“She has been here little more than half an hour, and I had no expectation she would come this evening.”
“You love me just a little, then, marquise?”
“That is not the question now; it is of your danger; how are your affairs going on?”
“I am going this evening to get my friends out of the prisons of the Palais.”
“How will you do that?”
“By buying and bribing the governor.”
“He is a friend of mine; can I assist you, without injuring you?”
“Oh! marquise, it would be a signal service; but how can you be employed without your being compromised? Now, never shall my life, my power, or even my liberty, be purchased at the expense of a single tear from your eyes, or of one frown of pain upon your brow.”
“Monseigneur, no more such words, they bewilder me; I have been culpable in trying to serve you, without calculating the extent of what I was doing. I love you in reality, as a tender friend; and as a friend, I am grateful for your delicate attentions — but, alas! — alas! you will never find a mistress in me.”
“Marquise!” cried Fouquet, in a tone of despair; “why not?”
“Because you are too much beloved,” said the young woman, in a low voice; “because you are too much beloved by too many people — because the splendor of glory and fortune wound my eyes, whilst the darkness of sorrow attracts them; because, in short, I, who have repulsed you in your proud magnificence; I who scarcely looked at you in your splendor, I came, like a mad woman, to throw myself, as it were, into your arms, when I saw a misfortune hovering over your head. You understand me now, monseigneur? Become happy again, that I may remain chaste in heart and in thought; your misfortune entails my ruin.”
“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, with an emotion he had never before felt; “were I to fall to the lowest degree of human misery, and hear from your mouth that word which you now refuse me, that day, madame, you will be mistaken in your noble egotism; that day you will fancy you are consoling the most unfortunate of men, and you will have said, I love you, to the most illustrious, the most delighted, the most triumphant of the happy beings of this world.”
He was still at her feet, kissing her hand, when Pellisson entered precipitately, crying, in very ill-humor, “Monseigneur! madame! for Heaven’s sake! excuse me. Monseigneur, you have been here half an hour. Oh! do not both look at me so reproachfully. Madame, pray who is that lady who left your house soon after monseigneur came in?”
“Madame Vanel,” said Fouquet.
“Ha!” cried Pellisson, “I was sure of that.”
“Well! what then?”
“Why, she got into her carriage, looking deadly pale.”
“What consequence is that to me?”
“Yes, but what she said to her coachman is of consequence to you.”
“Kind heaven!” cried the marquise, “what was that?”
“To M. Colbert’s!” said Pellisson, in a hoarse voice.
“Bon Dieu! — begone, begone, monseigneur!” replied the marquise, pushing Fouquet out of the salon, whilst Pellisson dragged him by the hand.
“Am I, then, indeed,” said the superintendent, “become a child, to be frightened by a shadow?”
“You are a giant,” said the marquise, “whom a viper is trying to bite in the heel.”
Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet to the carriage. “To the Palais at full speed!” cried Pellisson to the coachman. The horses set off like lightning; no obstacle relaxed their pace for an instant. Only, at the arcade Saint-Jean, as they were coming out upon the Place de Greve, a long file of horsemen, barring the narrow passage, stopped the carriage of the superintendent. There was no means of forcing this barrier; it was necessary to wait till the mounted archers of the watch, for it was they who stopped the way, had passed with the heavy carriage they were escorting, and which ascended rapidly towards the Place Baudoyer. Fouquet and Pellisson took no further account of this circumstance beyond deploring the minute’s delay they had thus to submit to. They entered the habitation of the concierge du Palais five minutes after. That officer was still walking about in the front court. At the name of Fouquet, whispered in his ear by Pellisson, the governor eagerly approached the carriage, and, hat in his hand, was profuse in his attentions. “What an honor for me, monseigneur,” said he.
“One word, monsieur le gouverneur, will you take the trouble to get into my carriage?” The officer placed himself opposite Fouquet in the coach.
“Monsieur,” said Fouquet, “I have a service to ask of you.”
“Speak, monseigneur.”
“A service that will be compromising for you, monsieur, but which will assure to you forever my protection and my friendship.”
“Were it to cast myself into the fire for you, monseigneur, I would do it.”
“That is well,” said Fouquet; “what I require is much more simple.”
“That being so, monseigneur, what is it?”
“To conduct me to the chamber of Messieurs Lyodot and D’Eymeris.”
“Will monseigneur have the kindness to say for what purpose?”
“I will tell you in their presence, monsieur; at the same time that I will give you ample means of palliating this escape.”
“Escape! Why, then, monseigneur does not know?”
“What?”
“That Messieurs Lyodot and D’Eymeris are no longer here.”
“Since when?” cried Fouquet, in great agitation.
“About a quarter of an hour.”
“Whither have they gone, then?”
“To Vincennes — to the donjon.”
“Who took them from here?”
“An order from the king.”
“Oh! woe! woe!” exclaimed Fouquet, striking his forehead. “Woe!” and without saying a single word more to the governor, he threw himself back in his carriage, despair in his heart, and death on his countenance.
“Well!” said Pellisson, with great anxiety.
“Our friends are lost. Colbert is conveying them to the donjon. They crossed our very path under the arcade Saint-Jean.”
Pellisson, struck as by a thunderbolt, made no reply. With a single reproach he would have killed his master. “Where is monseigneur going?” said the footman.
“Hone — to Paris. You, Pellisson, return to Saint-Mande, and bring the Abbe Fouquet to me within an hour. Begone!”
CHAPTER 60
Plan of Battle
The night was already far advanced when the Abbe Fouquet joined his brother. Gourville had accompanied him. These three men, pale with dread of future events, resembled less three powers of the day than three conspirators, united by one single thought of violence. Fouquet walked for a long time, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, striking his hands one against the other. At length, taking courage, in the midst of a deep sigh: “Abbe,” said he, “you were speaking to me only to-day of certain people you maintain.”
“Yes, monsieur,” replied the abbe.
“Tell me precisely who are these people.” The abbe hesitated.
“Come! no fear, I am not threatening; no romancing, for I am not joking.”
“Since you demand the truth, monseigneur, here it is: — I have a hundred and twenty friends or companions of pleasure, who are sworn to me as the thief is to the gallows.”
“And you think you can depend upon them?”
“Entirely.”
“And you will not compromise yourself?”
“I will not even make my appearance.”
“And are they men of resolution?”
“They would burn Paris, if I promised them they should not be burnt in turn.”
“The thing I ask of you, abbe,” said Fouquet, wiping the sweat which fell from his brow, “is to throw your hundred and twenty men upon the people I will point out to you, at a certain moment given — is it possible?”
“It will not be the first time such a thing has happened to them, monseigneur.”
“That is well: but would these bandits attack an armed force?”
“They are used to that.”
“Then get your hundred and twenty men together, abbe.”
“Directly. But where?”
“On the road to Vincennes, to-morrow, at two o’clock precisely.”
“To carry off Lyodot and D’Eymeris? There will be blows to be got!”
“A number, no doubt; are you afraid?”
“Not for myself, but for you.”
“Your men will know, then, what they have to do?”
“They are too intelligent not to guess it. Now, a minister who gets up a riot against his king — exposes himself —- “
“Of what importance is that to you, I pray? Besides, if I fall, you fall with me.”
“It would then be more prudent, monsieur, not to stir in the affair, and leave the king to take this little satisfaction.”
“Think well of this, abbe, Lyodot and D’Eymeris at Vincennes are a prelude of ruin for my house. I repeat it — I arrested, you will be imprisoned — I imprisoned, you will be exiled.”
“Monsieur, I am at your orders; have you any to give me?”
“What I told you — I wish that, to-morrow, the two financiers of whom they mean to make victims, whilst there remain so many criminals unpunished, should be snatched from the fury of my enemies. Take your measures accordingly. Is it possible?”
“It is possible.”
“Describe your plan.”
“It is of rich simplicity. The ordinary guard at executions consists of twelve archers.”
“There will be a hundred to-morrow.”
“I reckon so. I even say more — there will be two hundred.”
“Then your hundred and twenty men will not be enough.”
“Pardon me. In every crowd composed of a hundred thousand spectators, there are ten thousand bandits or cut-purses — only they dare not take the initiative.”
“Well?”
“There will then be, to-morrow, on the Place de Greve, which I choose as my battle-field, ten thousand auxiliaries to my hundred and twenty men. The attack commenced by the latter, the others will finish it.”
“That all appears feasible. But what will be done with regard to the prisoners upon the Place de Greve?”
“This: they must be thrust into some house — that will make a siege necessary to get them out again. And stop! here is another idea, more sublime still: certain houses have two issues — one upon the Place, and the other into the Rue de la Mortellerie, or la Vennerie, or la Texeranderie. The prisoners entering by one door will go out at another.”
“Yes, but fix upon something positive.”
“I am seeking to do so.”
“And I,” cried Fouquet, “I have found it. Listen to what has occurred to me at this moment.”
“I am listening.”
Fouquet made a sign to Gourville, who appeared to understand. “One of my friends lends me sometimes the keys of a house which he rents, Rue Baudoyer, the spacious gardens of which extend behind a certain house on the Place de Greve.”
“That is the place for us,” said the abbe. “What house?”
“A cabaret, pretty well frequented, whose sign represents the image of Notre Dame.”
“I know it,” said the abbe.
“This cabaret has windows opening upon the Place, a place of exit into the court, which must abut upon the gardens of my friend by a door of communication.”
“Good!” said the abbe.
“Enter by the cabaret, take the prisoners in; defend the door while you enable them to fly by the garden and the Place Baudoyer.”
“That is all plain. Monsieur, you would make an excellent general, like monsieur le prince.”
“Have you understood me?”
“Perfectly well.”
“How much will it amount to, to make your bandits all drunk with wine, and to satisfy them with gold?”
“Oh, monsieur, what an expression! Oh! monsieur, if they heard you: some of them are very susceptible.”
“I mean to say they must be brought no longer to know the heavens from the earth; for I shall to-morrow contend with the king; and when I fight I mean to conquer — please to understand.”
“It shall be done, monsieur. Give me your other ideas.”
“That is your business.”
“Then give me your purse.”
“Gourville, count a hundred thousand livres for the abbe.”
“Good! and spare nothing, did you not say?”
“Nothing.”
“That is well.”
“Monseigneur,” objected Gourville, “if this should be known, we should lose our heads.”
“Eh! Gourville,” replied Fouquet, purple with anger, “you excite my pity. Speak for yourself, if you please. My head does not shake in that manner upon my shoulders. Now, abbe, is everything arranged?”
“Everything.”
“At two o’clock to-morrow.”
“At twelve, because it will be necessary to prepare our auxiliaries in a secret manner.”
“That is true; do not spare the wine of the cabaretier.”
“I will spare neither his wine nor his house,” replied the abbe, with a sneering laugh. “I have my plan, I tell you; leave me to set it in operation, and you shall see.”
“Where shall you be yourself?”
“Everywhere; nowhere.”
“And how shall I receive information?”
“By a courier whose horse shall be kept in the very garden of your friend. A propos, the name of your friend?”
Fouquet looked again at Gourville. The latter came to the succor of his master, saying, “Accompanying monsieur l’abbe for several reasons, only the house is easily to be known, the `Image-de-Notre-Dame’ in the front, a garden, the only one in the quarter, behind.”
“Good, good! I will go and give notice to my soldiers.”
“Accompany him, Gourville,” said Fouquet, “and count him down the money. One moment, abbe — one moment, Gourville — what name will be given to this carrying off?”
“A very natural one, monsieur — the Riot.”
“The riot on account of what? For, if ever the people of Paris are disposed to pay their court to the king, it is when he hangs financiers.”
“I will manage that,” said the abbe.
“Yes; but you may manage it badly, and people will guess.”
“Not at all, — not at all. I have another idea.”
“What is that?”
“My men shall cry out, `Colbert, vive Colbert!’ and shall throw themselves upon the prisoners as if they would tear them in pieces, and shall force them from the gibbets, as too mild a punishment.”
“Ah! that is an idea,” said Gourville. “Peste! monsieur l’abbe, what an imagination you have!”
“Monsieur, we are worthy of our family,” replied the abbe, proudly.
“Strange fellow,” murmured Fouquet. Then he added, “That is ingenious. Carry it out, but shed no blood.”
Gourville and the abbe set off together, with their heads full of the meditated riot. The superintendent laid himself down upon some cushions, half valiant with respect to the sinister projects of the morrow, half dreaming of love.
CHAPTER 61
The Cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame
At two o’clock the next day fifty thousand spectators had taken their position upon the Place, around the two gibbets which had been elevated between the Quai de la Greve and the Quai Pelletier; one close to the other, with their backs to the embankment of the river. In the morning also, all the sworn criers of the good city of Paris had traversed the quarters of the city, particularly the halles and the faubourgs, announcing with their hoarse and indefatigable voices, the great justice done by the king upon two speculators, two thieves, devourers of the people. And these people, whose interests were so warmly looked after, in order not to fail in respect for their king quitted shops, stalls, and ateliers to go and evince a little gratitude to Louis XIV., absolutely like invited guests, who feared to commit an impoliteness in not repairing to the house of him who had invited them. According to the tenor of the sentence, which the criers read aloud and incorrectly, two farmers of the revenues, monopolists of money, dilapidators of the royal provisions, extortioners, and forgers, were about to undergo capital punishment on the Place de Greve, with their names blazoned over their heads, according to their sentence. As to those names, the sentence made no mention of them. The curiosity of the Parisians was at its height, and, as we have said, an immense crowd waited with feverish impatience the hour fixed for the execution. The news had already spread that the prisoners, transferred to the Chateau of Vincennes, would be conducted from that prison to the Place de Greve. Consequently, the faubourg and the Rue Saint Antoine were crowded, for the population of Paris in those days of great executions was divided into two categories: those who came to see the condemned pass — these were of timid and mild hearts, but philosophically curious — and those who wished to see the condemned die — these had hearts that hungered for sensation. On this day M. d’Artagnan received his last instructions from the king, and made his adieus to his friends, the number of whom was, at the moment, reduced to Planchet, traced the plan of his day, as every busy man whose moments are counted ought to do because he appreciates their importance.
“My departure is to be,” said he, “at break of day, three o’clock in the morning; I have then fifteen hours before me. Take from them the six hours of sleep which are indispensable for me — six; one hour for repasts — seven; one hour for a farewell visit to Athos — eight; two hours for chance circumstances —total, ten. There are then five hours left. One hour to get my money, — that is, to have payment refused by M. Fouquet; another hour to go and receive my money of M. Colbert, together with his questions and grimaces; one hour to look over my clothes and arms, and get my boots cleaned. I have still two hours left. Mordioux! how rich I am!” And so saying, D’Artagnan felt a strange joy, a joy of youth, a perfume of those great and happy years of former times mount into his brain and intoxicate him. “During these two hours I will go,” said the musketeer, “and take my quarter’s rent of the Image-de-Notre-Dame. That will be pleasant. Three hundred and seventy-five livres. Mordioux! but that is astonishing! If the poor man who has but one livre in his pocket, found a livre and twelve deniers, that would be justice, that would be excellent; but never does such a godsend fall to the lot of the poor man. The rich man, on the contrary, makes himself revenues with his money, which he does not even touch. Here are three hundred and seventy-five livres which fall to me from heaven. I will go then to the Image-de-Notre-Dame, and drink a glass of Spanish wine with my tenant, which he cannot fail to offer me. But order must be observed, Monsieur d’Artagnan, order must be observed! Let us organize our time, then, and distribute the employment of it! Art. 1st, Athos; Art. 2d, the Image-de-Notre-Dame; Art. 3d, M. Fouquet, Art. 4th, M. Colbert; Art. 5th, supper; Art. 6th, clothes, boots, horse, portmanteau; Art. 7th and last, sleep.”
In consequence of this arrangement, D’Artagnan went straight to the Comte de la Fere, to whom modestly and ingenuously he related a part of his fortunate adventures. Athos had not been without uneasiness on the subject of D’Artagnan’s visit to the king; but few words sufficed for an explanation of that. Athos divined that Louis had charged D’Artagnan with some important mission, and did not even make an effort to draw the secret from him. He only recommended him to take care of himself, and offered discreetly to accompany him if that were desirable.
“But, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, “I am going nowhere.”
“What! you come and bid me adieu, and are going nowhere?”
“Oh! yes, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, coloring a little, “I am going to make an acquisition.”
“That is quite another thing. Then I change my formula. Instead of `Do not get yourself killed,’ I will say, — `Do not get yourself robbed.'”
“My friend, I will inform you if I set eyes on any property that pleases me, and shall expect you will favor me with your opinion.”
“Yes, yes,” said Athos, too delicate to permit himself even the consolation of a smile. Raoul imitated the paternal reserve. But D’Artagnan thought it would appear too mysterious to leave his friends under a pretense, without even telling them the route he was about to take.
“I have chosen Le Mans,” said he to Athos. “Is it a good country?”
“Excellent, my friend,” replied the count, without making him observe that Le Mans was in the same direction as La Touraine, and that by waiting two days, at most, he might travel with a friend. But D’Artagnan, more embarrassed than the count, dug, at every explanation, deeper into the mud, into which he sank by degrees. “I shall set out to-morrow at daybreak,” said he at last. “Till that time, will you come with me, Raoul?”
“Yes, monsieur le chevalier,” said the young man, “if monsieur le comte does not want me.”
“No, Raoul I am to have an audience to-day of Monsieur, the king’s brother; that is all I have to do.”
Raoul asked Grimaud for his sword, which the old man brought him immediately. “Now then,” added D’Artagnan, opening his arms to Athos, “adieu, my dear friend!” Athos held him in a long embrace, and the musketeer, who knew his discretion so well, murmured in his ear — “An affair of state,” to which Athos only replied by a pressure of the hand, still more significant. They then separated. Raoul took the arm of his old friend, who led him along the Rue-Saint-Honore. “I am conducting you to the abode of the god Plutus,” said D’Artagnan to the young man; “prepare yourself. The whole day you will witness the piling up of crowns. Heavens! how I am changed!”
“Oh! what numbers of people there are in the street!” said Raoul.
“Is there a procession to-day?” asked D’Artagnan of a passer-by.
“Monsieur, it is a hanging,” replied the man.
“What! a hanging at the Greve?” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“The devil take the rogue who gets himself hung the day I want to go and take my rent!” cried D’Artagnan. “Raoul, did you ever see anybody hung?”
“Never, monsieur — thank God!”
“Oh! how young that sounds! If you were on guard in the trenches, as I was, and a spy! But, pardon me, Raoul, I am doting — you are quite right, it is a hideous sight to see a person hung! At what hour do they hang them, monsieur, if you please?”
“Monsieur,” replied the stranger respectfully, delighted at joining conversation with two men of the sword, “it will take place about three o’clock.”
“Aha! it is now only half-past one; let us step out, we shall be there in time to touch my three hundred and seventy-five livres, and get away before the arrival of the malefactor.”
“Malefactors, monsieur,” continued the bourgeois; “there are two of them.”
“Monsieur, I return you many thanks,” said D’Artagnan, who, as he grew older, had become polite to a degree. Drawing Raoul along, he directed his course rapidly in the direction of La Greve. Without that great experience musketeers have of a crowd, to which were joined an irresistible strength of wrist, and an uncommon suppleness of shoulders, our two travelers would not have arrived at their place of destination. They followed the line of the Quai, which they had gained on quitting the Rue Saint-Honore, where they left Athos. D’Artagnan went first; his elbow, his wrist, his shoulder formed three wedges which he knew how to insinuate with skill into the groups, to make them split and separate like firewood. He made use sometimes of the hilt of his sword as an additional help: introducing it between ribs that were too rebellious, making it take the part of a lever or crowbar, to separate husband from wife, uncle from nephew, and brother from brother. And all this was done so naturally, and with such gracious smiles, that people must have had ribs of bronze not to cry thank you when the wrist made its play, or hearts of diamond not to be enchanted when such a bland smile enlivened the lips of the musketeer. Raoul, following his friend, cajoled the women who admired his beauty, pushed back the men who felt the rigidity of his muscles, and both opened, thanks to these maneuvers, the compact and muddy tide of the populace. They arrived in sight of the two gibbets, from which Raoul turned away his eyes in disgust. As for D’Artagnan, he did not even see them; his house with its gabled roof, its windows crowded with the curious, attracted and even absorbed all the attention he was capable of. He distinguished in the Place and around the houses a good number of musketeers on leave, who, some with women, others with friends, awaited the crowning ceremony. What rejoiced him above all was to see that his tenant, the cabaretier, was so busy he hardly knew which way to turn. Three lads could not supply the drinkers. They filled the shop, the chambers, and the court, even. D’Artagnan called Raoul’s attention to this concourse, adding: “The fellow will have no excuse for not paying his rent. Look at those drinkers, Raoul, one would say they were jolly companions. Mordioux! why, there is no room anywhere!” D’Artagnan, however, contrived to catch hold of the master by the corner of his apron, and to make himself known to him.
“Ah, monsieur le chevalier,” said the cabaretier, half distracted, “one minute if you please. I have here a hundred mad devils turning my cellar upside down.”
“The cellar, if you like, but not the money-box.”
“Oh, monsieur, your thirty-seven and a half pistoles are all counted out ready for you, upstairs in my chamber, but there are in that chamber thirty customers, who are sucking the staves of a little barrel of Oporto which I tapped for them this very morning. Give me a minute, — only a minute.”
“So be it; so be it.”
“I will go,” said Raoul, in a low voice, to D’Artagnan; “this hilarity is vile!”
“Monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan, sternly, “you will please to remain where you are. The soldier ought to familiarize himself with all kinds of spectacles. There are in the eye, when it is young, fibers which we must learn how to harden; and we are not truly generous and good save from the moment when the eye has become hardened, and the heart remains tender. Besides, my little Raoul, would you leave me alone here? That would be very wrong of you. Look, there is yonder in the lower court a tree, and under the shade of that tree we shall breathe more freely than in this hot atmosphere of spilt wine.”
From the spot on which they had placed themselves the two new guests of the Image-de-Notre-Dame heard the ever-increasing hubbub of the tide of people, and lost neither a cry nor a gesture of the drinkers, at tables in the cabaret, or disseminated in the chambers. If D’Artagnan had wished to place himself as a vidette for an expedition, he could not have succeeded better. The tree under which he and Raoul were seated covered them with its already thick foliage; it was a low, thick chestnut-tree, with inclined branches, that cast their shade over a table so dilapidated the drinkers had abandoned it. We said that from this post D’Artagnan saw everything. He observed the goings and comings of the waiters; the arrival of fresh drinkers; the welcome, sometimes friendly, sometimes hostile, given to the newcomers by others already installed. He observed all this to amuse himself, for the thirty-seven and a half pistoles were a long time coming. Raoul recalled his attention to it. “Monsieur,” said he, “you do not hurry your tenant, and the condemned will soon be here. There will then be such a press we shall not be able to get out.”
“You are right,” said the musketeer; “Hola! oh! somebody there! Mordioux!” But it was in vain he cried and knocked upon the wreck of the old table, which fell to pieces beneath his fist; nobody came.
D’Artagnan was preparing to go and seek the cabaretier himself, to force him to a definite explanation, when the door of the court in which he was with Raoul, a door which communicated with the garden situated at the back, opened, and a man dressed as a cavalier, with his sword in the sheath, but not at his belt, crossed the court without closing the door; and having cast an oblique glance at D’Artagnan and his companion, directed his course towards the cabaret itself, looking about in all directions with his eyes capable of piercing walls of consciences. “Humph!” said D’Artagnan, “my tenants are communicating. That, no doubt, now, is some amateur in hanging matters.” At the same moment the cries and disturbance in the upper chambers ceased. Silence, under such circumstances, surprises more than a twofold increase of noise. D’Artagnan wished to see what was the cause of this sudden silence. He then perceived that this man, dressed as a cavalier, had just entered the principal chamber, and was haranguing the tipplers, who all listened to him with the greatest attention. D’Artagnan would perhaps have heard his speech but for the dominant noise of the popular clamors, which made a formidable accompaniment to the harangue of the orator. But it was soon finished, and all the people the cabaret contained came out, one after the other, in little groups, so that there only remained six in the chamber; one of these six, the man with the sword, took the cabaretier aside, engaging him in discourse more or less serious, whilst the others lit a great fire in the chimney-place — a circumstance rendered strange by the fine weather and the heat.
“It is very singular,” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, “but I think I know those faces yonder.”
“Don’t you think you can smell the smoke here?” said Raoul
“I rather think I can smell a conspiracy,” replied D’Artagnan.
He had not finished speaking, when four of these men came down into the court, and without the appearance of any bad design, mounted guard at the door of communication, casting, at intervals, glances at D’Artagnan, which signified many things.
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, in a low voice, “there is something going on. Are you curious, Raoul?”
“According to the subject, chevalier.”
“Well, I am as curious as an old woman. Come a little more in front; we shall get a better view of the place. I would lay a wager that view will be something curious.”
“But you know, monsieur le chevalier, that I am not willing to become a passive and indifferent spectator of the death of the two poor devils.”
“And I, then — do you think I am a savage? We will go in again, when it is time to do so. Come along!” And they made their way towards the front of the house, and placed themselves near the window which, still more strangely than the rest, remained unoccupied. The two last drinkers, instead of looking out at this window, kept up the fire. On seeing D’Artagnan and his friend enter: — “Ah! ah! a reinforcement,” murmured they.
D’Artagnan jogged Raoul’s elbow. “Yes, my braves, a reinforcement,” said he; “cordieu! there is a famous fire. Whom are you going to cook?”
The two men uttered a shout of jovial laughter, and, instead of answering, threw on more wood. D’Artagnan could not take his eyes off them.
“I suppose,” said one of the fire-makers, “they sent you to tell us the time — did not they?”
“Without doubt they have,” said D’Artagnan, anxious to know what was going on; “why should I be here else, if it were not for that?”
“Then place yourself at the window, if you please, and observe.” D’Artagnan smiled in his mustache, made a sign to Raoul, and placed himself at the window.
CHAPTER 62
Vive Colbert!
The spectacle which the Greve now presented was a frightful one. The heads, leveled by the perspective, extended afar, thick and agitated as the ears of corn in a vast plain. From time to time a fresh report, or a distant rumor, made the heads oscillate and thousands of eyes flash. Now and then there were great movements. All those ears of corn bent, and became waves more agitated than those of the ocean, which rolled from the extremities to the center, and beat, like the tides, against the hedge of archers who surrounded the gibbets. Then the handles of the halberds were let fall upon the heads and shoulders of the rash invaders; at times, also, it was the steel as well as the wood, and, in that case, a large empty circle was formed around the guard; a space conquered upon the extremities, which underwent, in their turn the oppression of the sudden movement, which drove them against the parapets of the Seine. From the window, that commanded a view of the whole Place, D’Artagnan saw, with interior satisfaction, that such of the musketeers and guards as found themselves involved in the crowd, were able, with blows of their fists and the hilts of their swords, to keep room. He even remarked that they had succeeded, by that esprit de corps which doubles the strength of the soldier, in getting together in one group to the amount of about fifty men; and that, with the exception of a dozen stragglers whom he still saw rolling here and there, the nucleus was complete, and within reach of his voice. But it was not the musketeers and guards only that drew the attention of D’Artagnan. Around the gibbets, and particularly at the entrances to the arcade of Saint Jean, moved a noisy mass, a busy mass; daring faces, resolute demeanors were to be seen here and there, mingled with silly faces and indifferent demeanors; signals were exchanged, hands given and taken. D’Artagnan remarked among the groups, and those groups the most animated, the face of the cavalier whom he had seen enter by the door of communication from his garden, and who had gone upstairs to harangue the drinkers. That man was organizing troops and giving orders.
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I was not deceived; I know that man, — it is Menneville. What the devil is he doing here?”
A distant murmur, which became more distinct by degrees, stopped this reflection, and drew his attention another way. This murmur was occasioned by the arrival of the culprits; a strong picket of archers preceded them, and appeared at the angle of the arcade. The entire crowd now joined as if in one cry; all the cries united formed one immense howl. D’Artagnan saw Raoul was becoming pale, and he slapped him roughly on the shoulder. The fire-keepers turned round on hearing the great cry, and asked what was going on. “The condemned are arrived,” said D’Artagnan. “That’s well,” replied they, again replenishing the fire. D’Artagnan looked at them with much uneasiness; it was evident that these men who were making such a fire for no apparent purpose had some strange intentions. The condemned appeared upon the Place. They were walking, the executioner before them, whilst fifty archers formed a hedge on their right and their left. Both were dressed in black; they appeared pale, but firm. They looked impatiently over the people’s heads, standing on tip-toe at every step. D’Artagnan remarked this. “Mordioux!” cried he, “they are in a great hurry to get a sight of the gibbet!” Raoul drew back, without, however, having the power to leave the window. Terror even has its attractions.
“To the death! to the death!” cried fifty thousand voices.
“Yes; to the death!” howled a hundred frantic others, as if the great mass had given them the reply.
“To the halter! to the halter!” cried the great whole; “Vive le roi!”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “this is droll; I should have thought it was M. Colbert who had caused them to be hung.”
There was, at this moment, a great rolling movement in the crowd, which stopped for a moment the march of the condemned. The people of a bold and resolute mien, whom D’Artagnan had observed, by dint of pressing, pushing, and lifting themselves up, had succeeded in almost touching the hedge of archers. The cortege resumed its march. All at once, to cries of “Vive Colbert!” those men, of whom D’Artagnan never lost sight, fell upon the escort, which in vain endeavored to stand against them. Behind these men was the crowd. Then commenced, amidst a frightful tumult, as frightful a confusion. This time there was something more than cries of expectation or cries of joy, there were cries of pain. Halberds struck men down, swords ran them through, muskets were discharged at them. The confusion became then so great that D’Artagnan could no longer distinguish anything. Then, from this chaos, suddenly surged something like a visible intention, like a will pronounced. The condemned had been torn from the hands of the guards, and were being dragged towards the house of
L’Image-de-Notre-Dame. Those who dragged them shouted, “Vive Colbert!” The people hesitated, not knowing which they ought to fall upon, the archers or the aggressors. What stopped the people was, that those who cried “Vive Colbert!” began to cry, at the same time, “No halter! no halter! to the fire! to the fire! burn the thieves! burn the extortioners!” This cry, shouted with an ensemble, obtained enthusiastic success. The populace had come to witness an execution, and here was an opportunity offered them of performing one themselves. It was this that must be most agreeable to the populace: therefore, they ranged, themselves immediately on the party of the aggressors against the archers, crying with the minority, which had become, thanks to them, the most compact majority: “Yes, yes: to the fire with the thieves! Vive Colbert!”
“Mordioux!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this begins to look serious.”
One of the men who remained near the chimney approached the window, a firebrand in his hand. “Ah, ah!” said he, “it gets warm.” Then, turning to his companion: “There is the signal,” added he; and he immediately applied the burning brand to the wainscoting. Now, this cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame was not a very newly-built house, and therefore did not require much entreating to take fire. In a second the boards began to crackle, and the flames arose sparkling to the ceiling. A howling from without replied to the shouts of the incendiaries. D’Artagnan, who had not seen what passed, from being engaged at the window, felt, at the same time, the smoke which choked him and the fire that scorched him. “Hola!” cried he, turning round, “is the fire here? Are you drunk or mad, my masters?”
The two men looked at each other with an air of astonishment. “In what?” asked they of D’Artagnan; “was it not a thing agreed upon?”
“A thing agreed upon that you should burn my house!” vociferated D’Artagnan, snatching the brand from the hand of the incendiary, and striking him with it across the face. The second wanted to assist his comrade, but Raoul, seizing him by the middle, threw him out of the window, whilst D’Artagnan pushed his man down the stairs. Raoul, first disengaged, tore the burning wainscoting down, and threw it flaming into the chamber. At a glance D’Artagnan saw there was nothing to be feared from the fire, and sprang to the window. The disorder was at its height. The air was filled with simultaneous cries of “To the fire!” “To the death!” “To the halter!” “To the stake!” “Vive Colbert!” “Vive le roi!” The group which had forced the culprits from the hands of the archers had drawn close to the house, which appeared to be the goal towards which they dragged them. Menneville was at the head of this group, shouting louder than all the others, “To the fire! to the fire! Vive Colbert!” D’Artagnan began to comprehend what was meant. They wanted to burn the condemned, and his house was to serve as a funeral pile.
“Halt, there!” cried he, sword in hand, and one foot upon the window. “Menneville, what do you want to do?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” cried the latter; “give way, give way!”
“To the fire! to the fire with the thieves! Vive Colbert!”
These cries exasperated D’Artagnan. “Mordioux!” said he. “What! burn the poor devils who are only condemned to be hung? that is infamous!”
Before the door, however, the mass of anxious spectators, rolled back against the walls, had become more thick, and closed up the way. Menneville and his men, who were dragging along the culprits, were within ten paces of the door.
Menneville made a last effort. “Passage! passage!” cried he, pistol in hand.
“Burn them! burn them!” repeated the crowd. “The Image-de-Notre-Dame is on fire! Burn the thieves! burn the monopolists in the Image-de-Notre-Dame!”
There now remained no doubt, it was plainly D’Artagnan’s house that was their object. D’Artagnan remembered the old cry, always so effective from his mouth:
“A moi! mousquetaires!” shouted he, with the voice of a giant, with one of those voices which dominate over cannon, the sea, the tempest. “A moi! mousquetaires!” And suspending himself by the arm from the balcony, he allowed himself to drop amidst the crowd, which began to draw back from a house that rained men. Raoul was on the ground as soon as he, both sword in hand. All the musketeers on the Place heard that challenging cry — all turned round at that cry, and recognized D’Artagnan. “To the captain, to the captain!” cried they, in their turn. And the crowd opened before them as though before the prow of a vessel. At that moment D’Artagnan and Menneville found themselves face to face. “Passage, passage!” cried Menneville, seeing that he was within an arm’s length of the door.
“No one passes here,” said D’Artagnan.
“Take that, then!” said Menneville, firing his pistol, almost within arm’s length. But before the cock fell, D’Artagnan had struck up Menneville’s arm with the hilt of his sword and passed the blade through his body.
“I told you plainly to keep yourself quiet,” said D’Artagnan to Menneville, who rolled at his feet.
“Passage! passage!” cried the companions of Menneville, at first terrified, but soon recovering, when they found they had only to do with two men. But those two men were hundred-armed giants, the swords flew about in their hands like the burning glaive of the archangel. They pierce with its point, strike with the flat, cut with the edge, every stroke brings down a man. “For the king!” cried D’Artagnan, to every man he struck at, that is to say, to every man that fell. This cry became the charging word for the musketeers, who guided by it, joined D’Artagnan. During this time the archers, recovering from the panic they had undergone, charge the aggressors in the rear, and regular as mill strokes, overturn or knock down all that oppose them. The crowd, which sees swords gleaming, and drops of blood flying in the air — the crowd falls back and crushes itself. At length cries for mercy and of despair resound; that is, the farewell of the vanquished. The two condemned are again in the hands of the archers. D’Artagnan approaches them, seeing them pale and sinking: “Console yourselves, poor men,” said he, “you will not undergo the frightful torture with which these wretches threatened you. The king has condemned you to be hung: you shall only be hung. Go on, hang them, and it will be over.”
There is no longer anything going on at the Image-de-Notre-Dame. The fire has been extinguished with two tuns of wine in default of water. The conspirators have fled by the garden. The archers were dragging the culprits to the gibbets. From this moment the affair did not occupy much time. The executioner, heedless about operating according to the rules of art, made such haste that he dispatched the condemned in a couple of minutes. In the meantime the people gathered around D’Artagnan, — they felicitated, they cheered him. He wiped his brow, streaming with sweat, and his sword, streaming with blood. He shrugged his shoulders at seeing Menneville writhing at his feet in the last convulsions. And, while Raoul turned away his eyes in compassion, he pointed to the musketeers the gibbets laden with their melancholy fruit. “Poor devils!” said he, “I hope they died blessing me, for I saved them with great difficulty.” These words caught the ear of Menneville at the moment when he himself was breathing his last sigh. A dark, ironical smile flitted across his lips, he wished to reply, but the effort hastened the snapping of the chord of life — he expired.
“Oh! all this is very frightful!” murmured Raoul: “let us begone, monsieur le chevalier.”
“You are not wounded?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Not at all, thank you.”
“That’s well! Thou art a brave fellow, mordioux! The head of the father, and the arm of Porthos. Ah! if he had been here, good Porthos, you would have seen something worth looking at.” Then as if by way of remembrance —
“But where the devil can that brave Porthos be?” murmured D’Artagnan.
“Come, chevalier, pray come away,” urged Raoul.
“One minute, my friend, let me take my thirty-seven and a half pistoles and I am at your service. The house is a good property,” added D’Artagnan, as he entered the Image-de-Notre-Dame, “but decidedly, even if it were less profitable, I should prefer its being in another quarter.”
CHAPTER 63
How M. d’Eymeris’s Diamond passed
into the Hands of M. D’Artagnan.
Whilst this violent, noisy, and bloody scene was passing on the Greve, several men, barricaded behind the gate of communication with the garden, replaced their swords in their sheaths, assisted one among them to mount a ready saddled horse which was waiting in the garden, and like a flock of startled birds, fled in all directions, some climbing the walls, others rushing out at the gates with all the fury of a panic. He who mounted the horse, and gave him the spur so sharply that the animal was near leaping the wall, this cavalier, we say, crossed the Place Baudoyer, passed like lightning before the crowd in the streets, riding against, running over and knocking down all that came in his way, and, ten minutes after, arrived at the gates of the superintendent, more out of breath than his horse. The Abbe Fouquet, at the clatter of the hoofs on the pavement, appeared at a window of the court, and before even the cavalier had set foot to the ground, “Well! Danecamp?” cried he, leaning half out of the window.
“Well, it is all over,” replied the cavalier.
“All over!” cried the abbe. “Then they are saved?”
“No, monsieur,” replied the cavalier, “they are hung.”
“Hung!” repeated the abbe, turning pale. A lateral door suddenly opened, and Fouquet appeared in the chamber, pale, distracted, with lips half opened, breathing a cry of grief and anger. He stopped upon the threshold to listen to what was addressed from the court to the window.
“Miserable wretches!” said the abbe. “you did not fight, then?”
“Like lions.”
“Say like cowards.”
“Monsieur!”
“A hundred men accustomed to war, sword in hand, are worth ten thousand archers in a surprise. Where is Menneville, that boaster, that braggart, who was to come back either dead or a conqueror?”
“Well, monsieur, he has kept his word. He is dead!”
“Dead! Who killed him?”
“A demon disguised as a man, a giant armed with ten flaming swords — a madman, who at one blow extinguished the fire, put down the riot, and caused a hundred musketeers to rise up out of the pavement of the Greve.”
Fouquet raised his brow, streaming with sweat, murmuring, “Oh! Lyodot and D’Eymeris! dead! dead! dead! and I dishonored.”
The abbe turned round, and perceiving his brother, despairing and livid, “Come, come,” said he, “it is a blow of fate, monsieur; we must not lament thus. Our attempt has failed, because God —- “
“Be silent, abbe! be silent!” cried Fouquet; “your excuses are blasphemies. Order that man up here, and let him relate the details of this terrible event.”
“But, brother —- “
“Obey, monsieur!”
The abbe made a sign, and in half a minute the man’s step was heard upon the stairs. At the same time Gourville appeared behind Fouquet, like the guardian angel of the superintendent, pressing one finger on his lips to enjoin observation even amidst the bursts of his grief. The minister resumed all the serenity that human strength left at the disposal of a heart half broken with sorrow. Danecamp appeared. “Make your report,” said Gourville.
“Monsieur,” replied the messenger, “we received orders to carry off the prisoners, and to cry `Vive Colbert!’ whilst carrying them off.”
“To burn them alive, was it not, abbe?” interrupted Gourville.
“Yes, yes, the order was given to Menneville. Menneville knew what was to be done, and Menneville is dead.”
This news appeared rather to reassure Gourville than to sadden him.
“Yes, certainly to burn them alive,” said the abbe, eagerly.
“Granted, monsieur, granted,” said the man, looking into the eyes and the faces of the two interlocutors, to ascertain what there was profitable or disadvantageous to himself in telling the truth.
“Now, proceed,” said Gourville.
“The prisoners,” cried Danecamp, “were brought to the Greve, and the people, in a fury, insisted upon their being burnt instead of being hung.”
“And the people were right,” said the abbe. “Go on.”
“But,” resumed the man, “at the moment the archers were broken, at the moment the fire was set to one of the houses of the Place destined to serve as a funeral-pile for the guilty, this fury, this demon, this giant of whom I told you, and who we had been informed, was the proprietor of the house in question, aided by a young man who accompanied him, threw out of the window those who kept up the fire, called to his assistance the musketeers who were in the crowd, leapt himself from the window of the first story into the Place, and plied his sword so desperately that the victory was restored to the archers, the prisoners were retaken, and Menneville killed. When once recaptured, the condemned were executed in three minutes.” Fouquet, in spite of his self-command, could not prevent a deep groan escaping him.
“And this man, the proprietor of the house, what is his name?” said the abbe.
“I cannot tell you, not having even been able to get sight of him; my post had been appointed in the garden, and I remained at my post: only the affair was related to me as I repeat it. I was ordered, when once the affair was at an end, to come at best speed arid announce to you the manner in which it finished. According to this order, I set out, full gallop, and here I am.”
“Very well, monsieur, we have nothing else to ask of you,” said the abbe, more and more dejected, in proportion as the moment approached for finding himself alone with his brother.
“Have you been paid?” asked Gourville.
“Partly, monsieur,” replied Danecamp.
“Here are twenty pistoles. Begone, monsieur, and never forget to defend, as this time has been done, the true interests of the king.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said the man, bowing and pocketing the money. After which he went out. Scarcely had the door closed after him when Fouquet, who had remained motionless, advanced with a rapid step and stood between the abbe and Gourville. Both of them at the same time opened their mouths to speak to him. “No excuses,” said he, “no recriminations against anybody. If I had not been a false friend I should not have confided to any one the care of delivering Lyodot and D’Eymeris. I alone am guilty; to me alone are reproaches and remorse due. Leave me, abbe.”
“And yet, monsieur, you will not prevent me,” replied the latter, “from endeavoring to find out the miserable fellow who has intervened to the advantage of M. Colbert in this so well-arranged affair; for, if it is good policy to love our friends dearly, I do not believe that is bad which consists in obstinately pursuing our enemies.”
“A truce to policy, abbe; begone, I beg of you, and do not let me hear any more of you till I send for you; what we most need is circumspection and silence. You have a terrible example before you, gentlemen: no reprisals, I forbid them.”
“There are no orders,” grumbled the abbe, “which will prevent me from avenging a family affront upon the guilty person.”
“And I,” cried Fouquet, in that imperative tone to which one feels there is nothing to reply, “if you entertain one thought, one single thought, which is not the absolute expression of my will, I will have you cast into the Bastile two hours after that thought has manifested itself. Regulate your conduct accordingly, abbe.”
The abbe colored and bowed. Fouquet made a sign to Gourville to follow him, and was already directing his steps towards his cabinet, when the usher announced with a loud voice: “Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
“Who is he?” said Fouquet, negligently, to Gourville.
“An ex-lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers,” replied Gourville, in the same tone. Fouquet did not even take the trouble to reflect, and resumed his walk. “I beg your pardon, monseigneur!” said Gourville, “but I have remembered, this brave man has quitted the king’s service, and probably comes to receive an installment of some pension or other.”
“Devil take him!” said Fouquet, “why does he choose his opportunity so ill?”
“Permit me then, monseigneur, to announce your refusal to him; for he is one of my acquaintance, and is a man whom, in our present circumstances, it would be better to have as a friend than an enemy.”
“Answer him as you please,” said Fouquet.
“Eh! good Lord!” said the abbe, still full of malice, like an egotistical man; “tell him there is no money, particularly for musketeers.”
But scarcely had the abbe uttered this imprudent speech, when the partly open door was thrown back, and D’Artagnan appeared.
“Eh! Monsieur Fouquet,” said he, “I was well aware there was no money for musketeers here. Therefore I did not come to obtain any, but to have it refused. That being done, receive my thanks. I give you good-day, and will go and seek it at M. Colbert’s.” And he went out, making an easy bow.
“Gourville,” said Fouquet, “run after that man and bring him back.” Gourville obeyed, and overtook D’Artagnan on the stairs.
D’Artagnan, hearing steps behind him, turned round and perceived Gourville. “Mordioux! my dear monsieur,” said he, “these are sad lessons which you gentlemen of finance teach us; I come to M. Fouquet to receive a sum accorded by his majesty, and I am received like a mendicant who comes to ask charity, or a thief who comes to steal a piece of plate.”
“But you pronounced the name of M. Colbert, my dear M. d’Artagnan; you said you were going to M. Colbert’s?”
“I certainly am going there, were it only to ask satisfaction of the people who try to burn houses, crying `Vive Colbert!'”
Gourville pricked up his ears. “Oh, oh!” said he, “you allude to what has just happened at the Greve?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“And in what did that which has taken place concern you?”
“What! do you ask me whether it concerns me or does not concern me, if M. Colbert pleases to make a funeral-pile of my house?”
“So ho, your house — was it your house they wanted to burn?”
“Pardieu! was it!”
“Is the cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame yours, then?”
“It has been this week.”
“Well, then, are you the brave captain, are you the valiant blade who dispersed those who wished to burn the condemned?”
“My dear Monsieur Gourville, put yourself in my place. I was an agent of the public force and a landlord, too. As a captain, it is my duty to have the orders of the king accomplished. As a proprietor, it is to my interest my house should not be burnt. I have at the same time attended to the laws of interest and duty in replacing Messieurs Lyodot and D’Eymeris in the hands of the archers.”
“Then it was you who threw the man out of the window?”
“It was I, myself,” replied D’Artagnan, modestly
“And you who killed Menneville?”
“I had that misfortune,” said D’Artagnan, bowing like a man who is being congratulated.
“It was you, then, in short, who caused the two condemned persons to be hung?”
“Instead of being burnt, yes, monsieur, and I am proud of it. I saved the poor devils from horrible tortures. Understand, my dear Monsieur de Gourville, that they wanted to burn them alive. It exceeds imagination!”
“Go, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, go,” said Gourville, anxious to spare Fouquet the sight of the man who had just caused him such profound grief.
“No,” said Fouquet, who had heard all from the door of the ante-chamber; “not so; on the contrary, Monsieur d’Artagnan, come in.”
D’Artagnan wiped from the hilt of his sword a last bloody trace, which had escaped his notice, and returned. He then found himself face to face with these three men, whose countenances wore very different expressions. With the abbe it was anger, with Gourville stupor, with Fouquet it was dejection.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur le ministre,” said D’Artagnan, “but my time is short; I have to go to the office of the intendant, to have an explanation with Monsieur Colbert, and to receive my quarter’s pension.”
“But, monsieur,” said Fouquet, “there is money here.” D’Artagnan looked at the superintendent with astonishment. “You have been answered inconsiderately, monsieur, I know, because I heard it,” said the minister; “a man of your merit ought to be known by everybody.” D’Artagnan bowed. “Have you an order?” added Fouquet.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Give it me, I will pay you myself; come with me.” He made a sign to Gourville and the abbe, who remained in the chamber where they were. He led D’Artagnan into his cabinet. As soon as the door was shut, — “How much is due to you, monsieur?”
“Why, something like five thousand livres, monseigneur.”
“For arrears of pay?”
“For a quarter’s pay.”
“A quarter consisting of five thousand livres!” said Fouquet, fixing upon the musketeer a searching look. Does the king, then, give you twenty thousand livres a year?”
“Yes, monseigneur, twenty thousand livres a year. Do you think it is too much?”
“I?” cried Fouquet, and he smiled bitterly. “If I had any knowledge of mankind, if I were — instead of being a frivolous, inconsequent, and vain spirit — of a prudent and reflective spirit; if, in a word, I had, as certain persons have known how, regulated my life, you would not receive twenty thousand livres a year, but a hundred thousand, and you would not belong to the king, but to me.”
D’Artagnan colored slightly. There is sometimes in the manner in which a eulogium is given, in the voice, in the affectionate tone, a poison so sweet, that the strongest mind is intoxicated by it. The superintendent terminated his speech by opening a drawer, and taking from it four rouleaux which he placed before D’Artagnan. The Gascon opened one. “Gold!” said he.
“It will be less burdensome, monsieur.”
“But then, monsieur, these make twenty thousand livres.”
“No doubt they do.”
“But only five are due to me.”
“I wish to spare you the trouble of coming four times to my office.”
“You overwhelm me, monsieur.”
“I do only what I ought to do, monsieur le chevalier; and I hope you will not bear me any malice on account of the rude reception my brother gave you. He is of a sour, capricious disposition.”
“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “believe me, nothing would grieve me more than an excuse from you.”
“Therefore I will make no more, and will content myself with asking you a favor.”
“Oh, monsieur.”
Fouquet drew from his finger a ring worth about a thousand pistoles. “Monsieur,” said he, “this stone was given me by a friend of my childhood, by a man to whom you have rendered a great service.”
“A service — I?” said the musketeer, “I have rendered a service to one of your friends?”
“You cannot have forgotten it, monsieur, for it dates this very day.”
“And that friend’s name was —- “
“M. d’Eymeris.”
“One of the condemned?”
“Yes, one of the victims. Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan, in return for the service you have rendered him, I beg you to accept this diamond. Do so for my sake.”
“Monsieur! you —- “
“Accept it, I say. To-day is with me a day of mourning; hereafter you will, perhaps, learn why; to-day I have lost one friend; well, I will try to get another.”
“But, Monsieur Fouquet —- “
“Adieu! Monsieur d’Artagnan, adieu!” cried Fouquet, with much emotion; “or rather, au revoir.” And the minister quitted the cabinet, leaving in the hands of the musketeer the ring and the twenty thousand livres.
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, after a moment’s dark reflection. “How on earth am I to understand what this means? Mordioux! I can understand this much, only: he is a gallant man! I will go and explain matters to M. Colbert.” And he went out.
CHAPTER 64
Of the Notable Difference D’Artagnan finds between Monsieur the Intendant and Monsieur the Superintendent
M. Colbert resided in the Rue Neuve des Petits-Champs in a house which had belonged to Beautru. D’Artagnan’s legs cleared the distance in a short quarter of an hour. When he arrived at the residence of the new favorite, the court was full of archers and police, who came to congratulate him, or to excuse themselves according to whether he should choose to praise or blame. The sentiment of flattery is instinctive with people of abject condition; they have the sense of it, as the wild animal has that of hearing and smell. These people, or their leader, understood that there was a pleasure to offer to M. Colbert, in rendering him an account of the fashion in which his name had been pronounced during the rash enterprise of the morning. D’Artagnan made his appearance just as the chief of the watch was giving his report. He stood close to the door, behind the archers. That officer took Colbert on one side, in spite of his resistance and the contraction of his bushy eyebrows. “In case,” said he, “you really desired, monsieur, that the people should do justice on the two traitors, it would have been wise to warn us of it; for, indeed, monsieur, in spite of our regret at displeasing you, or thwarting your views, we had our orders to execute.”
“Triple fool!” replied Colbert, furiously shaking his hair, thick and black as a mane, “what are you telling me? What! that I could have had an idea of a riot! Are you mad or drunk?”
“But, monsieur, they cried, `Vive Colbert!'” replied the trembling watch.
“A handful of conspirators —- “
“No, no; a mass of people.”
“Ah! indeed,” said Colbert, expanding. “A mass of people cried, `Vive Colbert!’ Are you certain of what you say, monsieur?”
“We had nothing to do but open our ears, or rather to close them, so terrible were the cries.”
“And this was from the people, the real people?”
“Certainly, monsieur; only these real people beat us.”
“Oh! very well,” continued Colbert, thoughtfully. “Then you suppose it was the people alone who wished to burn the condemned?”
“Oh! yes, monsieur.”
“That is quite another thing. You strongly resisted, then?”
“We had three of our men crushed to death, monsieur!”
“But you killed nobody yourselves?”
“Monsieur, a few of the rioters were left upon the square, and one among them who was not a common man.”
“Who was he?”
“A certain Menneville, upon whom the police have a long time had an eye.”
“Menneville!” cried Colbert, “what, he who killed Rue de la Huchette, a worthy man who wanted a fat fowl?”
“Yes, monsieur; the same.”
“And did this Menneville also cry, `Vive Colbert’?”
“Louder than all the rest, like a madman.”
Colbert’s brow grew dark and wrinkled. A kind of ambitious glory which had lighted his face was extinguished, like the light of glow-worms we crush beneath the grass. “Then you say,” resumed the deceived intendant, “that the initiative came from the people? Menneville was my enemy, I would have had him hung, and he knew it well. Menneville belonged to the Abbe Fouquet — the affair originated with Fouquet; does not everybody know that the condemned were his friends from childhood?”
“That is true,” thought D’Artagnan, “and thus are all my doubts cleared up. I repeat it, Monsieur Fouquet many be called what they please, but he is a very gentlemanly man;”
“And,” continued Colbert, “are you quite sure Menneville is dead?”
D’Artagnan thought the time was come for him to make his appearance. “Perfectly, monsieur;” replied he, advancing suddenly.
“Oh! is that you, monsieur?” said Colbert.
“In person,” replied the musketeer with his deliberate tone; “it appears that you had in Menneville a pretty enemy.”
“It was not I, monsieur, who had an enemy,” replied Colbert; “it was the king.”
“Double brute!” thought D’Artagnan, “to think to play the great man and the hypocrite with me. Well,” continued he to Colbert, “I am very happy to have rendered so good a service to the king; will you take upon you to tell his majesty, monsieur l’intendant?”
“What commission is this you give me, and what do you charge me to tell his majesty, monsieur? Be precise, if you please,” said Colbert, in a sharp voice, tuned beforehand to hostility.
“I give you no commission,” replied D’Artagnan, with that calmness which never abandons the banterer; “I thought it would be easy for you to announce to his majesty that it was I who, being there by chance, did justice upon Menneville and restored things to order.”
Colbert opened his eyes and interrogated the chief of the watch with a look — “Ah! it is very true,” said the latter, “that this gentleman saved us.”
“Why did you not tell me monsieur, that you came to relate me this?” said Colbert with envy, “everything is explained, and more favorably for you than for anybody else.”
“You are in error, monsieur l’intendant, I did not at all come for the purpose of relating that to you.”
“It is an exploit, nevertheless.”
“Oh!” said the musketeer carelessly, “constant habit blunts the mind.”
“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, then?”
“Simply to this: the king ordered me to come to you.”
“Ah!” said Colbert, recovering himself when he saw D’Artagnan draw a paper from his pocket; “it is to demand some money of me?”
“Precisely, monsieur.’
“Have the goodness to wait, if you please, monsieur, till I have dispatched the report of the watch.”
D’Artagnan turned upon his heel, insolently enough, and finding himself face to face with Colbert, after his first turn, he bowed to him as a harlequin would have done; then, after a second evolution, he directed his steps towards the door in quick time. Colbert was struck with this pointed rudeness, to which he was not accustomed. In general, men of the sword, when they came to his office, had such a want of money, that though their feet seemed to take root in the marble, they hardly lost their patience. Was D’Artagnan going straight to the king? Would he go and describe his rough reception, or recount his exploit? This was a matter for grave consideration. At all events, the moment was badly chosen to send D’Artagnan away, whether he came from the king, or on his own account. The musketeer had rendered too great a service, and that too recently, for it to be already forgotten. Therefore Colbert thought it would be better to shake off his arrogance and call D’Artagnan back. “Ho! Monsieur d’Artagnan,” cried Colbert, “what! are you leaving me thus?”
D’Artagnan turned round: “Why not?” said he, quietly, “we have no more to say to each other, have we?”
“You have, at least, money to receive, as you have an order?”
“Who, I? Oh! not at all, my dear Monsieur Colbert.”
“But, monsieur, you have an order. And, in the same manner as you give a sword-thrust, when you are required, I, on my part, pay when an order is presented to me. Present yours.”
“It is useless, my dear Monsieur Colbert,” said D’Artagnan, who inwardly enjoyed this confusion in the ideas of Colbert; “my order is paid.”
“Paid, by whom?”
“By monsieur le surintendant.”
Colbert grew pale.
“Explain yourself,” said he, in a stifled voice — “if you are paid why do you show me that paper?”
“In consequence of the word of order of which you spoke to me so ingeniously just now, dear M. Colbert; the king told me to take a quarter of the pension he is pleased to make me.”
“Of me?” said Colbert.
“Not exactly. The king said to me: `Go to M. Fouquet; the superintendent will, perhaps, have no money, then you will go and draw it of M. Colbert.'”
The countenance of M. Colbert brightened for a moment; but it was with his unfortunate physiognomy as with a stormy sky, sometimes radiant, sometimes dark as night, according as the lightning gleams or the cloud passes. “Eh! and was there any money in the superintendent’s coffers?” asked he.
“Why, yes, he could not be badly off for money,” replied D’Artagnan — “it may be believed, since M. Fouquet, instead of paying me a quarter or five thousand livres —- “
“A quarter or five thousand livres!” cried Colbert, struck, as Fouquet had been, with the generosity of the sum for a soldier’s pension, “why, that would be a pension of twenty thousand livres?”
“Exactly, M. Colbert. Peste! you reckon like old Pythagoras; yes, twenty thousand livres.”
“Ten times the appointment of an intendant of the finances. I beg to offer you my compliments,” said Colbert, with a vicious smile.
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “the king apologized for giving me so little; but he promised to make it more hereafter, when he should be rich; but I must be gone, having much to do —- “
“So, then, notwithstanding the expectation of the king, the superintendent paid you, did he?”
“In the same manner as, in opposition to the king’s expectation, you refused to pay me.”
“I did not refuse, monsieur, I only begged you to wait. And you say that M. Fouquet paid you your five thousand livres?”
“Yes, as you might have done; but he did even better than that, M. Colbert.”
“And what did he do?”
“He politely counted me down the sum-total, saying, that for the king, his coffers were always full.”
“The sum-total! M. Fouquet has given you twenty thousand livres instead of five thousand?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And what for?”
“In order to spare me three visits to the money-chest of the superintendent, so that I have the twenty thousand livres in my pocket in good new coin. You see, then, that I am able to go away without standing in need of you, having come here only for form’s sake.” And D’Artagnan slapped his hand upon his pocket, with a laugh which disclosed to Colbert thirty-two magnificent teeth, as white as teeth of twenty-five years old and which seemed to say in their language: “Serve up to us thirty-two little Colberts, and we will chew them willingly.” The serpent is as brave as the lion, the hawk as courageous as the eagle, that cannot be contested. It can only be said of animals that are decidedly cowardly, and are so called, that they will be brave only when they have to defend themselves. Colbert was not frightened at the thirty-two teeth of D’Artagnan. He recovered, and suddenly, — “Monsieur,” said he, “monsieur le surintendant has done what he had no right to do.”
“What do you mean by that?” replied D’Artagnan.
“I mean that your note — will you let me see your note, if you please?”
“Very willingly; here it is.”
Colbert seized the paper with an eagerness which the musketeer did not remark without uneasiness, and particularly without a certain degree of regret at having trusted him with it. “Well, monsieur, the royal order says this: — `At sight, I command that there be paid to M. d’Artagnan the sum of five thousand livres, forming a quarter of the pension I have made him.'”
“So, in fact, it is written,” said D’Artagnan, affecting calmness.
“Very well; the king only owed you five thousand livres; why has more been given to you?”
“Because there was more; and M. Fouquet was willing to give me more; that does not concern anybody.”
“It is natural,” said Colbert, with a proud ease, “that you should be ignorant of the usages of state-finance; but, monsieur, when you have a thousand livres to pay, what do you do?”
“I never have a thousand livres to pay,” replied D’Artagnan.
“Once more,” said Colbert, irritated — “once more, if you had any sum to pay, would you not pay what you ought?”
“That only proves one thing,” said D’Artagnan; “and that is, that you have your particular customs in finance, and M. Fouquet has his own.”
“Mine, monsieur, are the correct ones.”
“I do not say they are not.”
“And you have accepted what was not due to you.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes flashed. “What is not due to me yet, you meant to say, M. Colbert; for if I had received what was not due to me at all, I should have committed a theft.”
Colbert made no reply to this subtlety. “You then owe fifteen thousand livres to the public chest,” said he, carried away by his jealous ardor.
“Then you must give me credit for them,” replied D’Artagnan, with his imperceptible irony.
“Not at all, monsieur.”
“Well! what will you do, then? You will not take my rouleaux from me, will you?”
“You must return them to my chest.”
“I! Oh! Monsieur Colbert, don’t reckon upon that.”
“The king wants his money, monsieur.”
“And I, monsieur, I want the king’s money.”
“That may be but you must return this.”
“Not a sou. I have always understood that in matters of comptabilite, as you call it, a good cashier never gives back or takes back.”
“Then, monsieur, we shall see what the king will say about it. I will show him this note, which proves that M. Fouquet not only pays what he does not owe, but that he does not even take care of vouchers for the sums that he has paid.”
“Ah! now I understand why you have taken that paper, M. Colbert!”
Colbert did not perceive all that there was of a threatening character in his name pronounced in a certain manner. “You shall see hereafter what use I will make of it,” said he, holding up the paper in his fingers.
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, snatching the paper from him with a rapid movement; “I understand it perfectly well, M. Colbert; I have no occasion to wait for that.” And he crumpled up in his pocket the paper he had so cleverly seized.
“Monsieur, monsieur!” cried Colbert, “this is violence!”
“Nonsense! You must not be particular about a soldier’s manners!” replied D’Artagnan. “I kiss your hands, my dear M. Colbert.” And he went out, laughing in the face of the future minister.
“That man, now,” muttered he, “was about to grow quite friendly; it is a great pity I was obliged to cut his company so soon.”
CHAPTER 65
Philosophy of the Heart and Mind
For a man who had seen so many much more dangerous ones, the position of D’Artagnan with respect to M. Colbert was only comic. D’Artagnan, therefore, did not deny himself the satisfaction of laughing at the expense of monsieur l’intendant, from the Rue des Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards. It was a great while since D’Artagnan had laughed so long together. He was still laughing when Planchet appeared, laughing likewise, at the door of his house; for Planchet, since the return of his patron, since the entrance of the English guineas, passed the greater part of his life in doing what D’Artagnan had only done from Rue-Neuve des Petits-Champs to the Rue des Lombards.
“You are home, then, my dear master?” said Planchet.
“No, my friend,” replied the musketeer, “I am off and that quickly. I will sup with you, go to bed, sleep five hours, and at break of day leap into my saddle. Has my horse had an extra feed?”
“Eh! my dear master,” replied Planchet, “you know very well that your horse is the jewel of the family; that my lads are caressing it all day, and cramming it with sugar, nuts, and biscuits. You ask me if he has had an extra feed of oats; you should ask if he has not had enough to burst him.”
“Very well, Planchet, that is all right. Now, then, I pass to what concerns me — my supper?”
“Ready. A smoking roast joint, white wine, crayfish and fresh-gathered cherries. All ready, my master.”
“You are a capital fellow, Planchet; come on, then, let us sup, and I will go to bed.”
During supper D’Artagnan observed that Planchet kept rubbing his forehead, as if to facilitate the issue of some idea closely pent within his brain. He looked with an air of kindness at this worthy companion of former adventures and misadventures, and, clinking glass against glass, “Come, Planchet,” said he, “let us see what it is that gives you so much trouble to bring forth. Mordioux! Speak freely, and quickly.”
“Well, this is it,” replied Planchet: “you appear to me to be going on some expedition or other.”
“I don’t say that I am not.”
“Then you have some new idea?”
“That is possible, too, Planchet.”
“Then there will be fresh capital to be ventured? I will lay down fifty thousand livres upon the idea you are about to carry out.” And so saying, Planchet rubbed his hands one against the other with a rapidity evincing great delight.
“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “there is but one misfortune in it.”
“And what is that?”
“That the idea is not mine. I can risk nothing upon it.”
These words drew a deep sigh from the heart of Planchet. That Avarice is an ardent counselor; she carries away her man, as Satan did Jesus, to the mountain, and when once she has shown to an unfortunate all the kingdoms of the earth, she is able to repose herself, knowing full well that she has left her companion, Envy, to gnaw his heart. Planchet had tasted of riches easily acquired, and was never afterwards likely to stop in his desires; but, as he had a good heart in spite of his covetousness, as he adored D’Artagnan, he could not refrain from making him a thousand recommendations, each more affectionate than the others. He would not have been sorry, nevertheless, to have caught a little hint of the secret his master concealed so well; tricks, turns, counsels and traps were all useless, D’Artagnan let nothing confidential escape him. The evening passed thus. After supper the portmanteau occupied D’Artagnan, he took a turn to the stable, patted his horse, and examined his shoes and legs, then, having counted over