Ten Years Later

Ten Years Later

by Alexandre Dumas, Père

THE EDITOR’S NOTE TO THE PG D’ARTAGNAN SERIES

LINKED INDEX OF VOLUMES:

ORDER TITLE PG EBOOK# DATES VOLUME CHAPTERS

1 The Three Musketeers 1257 1625–1628 1

2 Twenty Years After 1259 1648–1649 2

3 The Vicomte de Bragelonne 2609 1660 3 1–75

4 Ten Years Later 2681 1660–1661 3 76–140

5 Louise de la Vallière 2710 1661 3 141–208

6 The Man in the Iron Mask 2759 1661–1673 3 209–269

[ eBook 1258 listed below, is of the same title as

eBook 2681 and its contents overlap those of two other volumes: it

includes all the chapters of eBook 2609 and the first 28 chapters of

2681]

TITLE PG EBOOK# DATES VOLUME CHAPTERS

Ten Years Later 1258 1660–1661 3 1–104

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final volume of D’Artagnan Romances:

it is usually split into three or four parts, and the final portion is

entitled The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask we’re

familiar with today is the last volume of the four-volume edition. [Not

all the editions split them in the same manner, hence some of the

confusion. . .but wait. . .there’s yet more reason for confusion.]

One thing that may be causing confusion is that the etext entitled Ten

Years Later, says it’s the sequel to The Three Musketeers. While this

is technically true, there’s another book, Twenty Years After, that

comes between. The confusion is generated by the two facts that many

people see those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty Years “After” the

original story . . . however, this is why the different words “After”

and “Later” . . . the Ten Years “After” is ten years after the Twenty

Years later. . . as per history. Also, the third book of the D’Artagnan

Romances, while entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the subtitle

Ten Years Later. These two titles are also given to different volumes:

The Vicomte de Bragelonne can refer to the whole book, or the first

volume of the three or four-volume editions. Ten Years Later can,

similarly, refer to the whole book, or the second volume of the

four-volume edition. Here is a guide to the series which may prove

helpful:

The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257 - First book of the D’Artagnan

Romances. Covers the years 1625-1628.

Twenty Years After: Etext 1259 - Second book of the D’Artagnan

Romances. Covers the years 1648-1649.

Ten Years Later: Etext 1258 - First 104 chapters of the third book of

the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.

The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series) - First

75 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the

year 1660.

Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 Chapters 76-140 of that third book of the

D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.

Louise de la Vallière: Chapters 141-208 of the third book of the

D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.

The Man in the Iron Mask: Chapters 209-269 of the third book of the

D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1661-1673.

Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan

Romances have proved an invaluable source of information.

Introduction:

In the months of March-July in 1844, in the magazine Le Siecle, the

first portion of a story appeared, penned by the celebrated playwright

Alexandre Dumas. It was based, he claimed, on some manuscripts he had

found a year earlier in the Bibliotheque Nationale while researching a

history he planned to write on Louis XIV. They chronicled the

adventures of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon entering Paris,

became almost immediately embroiled in court intrigues, international

politics, and ill-fated affairs between royal lovers. Over the next six

years, readers would enjoy the adventures of this youth and his three

famous friends, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unraveled

behind the scenes of some of the most momentous events in French and

even English history.

Eventually these serialized adventures were published in novel form,

and became the three D’Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief

summary of the first two novels:

The Three Musketeers (serialized March—July, 1844): The year is 1625.

The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at the tender age of 18, and

almost immediately offends three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and

Athos. Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the

Cardinal’s guards, and the courage of the youth is made apparent during

the battle. The four become fast friends, and, when asked by

D’Artagnan’s landlord to find his missing wife, embark upon an

adventure that takes them across both France and England in order to

thwart the plans of the Cardinal Richelieu. Along the way, they

encounter a beautiful young spy, named simply Milady, who will stop at

nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of Austria before her husband, Louis

XIII, and take her revenge upon the four friends.

Twenty Years After (serialized January—August, 1845): The year is now

1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. Louis XIII has

died, as has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France may sit

upon the head of Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV, the

real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband.

D’Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends

have retired to private life. Athos turned out to be a nobleman, the

Comte de la Fere, and has retired to his home with his son, Raoul de

Bragelonne. Aramis, whose real name is D’Herblay, has followed his

intention of shedding the musketeer’s cassock for the priest’s robes,

and Porthos has married a wealthy woman, who left him her fortune upon

her death. But trouble is stirring in both France and England. Cromwell

menaces the institution of royalty itself while marching against

Charles I, and at home the Fronde is threatening to tear France apart.

D’Artagnan brings his friends out of retirement to save the threatened

English monarch, but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who seeks to avenge

his mother’s death at the musketeers’ hands, thwarts their valiant

efforts. Undaunted, our heroes return to France just in time to help

save the young Louis XIV, quiet the Fronde, and tweak the nose of

Cardinal Mazarin.

The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October,

1847—January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English

translation. It has been split into three, four, or five volumes at

various points in its history. The five-volume edition generally does

not give titles to the smaller portions, but the others do. In the

three-volume edition, the novels are entitled The Vicomte de

Bragelonne, Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For

the purposes of this etext, I have chosen to split the novel as the

four-volume edition does, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne,

Ten Years Later, Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask.

In the last etext:

The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It is the year 1660, and

D’Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, has become

disgusted with serving King Louis XIV while the real power resides with

the Cardinal Mazarin, and has tendered his resignation. He embarks on

his own project, that of restoring Charles II to the throne of England,

and, with the help of Athos, succeeds, earning himself quite a fortune

in the process. D’Artagnan returns to Paris to live the life of a rich

citizen, and Athos, after negotiating the marriage of Philip, the

king’s brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, likewise retires to

his own estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, and left

Louis to assume the reigns of power, with the assistance of M. Colbert,

formerly Mazarin’s trusted clerk. Colbert has an intense hatred for M.

Fouquet, the king’s superintendent of finances, and has resolved to use

any means necessary to bring about his fall. With the new rank of

intendant bestowed on him by Louis, Colbert succeeds in having two of

Fouquet’s loyal friends tried and executed. He then brings to the

king’s attention that Fouquet is fortifying the island of

Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and could possibly be planning to use it as a base

for some military operation against the king. Louis calls D’Artagnan

out of retirement and sends him to investigate the island, promising

him a tremendous salary and his long-promised promotion to captain of

the musketeers upon his return. At Belle-Isle, D’Artagnan discovers

that the engineer of the fortifications is, in fact, Porthos, now the

Baron du Vallon, and that’s not all. The blueprints for the island,

although in Porthos’s handwriting, show evidence of another script that

has been erased, that of Aramis. D’Artagnan later discovers that Aramis

has become the bishop of Vannes, which is, coincidentally, a parish

belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting that D’Artagnan has arrived on the

king’s behalf to investigate, Aramis tricks D’Artagnan into wandering

around Vannes in search of Porthos, and sends Porthos on an heroic ride

back to Paris to warn Fouquet of the danger. Fouquet rushes to the

king, and gives him Belle-Isle as a present, thus allaying any

suspicion, and at the same time humiliating Colbert, just minutes

before the usher announces someone else seeking an audience with the

king.

John Bursey, June, 2000

Transcriber’s note: There is one French custom that may cause

confusion. The Duc d’Orleans is traditionally called “Monsieur” and his

wife “Madame.” Gaston, the king’s uncle, currently holds that title.

Upon the event of his death, it will be conferred upon the king’s

brother, Philip, who is currently the Duc d’Anjou. The customary title

of “Monsieur” will go to him as well, and upon his future wife,

Henrietta of England, that of “Madame.” Gaston’s widow will be referred

to as the “Dowager Madame.” - JB

Contents

THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE.

Volume I.

CHAPTER 1. The Letter.

CHAPTER 2. The Messenger.

CHAPTER 3. The Interview.

CHAPTER 4. Father and Son.

CHAPTER 5. In which Something will be said of Cropoli—of Cropoli and of a Great Unknown Painter.

CHAPTER 6. The Unknown.

CHAPTER 7. Parry.

CHAPTER 8. What his Majesty King Louis XIV. was at the Age of Twenty-Two

CHAPTER 9. In which the Unknown of the Hostelry of Les Medici loses his Incognito.

CHAPTER 10. The Arithmetic of M. de Mazarin

CHAPTER 11. Mazarin’s Policy

CHAPTER 12. The King and the Lieutenant

CHAPTER 13. Mary de Mancini

CHAPTER 14. In which the King and the Lieutenant each give Proofs of Memory

CHAPTER 15. The Proscribed

CHAPTER 16. “Remember!”

CHAPTER 17. In which Aramis is sought and only Bazin is found

CHAPTER 18. In which D’Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds Mousqueton

CHAPTER 19. What D’Artagnan went to Paris for

CHAPTER 20. Of the Society which was formed in the Rue des Lombards, at the Sign of the Pilon d’Or

CHAPTER 21. In which D’Artagnan prepares to travel for the Firm of Planchet and Company

CHAPTER 22. D’Artagnan travels for the House of Planchet and Company

CHAPTER 23. In which the Author, very unwillingly, is forced to write a Little History

CHAPTER 24. The Treasure

CHAPTER 25. The March

CHAPTER 26. Heart and Mind

CHAPTER 27. The Next Day

CHAPTER 28. Smuggling

CHAPTER 29. In which D’Artagnan begins to fear he has placed his Money and that of Planchet in the Sinking Fund

CHAPTER 30. The Shares of Planchet and Company rise again to Par

CHAPTER 31. Monk reveals himself

CHAPTER 32. Athos and D’Artagnan meet once more at the Hostelry of the Corne du Cerf

CHAPTER 33. The Audience.

CHAPTER 34. Of the Embarrassment of Riches

CHAPTER 35. On the Canal

CHAPTER 36. How D’Artagnan drew, as a Fairy would have done, a Country-seat from a Deal Box

CHAPTER 37. How D’Artagnan regulated the “Assets” of the Company before he established its “Liabilities”

CHAPTER 38. In which it is seen that the French Grocer had already been established in the Seventeenth Century

CHAPTER 39. Mazarin’s Gaming Party

CHAPTER 40. An Affair of State

CHAPTER 41. The Recital

CHAPTER 42. In which Mazarin becomes Prodigal

CHAPTER 43. Guenaud

CHAPTER 44. Colbert

CHAPTER 45. Confession of a Man of Wealth

CHAPTER 46. The Donation

CHAPTER 47. How Anne of Austria gave one Piece of Advice to Louis XIV., and how M. Fouquet gave him another.

CHAPTER 48. Agony

CHAPTER 49. The First Appearance of Colbert

CHAPTER 50. The First Day of the Royalty of Louis XIV

CHAPTER 51. A Passion

CHAPTER 52. D’Artagnan’s Lesson

CHAPTER 53. The King

CHAPTER 54. The Houses of M. Fouquet

CHAPTER 55. The Abbe Fouquet

CHAPTER 56. M. de la Fontaine’s Wine

CHAPTER 57. The Gallery of Saint-Mande

CHAPTER 58. Epicureans

CHAPTER 59. A Quarter of an Hour’s Delay

CHAPTER 60. Plan of Battle

CHAPTER 61. The Cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame

CHAPTER 62. Vive Colbert!

CHAPTER 63. How M. d’Eymeris’s Diamond passed into the Hands of M. D’Artagnan.

CHAPTER 64. Of the Notable Difference D’Artagnan finds between Monsieur the Intendant and Monsieur the Superintendent

CHAPTER 65. Philosophy of the Heart and Mind

CHAPTER 66. The Journey

CHAPTER 67. How D’Artagnan became acquainted with a Poet, who had turned Printer for the sake of printing his own Verses

CHAPTER 68. D’Artagnan continues his Investigations

CHAPTER 69. In which the Reader, no doubt, will be as astonished as D’Artagnan was to meet an Old Acquaintance

CHAPTER 70. Wherein the Ideas of D’Artagnan, at first strangely clouded, begin to clear up a little.

CHAPTER 71. A Procession at Vannes

CHAPTER 72. The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes

CHAPTER 73. In which Porthos begins to be sorry for having come with D’Artagnan

CHAPTER 74. In which D’Artagnan makes all Speed, Porthos snores, and Aramis counsels

CHAPTER 75. In which Monsieur Fouquet acts

CHAPTER 76. In which D’Artagnan finishes by at length placing his Hand upon his Captain’s Commission

CHAPTER 77. A Lover and his Mistress

CHAPTER 78. In which we at length see the true Heroine of this History appear

CHAPTER 79. Malicorne and Manicamp

CHAPTER 80. Manicamp and Malicorne

CHAPTER 81. The Courtyard of the Hotel Grammont

CHAPTER 82. The Portrait of Madame

CHAPTER 83. Havre

CHAPTER 84. At Sea

CHAPTER 85. The Tents

CHAPTER 86. Night

CHAPTER 87. From Havre to Paris

CHAPTER 88. An Account of what the Chevalier de Lorraine thought of Madame

CHAPTER 89. A Surprise for Madame de Montalais

CHAPTER 90. The Consent of Athos

CHAPTER 91. Monsieur becomes jealous of the Duke of Buckingham

CHAPTER 92. Forever!

CHAPTER 93. King Louis XIV. does not think Mademoiselle de la Vallière either rich enough or pretty enough

CHAPTER 94. Sword-thrusts in the Water

CHAPTER 95. Sword-thrusts in the Water (concluded)

CHAPTER 96. Baisemeaux de Montlezun

CHAPTER 97. The King’s Card-table

CHAPTER 98. M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun’s Accounts

CHAPTER 99. The Breakfast at Monsieur de Baisemeaux’s

CHAPTER 100. The Second Floor of la Bertaudiere

CHAPTER 101. The Two Friends

CHAPTER 102. Madame de Belliere’s Plate

CHAPTER 103. The Dowry

CHAPTER 104. Le Terrain de Dieu

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 Vallière—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 Vallière 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 Vallière?”

“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 Vallière, 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 Vallière,” 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 Vallière, 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 Tréville, 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 bishopp’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 case, 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 bag

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