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Ten Years Later



by Alexandre Dumas [Pere]



March, 1998  [Etext #1258]





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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.











End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ten Years Later, by Dumas [Pere]