquise,
you will almost make me believe I am so,
judging from your own sadness. Are your
beautiful eyes raised upon me merely in
pity? I was looking for another
expression from them."

"It is not I who am sad, monsieur; look
in the mirror, there -- it is yourself."

"It is true I am somewhat pale,
marquise; but it is from overwork; the
king yesterday required a supply of
money from me."

"Yes, four millions, I am aware of it."

"You know it?" exclaimed Fouquet, in a
tone of surprise; "how can you have
learnt it? It was after the departure of
the queen, and in the presence of one
person only, that the king ---- "

"You perceive that I do know it; is not
that sufficient? Well, go on, monsieur,
the money the king has required you to
supply ---- "

"You understand, marquise, that I have
been obliged to procure it, then to get
it counted, afterwards registered --
altogether a long affair. Since Monsieur
de Mazarin's death, financial affairs
occasion some little fatigue and
embarrassment. My administration is
somewhat overtaxed, and this is the
reason why I have not slept during the
past night."

"So that you have the amount?" inquired
the marquise, with some anxiety.

"It would indeed be strange, marquise,"
replied Fouquet, cheerfully, "if a
superintendent of finances were not to
have a paltry four millions in his
coffers."

"Yes, yes, I believe you either have, or
will have them."

"What do you mean by saying I shall have
them?"

"It is not very long since you were
required to furnish two millions."

"On the contrary, to me it seems almost
an age; but do not let us talk of money
matters any longer."

"On the contrary, we will continue to
speak of them, for that is my only
reason for coming to see you."

"I am at a loss to compass your
meaning," said the superintendent, whose
eyes began to express an anxious
curiosity.

"Tell me, monsieur, is the office of
superintendent a permanent position?"

"You surprise me, marchioness, for you
speak as if you had some motive or
interest in putting the question."

"My reason is simple enough; I am
desirous of placing some money in your
hands, and naturally I wish to know if
you are certain of your post."

"Really, marquise, I am at a loss what
to reply; I cannot conceive your
meaning."

"Seriously, then, dear M. Fouquet, funds
which somewhat embarrass me. I am tired
of investing my money in land, and am
anxious to intrust it to some friend who
will turn it to account."

"Surely it does not press," said M.
Fouquet.

"On the contrary, it is very pressing."

"Very well, we will talk of that by and
by."

"By and by will not do, for my money is
there," returned the marquise, pointing
out the coffer to the superintendent,
and showing him, as she opened it, the
bundles of notes and heaps of gold.
Fouquet, who had risen from his seat at
the same moment as Madame de Belliere,
remained for a moment plunged in
thought; then suddenly starting back, he
turned pale, and sank down in his chair,
concealing his face in his hands.
"Madame, madame," he murmured, "what
opinion can you have of me, when you
make me such an offer?"

"Of you!" returned the marquise. "Tell
me, rather, what you yourself think of
the step I have taken."

"You bring me this money for myself, and
you bring it because you know me to be
embarrassed. Nay, do not deny it, for I
am sure of it. Can I not read your
heart?"

"If you know my heart, then, can you not
see that it is my heart I offer you?"

"I have guessed rightly, then,"
exclaimed Fouquet. "In truth, madame, I
have never yet given you the right to
insult me in this manner."

"Insult you," she said, turning pale,
"what singular delicacy of feeling! You
tell me you love me; in the name of that
affection you wish me to sacrifice my
reputation and my honor, yet, when I
offer you money which is my own, you
refuse me."

"Madame, you are at liberty to preserve
what you term your reputation and your
honor. Permit me to preserve mine. Leave
me to my ruin, leave me to sink beneath
the weight of the hatreds which surround
me, beneath the faults I have committed,
beneath the load even, of my remorse,
but, for Heaven's sake, madame, do not
overwhelm me with this last infliction."

"A short time since, M. Fouquet, you
were wanting in judgment; now you are
wanting in feeling."

Fouquet pressed his clenched hand upon
his breast, heaving with emotion,
saying: "Overwhelm me, madame for I have
nothing to reply."

"I offered you my friendship, M.
Fouquet."

"Yes, madame, and you limited yourself
to that."

"And what I am now doing is the act of a
friend."

"No doubt it is."

"And you reject this mark of my
friendship?"

"I do reject it."

"Monsieur Fouquet, look at me," said the
marquise, with glistening eyes, "I now
offer you my love."

"Oh, madame," exclaimed Fouquet.

"I have loved you for a long while past;
women, like men, have a false delicacy
at times. For a long time past I have
loved you, but would not confess it.
Well, then, you have implored this love
on your knees, and I have refused you; I
was blind, as you were a little while
since; but as it was my love that you
sought, it is my love I now offer you."

"Oh! madame, you overwhelm me beneath a
load of happiness."

"Will you be happy, then, if I am
yours -- entirely?"

"It will be the supremest happiness for
me."

"Take me, then. If, however, for your
sake I sacrifice a prejudice, do you,
for mine, sacrifice a scruple."

"Do not tempt me."

"Do not refuse me."

"Think seriously of what you are
proposing."

"Fouquet, but one word. Let it be `No,'
and I open this door," and she pointed
to the door which led into the streets,
"and you will never see me again. Let
that word be `Yes,' and I am yours
entirely."

"Elsie! Elsie! But this coffer?"

"Contains my dowry."

"It is your ruin," exclaimed Fouquet,
turning over the gold and papers; "there
must be a million here."

"Yes, my jewels, for which I care no
longer if you do not love me, and for
which, equally, I care no longer if you
love me as I love you."

"This is too much," exclaimed Fouquet.
"I yield, I yield, even were it only to
consecrate so much devotion. I accept
the dowry."

"And take the woman with it." said the:
marquise, throwing herself into his
arms.




CHAPTER 104

Le Terrain de Dieu



During the progress of these events
Buckingham and De Wardes traveled in
excellent companionship, and made the
journey from Paris to Calais in
undisturbed harmony together. Buckingham
had hurried his departure, so that the
greater part of his adieux were very
hastily made. His visit to Monsieur and
Madame, to the young queen, and to the
queen-dowager, had been paid
collectively -- a precaution on the part
of the queen-mother which saved him the
distress of any private conversation
with Monsieur, and also the danger of
seeing Madame again. The carriages
containing the luggage had already been
sent on beforehand, and in the evening
he set off in his traveling carriage
with his attendants.

De Wardes, irritated at finding himself
dragged away in so abrupt a manner by
this Englishman, had sought in his
subtle mind for some means of escaping
from his fetters; but no one having
rendered him any assistance in this
respect, he was absolutely obliged,
therefore, to submit to the burden of
his own evil thoughts and caustic
spirit.

Such of his friends in whom he had been
able to confide, had, in their character
of wits, rallied him upon the duke's
superiority. Others, less brilliant, but
more sensible, had reminded him of the
king's orders prohibiting dueling.
Others, again, and they the larger
number, who, in virtue of charity, or
national vanity, might have rendered him
assistance, did not care to run the risk
of incurring disgrace, and would, at the
best, have informed the ministers of a
departure which might end in a massacre
on a small scale. The result was, that,
after having fully deliberated upon the
matter, De Wardes packed up his luggage,
took a couple of horses, and, followed
only by one servant, made his way
towards the barrier, where Buckingham's
carriage was to await him.

The duke received his adversary as he
would have done an intimate
acquaintance, made room beside him on
the same seat with himself, offered him
refreshments, and spread over his knees
the sable cloak that had been thrown on
the front seat. They then conversed of
the court, without alluding to Madame;
of Monsieur, without speaking of
domestic affairs; of the king, without
speaking of his brother's wife; of the
queen-mother, without alluding to her
daughter-in-law; of the king of England,
without alluding to his sister-in-law;
of the state of the affections of either
of the travelers, without pronouncing
any name that might be dangerous. In
this way the journey, which was
performed by short stages, was most
agreeable, and Buckingham, almost a
Frenchman from wit and education, was
delighted at having so admirably
selected his traveling companion.
Elegant repasts were served, of which
they partook but lightly; trials of
horses made in the beautiful meadows
that skirted the road; coursing indulged
in, for Buckingham had his greyhounds
with him; and in such ways did they pass
away the pleasant time. The duke
somewhat resembled the beautiful river
Seine, which folds France a thousand
times in its loving embrace, before
deciding upon joining its waters with
the ocean. In quitting France, it was
her recently adopted daughter he had
brought to Paris whom he chiefly
regretted; his every thought was a
remembrance of her -- his every memory a
regret. Therefore, whenever, now and
then, despite his command over himself,
he was lost in thought, De Wardes left
him entirely to his musings. This
delicacy might have touched Buckingham,
and changed his feelings towards De
Wardes, if the latter, while preserving
silence, had shown a glance less full of
malice, and a smile less false.
Instinctive dislikes, however, are
relentless; nothing appeases them; a few
ashes may sometimes, apparently,
extinguish them; but beneath those ashes
the smothered embers rage more
furiously. Having exhausted every means
of amusement the route offered, they
arrived, as we have said, at Calais
towards the end of the sixth day. The
duke's attendants, since the previous
evening, had traveled in advance, and
now chartered a boat, for the purpose of
joining the yacht, which had been
tacking about in sight, or bore
broadside on, whenever it felt its white
wings wearied, within cannon-shot of the
jetty.

The boat was destined for the transport
of the duke's equipages from the shore
to the yacht. The horses had been
embarked, having been hoisted from the
boat upon the deck in baskets expressly
made for the purpose, and wadded in such
a manner that their limbs, even in the
most violent fits of terror or
impatience, were always protected by the
soft support which the sides afforded,
and their coats not even turned. Eight
of these baskets, placed side by side,
filled the ship's hold. It is well known
that in short voyages horses refuse to
eat, but remain trembling all the while,
with the best of food before them, such
as they would have greatly coveted on
land. By degrees, the duke's entire
equipage was transported on board the
yacht; he was then informed that
everything was in readiness, and that
they only waited for him, whenever he
would be disposed to embark with the
French gentleman; for no one could
possibly imagine that the French
gentleman would have any other accounts
to settle with his Grace than those of
friendship. Buckingham desired the
captain to be told to hold himself in
readiness, but that, as the sea was
beautiful, and as the day promised a
splendid sunset, he did not intend to go
on board until nightfall, and would
avail himself of the evening to enjoy a
walk on the strand. He added also, that,
finding himself in such excellent
company, he had not the least desire to
hasten his embarkation.

As he said this he pointed out to those
who surrounded him the magnificent
spectacle which the sky presented, of
deepest azure in the horizon, the
amphitheatre of fleecy clouds ascending
from the sun's disc to the zenith,
assuming the appearance of a range of
snowy mountains, whose summits were
heaped one upon another. The dome of
clouds was tinged at its base with, as
it were, the foam of rubies, fading away
into opal and pearly tints, in
proportion as the gaze was carried from
base to summit. The sea was gilded with
the same reflection, and upon the crest
of every sparkling wave danced a point
of light, like a diamond by lamplight.
The mildness of the evening, the sea
breezes, so dear to contemplative minds,
setting in from the east and blowing in
delicious gusts; then, in the distance,
the black outline of the yacht with its
rigging traced upon the empurpled
background of the sky -- while, dotting
the horizon, might be seen, here and
there, vessels with their trimmed sails,
like the wings of a seagull about to
plunge; such a spectacle indeed well
merited admiration. A crowd of curious
idlers followed the richly dressed
attendants, amongst whom they mistook
the steward and the secretary for the
master and his friend. As for
Buckingham, who was dressed very simply,
in a gray satin vest, and doublet of
violet-colored velvet, wearing his hat
thrust over his eyes, and without orders
or embroidery, he was taken no more
notice of than De Wardes, who was in
black, like an attorney.

The duke's attendants had received
directions to have a boat in readiness
at the jetty head, and to watch the
embarkation of their master, without
approaching him until either he or his
friend should summon them, -- "whatever
may happen," he had added, laying a
stress upon these words, so that they
might not be misunderstood. Having
walked a few paces upon the strand,
Buckingham said to De Wardes, "I think
it is now time to take leave of each
other. The tide, you perceive, is
rising; ten minutes hence it will have
soaked the sands where we are now
walking in such a manner that we shall
not be able to keep our footing."

"I await your orders, my lord, but ----
"

"But, you mean, we are still upon soil
which is part of the king's territory."

"Exactly."

"Well, do you see yonder a kind of
little island surrounded by a circle of
water? The pool is increasing every
minute, and the isle is gradually
disappearing. This island, indeed,
belongs to Heaven, for it is situated
between two seas, and is not shown on
the king's charts. Do you observe it?"

"Yes; but we can hardly reach it now,
without getting our feet wet."

"Yes; but observe that it forms an
eminence tolerably high, and that the
tide rises on every side, leaving the
top free. We shall be admirably placed
upon that little theatre. What do you
think of it?"

"I shall be perfectly happy wherever I
may have the honor of crossing my sword
with your lordship's."

"Very well, then, I am distressed to be
the cause of your wetting your feet, M.
de Wardes, but it is most essential you
should be able to say to the king:
`Sire, I did not fight upon your
majesty's territory.' Perhaps the
distinction is somewhat subtle, but,
since Port-Royal, your nation delights
in subtleties of expression. Do not let
us complain of this, however, for it
makes your wit very brilliant, and of a
style peculiarly your own. If you do not
object, we will hurry ourselves, for the
sea, I perceive, is rising fast, and
night is setting in."

"My reason for not walking faster was,
that I did not wish to precede your
Grace. Are you still on dry land, my
lord?"

"Yes, at present I am. Look yonder! My
servants are afraid we shall be drowned,
and have converted the boat into a
cruiser. Do you remark how curiously it
dances upon the crests of the waves?
But, as it makes me feel sea-sick, would
you permit me to turn my back towards
them?"

"You will observe, my lord, that in
turning your back to them, you will have
the sun full in your face."

"Oh, its rays are very feeble at this
hour and it will soon disappear; do not
be uneasy on that score."

"As you please, my lord; it was out of
consideration for your lordship that I
made the remark."

"I am aware of that, M. de Wardes, and I
fully appreciate your kindness. Shall we
take off our doublets?"

"As you please, my lord."

"Do not hesitate to tell me, M. de
Wardes, if you do not feel comfortable
upon the wet sand, or if you think
yourself a little too close to the
French territory. We could fight in
England, or even upon my yacht."

"We are exceedingly well placed here, my
lord; only I have the honor to remark
that, as the sea is rising fast, we have
hardly time ---- "

Buckingham made a sign of assent, took
off his doublet and threw it on the
ground, a proceeding which De Wardes
imitated. Both their bodies, which
seemed like phantoms to those who were
looking at them from the shore, were
thrown strongly into relief by a dark
red violet-colored shadow with which the
sky became overspread.

"Upon my word, your Grace," said De
Wardes, "we shall hardly have time to
begin. Do you not perceive how our feet
are sinking into the sand?"

"I have sunk up to the ankles," said
Buckingham, "without reckoning that the
water is even now breaking in upon us."

"It has already reached me. As soon as
you please, therefore, your Grace," said
De Wardes, who drew his sword, a
movement imitated by the duke.

"M. de Wardes," said Buckingham, "one
final word. I am about to fight you
because I do not like you, -- because
you have wounded me in ridiculing a
certain devotional regard I have
entertained, and one which I acknowledge
that, at this moment, I still retain,
and for which I would very willingly
die. You are a bad and heartless man, M.
de Wardes, and I will do my very utmost
to take your life; for I feel assured
that, if you survive this engagement,
you will, in the future, work great
mischief towards my friends. That is all
I have to remark, M. de Wardes,"
concluded Buckingham, as he saluted him.

"And I, my lord, have only this to reply
to you: I have not disliked you
hitherto, but, since you give me such a
character, I hate you, and will do all I
possibly can to kill you; "and De Wardes
saluted Buckingham.

Their swords crossed at the same moment,
like two flashes of lightning on a dark
night. The swords seemed to seek each
other, guessed their position, and met.
Both were practiced swordsmen, and the
earlier passes were without any result.
The night was fast closing in, and it
was so dark that they attacked and
defended themselves almost
instinctively. Suddenly De Wardes felt
his sword arrested, -- he had just
touched Buckingham's shoulder. The
duke's sword sunk as his arm was
lowered.

"You are wounded, my lord," said De
Wardes, drawing back a step or two.

"Yes, monsieur, but only slightly."

"Yet you quitted your guard."

"Only from the first effect of the cold
steel, but I have recovered. Let us go
on, if you please." And disengaging his
sword with a sinister clashing of the
blade, the duke wounded the marquis in
the breast.

"A hit?" he said.

"No," cried De Wardes, not moving from
his place.

"I beg your pardon, but observing that
your shirt was stained ---- " said
Buckingham.

"Well," said De Wardes furiously, "it is
now your turn."

And with a terrible lunge, he pierced
Buckingham's arm, the sword passing
between the two bones. Buckingham,
feeling his right arm paralyzed,
stretched out his left, seized his
sword, which was about falling from his
nerveless grasp, and before De Wardes
could resume his guard, he thrust him
through the breast. De Wardes tottered,
his knees gave way beneath him, and
leaving his sword still fixed in the
duke's arm, he fell into the water,
which was soon crimsoned with a more
genuine reflection than that which it
had borrowed from the clouds. De Wardes
was not dead; he felt the terrible
danger that menaced him, for the sea
rose fast. The duke, too, perceived the
danger. With an effort and an
exclamation of pain he tore out the
blade which remained in his arm, and
turning towards De Wardes said, "Are you
dead, marquis?"

"No," replied De Wardes, in a voice
choked by the blood which rushed from
his lungs to his throat, "but very near
it."

"Well, what is to be done; can you
walk?" said Buckingham, supporting him
on his knee.

"Impossible," he replied. Then falling
down again, said, "Call to your people,
or I shall be drowned."

"Halloa! boat there! quick, quick!"

The boat flew over the waves, but the
sea rose faster than the boat could
approach. Buckingham saw that De Wardes
was on the point of being again covered
by a wave; he passed his left arm, safe
and unwounded, round his body and raised
him up. The wave ascended to his waist
but did not move him. The duke
immediately began to carry his late
antagonist towards the shore. He had
hardly gone ten paces, when a second
wave, rushing onwards higher, more
furious and menacing than the former,
struck him at the height of his chest,
threw him over and buried him beneath
the water. At the reflux, however, the
duke and De Wardes were discovered lying
on the strand. De Wardes had fainted. At
this moment four of the duke's sailors,
who comprehended the danger, threw
themselves into the sea, and in a moment
were close beside him. Their terror was
extreme when they observed how their
master became covered with blood, in
proportion as the water with which it
was impregnated, flowed towards his
knees and feet; they wished to carry
him.

"No, no," exclaimed the duke, "take the
marquis on shore first."

"Death to the Frenchman!" cried the
English sullenly.

"Wretched knaves!" exclaimed the duke,
drawing himself up with a haughty
gesture, which sprinkled them with
blood, "obey directly! M. de Wardes on
shore! M. de Wardes's safety to be
looked to first, or I will have you all
hanged!"

The boat had by this time reached them;
the secretary and steward leaped into
the sea, and approached the marquis, who
no longer showed any sign of life.

"I commit him to your care, as you value
your lives," said the duke. "Take M. de
Wardes on shore." They took him in their
arms, and carried him to the dry sand,
where the tide never rose so high. A few
idlers and five or six fishermen had
gathered on the shore, attracted by the
strange spectacle of two men fighting
with the water up to their knees. The
fishermen, observing a group of men
approaching carrying a wounded man,
entered the sea until the water was up
to their waists. The English transferred
the wounded man to them, at the very
moment the latter began to open his eyes
again. The salt water and the fine sand
had got into his wounds, and caused him
the acutest pain. The duke's secretary
drew out a purse filled with gold from
his pocket, and handed it to the one
among those present who appeared of most
importance, saying: "From my master, his
Grace the Duke of Buckingham, in order
that every possible care may be taken of
the Marquis de Wardes."

Then, followed by those who had
accompanied him, he returned to the
boat, which Buckingham had been enabled
to reach with the greatest difficulty,
but only after he had seen De Wardes out
of danger. By this time it was high
tide; embroidered coats and silk sashes
were lost; many hats, too, had been
carried away by the waves. The flow of
the tide had borne the duke's and De
Wardes's clothes to the shore, and De
Wardes was wrapped in the duke's
doublet, under the belief that it was
his own, when the fishermen carried him
in their arms towards the town.




END OF VOL. I.




