fell the sleeves of a vest of blue velvet, charged in front. The cavalier in the gilt cuirass fell upon Aramis and struck a blow that Aramis parried with his wonted skill.
“Ah! ’tis you, Monsieur de Chatillon,” cried the chevalier; “welcome to you — I expected you.”
“I hope I have not made you wait too long, sir,” said the duke; “at all events, here I am.”
“Monsieur de Chatillon,” cried Aramis, taking from his saddle-bags a second pistol, “I think if your pistols have been discharged you are a dead man.”
“Thank God, sir, they are not!”
And the duke, pointing his pistol at Aramis, fired. But Aramis bent his head the instant he saw the duke’s finger press the trigger and the ball passed without touching him.
“Oh! you’ve missed me,” cried Aramis, “but I swear to Heaven! I will not miss you.”
“If I give you time!” cried the duke, spurring on his horse and rushing upon him with his drawn sword.
Aramis awaited him with that terrible smile which was peculiar to him on such occasions, and Athos, who saw the duke advancing toward Aramis with the rapidity of lightning, was just going to cry out, “Fire! fire, then!” when the shot was fired. De Chatillon opened his arms and fell back on the crupper of his horse.
The ball had entered his breast through a notch in the cuirass.
“I am a dead man,” he said, and fell from his horse to the ground.
“I told you this, I am now grieved I have kept my word. Can I be of any use to you?”
Chatillon made a sign with his hand and Aramis was about to dismount when he received a violent shock; ’twas a thrust from a sword, but his cuirass turned aside the blow.
He turned around and seized his new antagonist by the wrist, when he started back, exclaiming, “Raoul!”
“Raoul?” cried Athos.
The young man recognized at the same instant the voices of his father and the Chevalier d’Herblay; two officers in the Parisian forces rushed at that instant on Raoul, but Aramis protected him with his sword.
“My prisoner!” he cried.
Athos took his son’s horse by the bridle and led him forth out of the melee.
At this crisis of the battle, the prince, who had been seconding De Chatillon in the second line, appeared in the midst of the fight; his eagle eye made him known and his blows proclaimed the hero.
On seeing him, the regiment of Corinth, which the coadjutor had not been able to reorganize in spite of all his efforts, threw itself into the midst of the Parisian forces, put them into confusion and re-entered Charenton flying. The coadjutor, dragged along with his fugitive forces, passed near the group formed by Athos, Raoul and Aramis. Aramis could not in his jealousy avoid being pleased at the coadjutor’s misfortune, and was about to utter some bon mot more witty than correct, when Athos stopped him.
“On, on!” he cried, “this is no moment for compliments; or rather, back, for the battle seems to be lost by the Frondeurs.”
“It is a matter of indifference to me,” said Aramis; “I came here only to meet De Chatillon; I have met him, I am contented; ’tis something to have met De Chatillon in a duel!”
“And besides, we have a prisoner,” said Athos, pointing to Raoul.
The three cavaliers continued their road on full gallop.
“What were you doing in the battle, my friend?” inquired Athos of the youth; “’twas not your right place, I think, as you were not equipped for an engagement!”
“I had no intention of fighting to-day, sir; I was charged, indeed, with a mission to the cardinal and had set out for Rueil, when, seeing Monsieur de Chatillon charge, an invincible desire possessed me to charge at his side. It was then that he told me two cavaliers of the Parisian army were seeking me and named the Comte de la Fere.”
“What! you knew we were there and yet wished to kill your friend the chevalier?”
“I did not recognize the chevalier in armor, sir!” said Raoul, blushing; “though I might have known him by his skill and coolness in danger.”
“Thank you for the compliment, my young friend,” replied Aramis, “we can see from whom you learned courtesy. Then you were going to Rueil?”
“Yes! I have a despatch from the prince to his eminence.”
“You must still deliver it,” said Athos.
“No false generosity, count! the fate of our friends, to say nothing of our own, is perhaps in that very despatch.”
“This young man must not, however, fail in his duty,” said Athos.
“In the first place, count, this youth is our prisoner; you seem to forget that. What I propose to do is fair in war; the vanquished must not be dainty in the choice of means. Give me the despatch, Raoul.”
The young man hesitated and looked at Athos as if seeking to read in his eyes a rule of conduct.
“Give him the despatch, Raoul! you are the chevalier’s prisoner.”
Raoul gave it up reluctantly; Aramis instantly seized and read it.
“You,” he said, “you, who are so trusting, read and reflect that there is something in this letter important for us to see.”
Athos took the letter, frowning, but an idea that he should find something in this letter about D’Artagnan conquered his unwillingness to read it.
“My lord, I shall send this evening to your eminence in order to reinforce the troop of Monsieur de Comminges, the ten men you demand. They are good soldiers, fit to confront the two violent adversaries whose address and resolution your eminence is fearful of.”
“Oh!” cried Athos.
“Well,” said Aramis, “what think you about these two enemies whom it requires, besides Comminges’s troop, ten good soldiers to confront; are they not as like as two drops of water to D’Artagnan and Porthos?”
“We’ll search Paris all day long,” said Athos, “and if we have no news this evening we will return to the road to Picardy; and I feel no doubt that, thanks to D’Artagnan’s ready invention, we shall then find some clew which will solve our doubts.”
“Yes, let us search Paris and especially inquire of Planchet if he has yet heard from his former master.”
“That poor Planchet! You speak of him very much at your ease, Aramis; he has probably been killed. All those fighting citizens went out to battle and they have been massacred.”
It was, then, with a sentiment of uneasiness whether Planchet, who alone could give them information, was alive or dead, that the friends returned to the Place Royale; to their great surprise they found the citizens still encamped there, drinking and bantering each other, although, doubtless, mourned by their families, who thought they were at Charenton in the thickest of the fighting.
Athos and Aramis again questioned Planchet, but he had seen nothing of D’Artagnan; they wished to take Planchet with them, but he could not leave his troop, who at five o’clock returned home, saying that they were returning from the battle, whereas they had never lost sight of the bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIII.
79
The Road to Picardy.
On leaving Paris, Athos and Aramis well knew that they would be encountering great danger; but we know that for men like these there could be no question of danger. Besides, they felt that the denouement of this second Odyssey was at hand and that there remained but a single effort to make.
Besides, there was no tranquillity in Paris itself. Provisions began to fail, and whenever one of the Prince de Conti’s generals wished to gain more influence he got up a little popular tumult, which he put down again, and thus for the moment gained a superiority over his colleagues.
In one of these risings. the Duc de Beaufort pillaged the house and library of Mazarin, in order to give the populace, as he put it, something to gnaw at. Athos and Aramis left Paris after this coup-d’etat, which took place on the very evening of the day in which the Parisians had been beaten at Charenton.
They quitted Paris, beholding it abandoned to extreme want, bordering on famine; agitated by fear, torn by faction. Parisians and Frondeurs as they were, the two friends expected to find the same misery, the same fears, the same intrigue in the enemy’s camp; but what was their surprise, after passing Saint Denis, to hear that at Saint Germain people were singing and laughing, and leading generally cheerful lives. The two gentlemen traveled by byways in order not to encounter the Mazarinists scattered about the Isle of France, and also to escape the Frondeurs, who were in possession of Normandy and who never failed to conduct captives to the Duc de Longueville, in order that he might ascertain whether they were friends or foes. Having escaped these dangers, they returned by the main road to Boulogne, at Abbeville, and followed it step by step, examining every track.
Nevertheless, they were still in a state of uncertainty. Several inns were visited by them, several innkeepers questioned, without a single clew being given to guide their inquiries, when at Montreuil Athos felt upon the table that something rough was touching his delicate fingers. He turned up the cloth and found these hieroglyphics carved upon the wood with a knife:
“Port …. D’Art …. 2d February.”
“This is capital!” said Athos to Aramis, “we were to have slept here, but we cannot — we must push on.” They rode forward and reached Abbeville. There the great number of inns puzzled them; they could not go to all; how could they guess in which those whom they were seeking had stayed?
“Trust me,” said Aramis, “do not expect to find anything in Abbeville. If we had only been looking for Porthos, Porthos would have stationed himself in one of the finest hotels and we could easily have traced him. But D’Artagnan is devoid of such weaknesses. Porthos would have found it very difficult even to make him see that he was dying of hunger; he has gone on his road as inexorable as fate and we must seek him somewhere else.”
They continued their route. It had now become a weary and almost hopeless task, and had it not been for the threefold motives of honor, friendship and gratitude, implanted in their hearts, our two travelers would have given up many a time their rides over the sand, their interrogatories of the peasantry and their close inspection of faces.
They proceeded thus to Peronne.
Athos began to despair. His noble nature felt that their ignorance was a sort of reflection upon them. They had not looked carefully enough for their lost friends. They had not shown sufficient pertinacity in their inquiries. They were willing and ready to retrace their steps, when, in crossing the suburb which leads to the gates of the town, upon a white wall which was at the corner of a street turning around the rampart, Athos cast his eyes upon a drawing in black chalk, which represented, with the awkwardness of a first attempt, two cavaliers riding furiously; one of them carried a roll of paper on which were written these words: “They are following us.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Athos, “here it is, as clear as day; pursued as he was, D’Artagnan would not have tarried here five minutes had he been pressed very closely, which gives us hopes that he may have succeeded in escaping.”
Aramis shook his head.
“Had he escaped we should either have seen him or have heard him spoken of.”
“You are right, Aramis, let us travel on.”
To describe the impatience and anxiety of these two friends would be impossible. Uneasiness took possession of the tender, constant heart of Athos, and fearful forecasts were the torment of the impulsive Aramis. They galloped on for two or three hours as furiously as the cavaliers on the wall. All at once, in a narrow pass, they perceived that the road was partially barricaded by an enormous stone. It had evidently been rolled across the pass by some arm of giant strength.
Aramis stopped.
“Oh!” he said, looking at the stone, “this is the work of either Hercules or Porthos. Let us get down, count, and examine this rock.”
They both alighted. The stone had been brought with the evident intention of barricading the road, but some one having perceived the obstacle had partially turned it aside.
With the assistance of Blaisois and Grimaud the friends succeeded in turning the stone over. Upon the side next the ground were scratched the following words:
“Eight of the light dragoons are pursuing us. If we reach Compiegne we shall stop at the Peacock. It is kept by a friend of ours.”
“At last we have something definite,” said Athos; “let us go to the Peacock.”
“Yes,” answered Aramis, “but if we are to get there we must rest our horses, for they are almost broken-winded.”
Aramis was right; they stopped at the first tavern and made each horse swallow a double quantity of corn steeped in wine; they gave them three hours’ rest and then set off again. The men themselves were almost dead with fatigue, but hope supported them.
In six hours they reached Compiegne and alighted at the Peacock. The host proved to be a worthy man, as bald as a Chinaman. They asked him if some time ago he had not received in his house two gentlemen who were pursued by dragoons; without answering he went out and brought in the blade of a rapier.
“Do you know that?” he asked.
Athos merely glanced at it.
“‘Tis D’Artagnan’s sword,” he said.
“Does it belong to the smaller or to the larger of the two?” asked the host.
“To the smaller.”
“I see that you are the friends of these gentlemen.”
“Well, what has happened to them?”
“They were pursued by eight of the light dragoons, who rode into the courtyard before they had time to close the gate.”
“Eight!” said Aramis; “it surprises me that two such heroes as Porthos and D’Artagnan should have allowed themselves to be arrested by eight men.”
“The eight men would doubtless have failed had they not been assisted by twenty soldiers of the regiment of Italians in the king’s service, who are in garrison in this town so that your friends were overpowered by numbers.”
“Arrested, were they?” inquired Athos; “is it known why?”
“No, sir, they were carried off instantly, and had not even time to tell me why; but as soon as they were gone I found this broken sword-blade, as I was helping to raise two dead men and five or six wounded ones.”
“‘Tis still a consolation that they were not wounded,” said Aramis.
“Where were they taken?” asked Athos.
“Toward the town of Louvres,” was the reply.
The two friends having agreed to leave Blaisois and Grimaud at Compiegne with the horses, resolved to take post horses; and having snatched a hasty dinner they continued their journey to Louvres. Here they found only one inn, in which was consumed a liqueur which preserves its reputation to our time and which is still made in that town.
“Let us alight here,” said Athos. “D’Artagnan will not have let slip an opportunity of drinking a glass of this liqueur, and at the same time leaving some trace of himself.”
They went into the town and asked for two glasses of liqueur, at the counter — as their friends must have done before them. The counter was covered with a plate of pewter; upon this plate was written with the point of a large pin: “Rueil . . . D . .”
“They went to Rueil,” cried Aramis.
“Let us go to Rueil,” said Athos.
“It is to throw ourselves into the wolf’s jaws,” said Aramis.
“Had I been as great a friend of Jonah as I am of D’Artagnan I should have followed him even into the inside of the whale itself; and you would have done the same, Aramis.”
“Certainly — but you make me out better than I am, dear count. Had I been alone I should scarcely have gone to Rueil without great caution. But where you go, I go.”
They then set off for Rueil. Here the deputies of the parliament had just arrived, in order to enter upon those famous conferences which were to last three weeks, and produced eventually that shameful peace, at the conclusion of which the prince was arrested. Rueil was crowded with advocates, presidents and councillors, who came from the Parisians, and, on the side of the court, with officers and guards; it was therefore easy, in the midst of this confusion, to remain as unobserved as any one might wish; besides, the conferences implied a truce, and to arrest two gentlemen, even Frondeurs, at this time, would have been an attack on the rights of the people.
The two friends mingled with the crowd and fancied that every one was occupied with the same thought that tormented them. They expected to hear some mention made of D’Artagnan or of Porthos, but every one was engrossed by articles and reforms. It was the advice of Athos to go straight to the minister.
“My friend,” said Aramis, “take care; our safety lies in our obscurity. If we were to make ourselves known we should be sent to rejoin our friends in some deep ditch, from which the devil himself could not take us out. Let us try not to find them out by accident, but from our notions. Arrested at Compiegne, they have been carried to Rueil; at Rueil they have been questioned by the cardinal, who has either kept them near him or sent them to Saint Germain. As to the Bastile, they are not there, though the Bastile is especially for the Frondeurs. They are not dead, for the death of D’Artagnan would make a sensation. As for Porthos, I believe him to be eternal, like God, although less patient. Do not let us despond, but wait at Rueil, for my conviction is that they are at Rueil. But what ails you? You are pale.”
“It is this,” answered Athos, with a trembling voice.
“I remember that at the Castle of Rueil the Cardinal Richelieu had some horrible `oubliettes’ constructed.”
“Oh! never fear,” said Aramis. “Richelieu was a gentleman, our equal in birth, our superior in position. He could, like the king, touch the greatest of us on the head, and touching them make such heads shake on their shoulders. But Mazarin is a low-born rogue, who can at the most take us by the collar, like an archer. Be calm — for I am sure that D’Artagnan and Porthos are at Rueil, alive and well.”
“But,” resumed Athos, “I recur to my first proposal. I know no better means than to act with candor. I shall seek, not Mazarin, but the queen, and say to her, `Madame, restore to us your two servants and our two friends.'”
Aramis shook his head.
“‘Tis a last resource, but let us not employ it till it is imperatively called for; let us rather persevere in our researches.”
They continued their inquiries and at last met with a light dragoon who had formed one of the guard which had escorted D’Artagnan to Rueil.
Athos, however, perpetually recurred to his proposed interview with the queen.
“In order to see the queen,” said Aramis, “we must first see the cardinal; and when we have seen the cardinal — remember what I tell you, Athos — we shall be reunited to our friends, but not in the way you wish. Now, that way of joining them is not very attractive to me, I confess. Let us act in freedom, that we may act well and quickly.”
“I shall go,” he said, “to the queen.”
“Well, then,” answered Aramis, “pray tell me a day or two beforehand, that I may take that opportunity of going to Paris.”
“To whom?”
“Zounds! how do I know? perhaps to Madame de Longueville. She is all-powerful yonder; she will help me. But send me word should you be arrested, for then I will return directly.”
“Why do you not take your chance and be arrested with me?”
“No, I thank you.”
“Should we, by being arrested, be all four together again, we should not, I am not sure, be twenty-four hours in prison without getting free.”
“My friend, since I killed Chatillon, adored of the ladies of Saint Germain, I am too great a celebrity not to fear a prison doubly. The queen is likely to follow Mazarin’s counsels and to have me tried.”
“Do you think she loves this Italian so much as they say she does?”
“Did she not love an Englishman?”
“My friend, she is a woman.”
“No, no, you are deceived — she is a queen.”
“Dear friend, I shall sacrifice myself and go and see Anne of Austria.”
“Adieu, Athos, I am going to raise an army.”
“For what purpose?”
“To come back and besiege Rueil.”
“Where shall we meet again?”
“At the foot of the cardinal’s gallows.”
The two friends departed — Aramis to return to Paris, Athos to take measures preparatory to an interview with the queen.
80
The Gratitude of Anne of Austria.
Athos found much less difficulty than he had expected in obtaining an audience of Anne of Austria. It was granted, and was to take place after her morning’s “levee,” at which, in accordance with his rights of birth, he was entitled to be present. A vast crowd filled the apartments of Saint Germain. Anne had never at the Louvre had so large a court; but this crowd represented chiefly the second class of nobility, while the Prince de Conti, the Duc de Beaufort and the coadjutor assembled around them the first nobility of France.
The greatest possible gayety prevailed at court. The particular characteristic of this was that more songs were made than cannons fired during its continuance. The court made songs on the Parisians and the Parisians on the court; and the casualties, though not mortal, were painful, as are all wounds inflicted by the weapon of ridicule.
In the midst of this seeming hilarity, nevertheless, people’s minds were uneasy. Was Mazarin to remain the favorite and minister of the queen? Was he to be carried back by the wind which had blown him there? Every one hoped so, so that the minister felt that all around him, beneath the homage of the courtiers, lay a fund of hatred, ill disguised by fear and interest. He felt ill at ease and at a loss what to do.
Conde himself, whilst fighting for him, lost no opportunity of ridiculing, of humbling him. The queen, on whom he threw himself as sole support, seemed to him now not much to be relied upon.
When the hour appointed for the audience arrived Athos was obliged to stay until the queen, who was waited upon by a new deputation from Paris, had consulted with her minister as to the propriety and manner of receiving them. All were fully engrossed with the affairs of the day; Athos could not therefore have chosen a more inauspicious moment to speak of his friends — poor atoms, lost in that raging whirlwind.
But Athos was a man of inflexible determination; he firmly adhered to a purpose once formed, when it seemed to him to spring from conscience and to be prompted by a sense of duty. He insisted on being introduced, saying that although he was not a deputy from Monsieur de Conti, or Monsieur de Beaufort, or Monsieur de Bouillon, or Monsieur d’Elbeuf, or the coadjutor, or Madame de Longueville, or Broussel, or the Parliament, and although he had come on his own private account, he nevertheless had things to say to her majesty of the utmost importance.
The conference being finished, the queen summoned him to her cabinet.
Athos was introduced and announced by name. It was a name that too often resounded in her majesty’s ears and too often vibrated in her heart for Anne of Austria not to recognize it; yet she remained impassive, looking at him with that fixed stare which is tolerated only in women who are queens, either by the power of beauty or by the right of birth.
“It is then a service which you propose to render us, count?” asked Anne of Austria, after a moment’s silence.
“Yes, madame, another service,” said Athos, shocked that the queen did not seem to recognize him.
Athos had a noble heart, and made, therefore, but a poor courtier.
Anne frowned. Mazarin, who was sitting at a table folding up papers, as if he had only been a secretary of state, looked up.
“Speak,” said the queen.
Mazarin turned again to his papers.
“Madame,” resumed Athos, “two of my friends, named D’Artagnan and Monsieur du Vallon, sent to England by the cardinal, suddenly disappeared when they set foot on the shores of France; no one knows what has become of them.”
“Well?” said the queen.
“I address myself, therefore, first to the benevolence of your majesty, that I may know what has become of my friends, reserving to myself, if necessary, the right of appealing hereafter to your justice.”
“Sir,” replied Anne, with a degree of haughtiness which to certain persons became impertinence, “this is the reason that you trouble me in the midst of so many absorbing concerns! an affair for the police! Well, sir, you ought to know that we no longer have a police, since we are no longer at Paris.”
“I think your majesty will have no need to apply to the police to know where my friends are, but that if you will deign to interrogate the cardinal he can reply without any further inquiry than into his own recollections.”
“But, God forgive me!” cried Anne, with that disdainful curl of the lips peculiar to her, “I believe that you are yourself interrogating.”
“Yes, madame, here I have a right to do so, for it concerns Monsieur d’Artagnan —d’Artagnan,” he repeated, in such a manner as to bow the regal brow with recollections of the weak and erring woman.
The cardinal saw that it was now high time to come to the assistance of Anne.
“Sir,” he said, “I can tell you what is at present unknown to her majesty. These individuals are under arrest. They disobeyed orders.”
“I beg of your majesty, then,” said Athos, calmly and not replying to Mazarin, “to quash these arrests of Messieurs d’Artagnan and du Vallon.”
“What you ask is merely an affair of discipline and does not concern me,” said the queen.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan never made such an answer as that when the service of your majesty was concerned,” said Athos, bowing with great dignity. He was going toward the door when Mazarin stopped him.
“You, too, have been in England, sir?” he said, making a sign to the queen, who was evidently going to issue a severe order.
“I was a witness of the last hours of Charles I. Poor king! culpable, at the most, of weakness, how cruelly punished by his subjects! Thrones are at this time shaken and it is to little purpose for devoted hearts to serve the interests of princes. This is the second time that Monsieur d’Artagnan has been in England. He went the first time to save the honor of a great queen; the second, to avert the death of a great king.”
“Sir,” said Anne to Mazarin, with an accent from which daily habits of dissimulation could not entirely chase the real expression, “see if we can do something for these gentlemen.”
“I wish to do, madame, all that your majesty pleases.”
“Do what Monsieur de la Fere requests; that is your name, is it not, sir?”
“I have another name, madame — I am called Athos.”
“Madame,” said Mazarin, with a smile, “you may rest easy; your wishes shall be fulfilled.”
“You hear, sir?” said the queen.
“Yes, madame, I expected nothing less from the justice of your majesty. May I not go and see my friends?”
“Yes, sir, you shall see them. But, apropos, you belong to the Fronde, do you not?”
“Madame, I serve the king.”
“Yes, in your own way.”
“My way is the way of all gentlemen, and I know only one way,” answered Athos, haughtily.
“Go, sir, then,” said the queen; “you have obtained what you wish and we know all we desire to know.”
Scarcely, however, had the tapestry closed behind Athos when she said to Mazarin:
“Cardinal, desire them to arrest that insolent fellow before he leaves the court.”
“Your majesty,” answered Mazarin, “desires me to do only what I was going to ask you to let me do. These bravoes who resuscitate in our epoch the traditions of another reign are troublesome; since there are two of them already there, let us add a third.”
Athos was not altogether the queen’s dupe, but he was not a man to run away on suspicion — above all, when distinctly told that he should see his friends again. He waited, then, in the ante-chamber with impatience, till he should be conducted to them.
He walked to the window and looked into the court. He saw the deputation from the Parisians enter it; they were coming to assign the definitive place for the conference and to make their bow to the queen. A very imposing escort awaited them without the gates.
Athos was looking on attentively, when some one touched him softly on the shoulder.
“Ah! Monsieur de Comminges,” he said.
“Yes, count, and charged with a commission for which I beg of you to accept my excuses.”
“What is it?”
“Be so good as to give me up your sword, count.”
Athos smiled and opened the window.
“Aramis!” he cried.
A gentleman turned around. Athos fancied he had seen him among the crowd. It was Aramis. He bowed with great friendship to the count.
“Aramis,” cried Athos, “I am arrested.”
“Good,” replied Aramis, calmly.
“Sir,” said Athos, turning to Comminges and giving him politely his sword by the hilt, “here is my sword; have the kindness to keep it safely for me until I quit my prison. I prize it — it was given to my ancestor by King Francis I. In his time they armed gentlemen, not disarmed them. Now, whither do you conduct me?”
“Into my room first,” replied Comminges; “the queen will ultimately decide your place of domicile.”
Athos followed Comminges without saying a single word.
81
Cardinal Mazarin as King.
The arrest produced no sensation, indeed was almost unknown, and scarcely interrupted the course of events. To the deputation it was formally announced that the queen would receive it.
Accordingly, it was admitted to the presence of Anne, who, silent and lofty as ever, listened to the speeches and complaints of the deputies; but when they had finished their harangues not one of them could say, so calm remained her face, whether or no she had heard them.
On the other hand, Mazarin, present at that audience, heard very well what those deputies demanded. It was purely and simply his removal, in terms clear and precise.
The discourse being finished, the queen remained silent.
“Gentlemen,” said Mazarin, “I join with you in supplicating the queen to put an end to the miseries of her subjects. I have done all in my power to ameliorate them and yet the belief of the public, you say, is that they proceed from me, an unhappy foreigner, who has been unable to please the French. Alas! I have never been understood, and no wonder. I succeeded a man of the most sublime genius that ever upheld the sceptre of France. The memory of Richelieu annihilates me. In vain — were I an ambitious man — should I struggle against such remembrances as he has left; but that I am not ambitious I am going to prove to you. I own myself conquered. I shall obey the wishes of the people. If Paris has injuries to complain of, who has not some wrongs to be redressed? Paris has been sufficiently punished; enough blood has flowed, enough misery has humbled a town deprived of its king and of justice. ‘Tis not for me, a private individual, to disunite a queen from her kingdom. Since you demand my resignation, I retire.”
“Then,” said Aramis, in his neighbor’s ear, “the conferences are over. There is nothing to do but to send Monsieur Mazarin to the most distant frontier and to take care that he does not return even by that, nor any other entrance into France.”
“One instant, sir,” said the man in a gown, whom he addressed; “a plague on’t! how fast you go! one may soon see that you’re a soldier. There’s the article of remunerations and indemnifications to be discussed and set to rights.”
“Chancellor,” said the queen, turning to Seguier, our old acquaintance, “you will open the conferences. They can take place at Rueil. The cardinal has said several things which have agitated me, therefore I will not speak more fully now. As to his going or staying, I feel too much gratitude to the cardinal not to leave him free in all his actions; he shall do what he wishes to do.”
A transient pallor overspread the speaking countenance of the prime minister; he looked at the queen with anxiety. Her face was so passionless, that he, as every one else present, was incapable of reading her thoughts.
“But,” added the queen, “in awaiting the cardinal’s decision let there be, if you please, a reference to the king only.”
The deputies bowed and left the room.
“What!” exclaimed the queen, when the last of them had quitted the apartment, “you would yield to these limbs of the law — these advocates?”
“To promote your majesty’s welfare, madame,” replied Mazarin, fixing his penetrating eyes on the queen, “there is no sacrifice that I would not make.”
Anne dropped her head and fell into one of those reveries so habitual with her. A recollection of Athos came into her mind. His fearless deportment, his words, so firm, yet dignified, the shades which by one word he had evoked, recalled to her the past in all its intoxication of poetry and romance, youth, beauty, the eclat of love at twenty years of age, the bloody death of Buckingham, the only man whom she had ever really loved, and the heroism of those obscure champions who had saved her from the double hatred of Richelieu and the king.
Mazarin looked at her, and whilst she deemed herself alone and freed from the world of enemies who sought to spy into her secret thoughts, he read her thoughts in her countenance, as one sees in a transparent lake clouds pass — reflections, like thoughts, of the heavens.
“Must we, then,” asked Anne of Austria, “yield to the storm, buy peace, and patiently and piously await better times?”
Mazarin smiled sarcastically at this speech, which showed that she had taken the minister’s proposal seriously.
Anne’s head was bent down — she had not seen the Italian’s smile; but finding that her question elicited no reply she looked up.
“Well, you do not answer, cardinal, what do you think about it?”
“I am thinking, madame, of the allusion made by that insolent gentleman, whom you have caused to be arrested, to the Duke of Buckingham — to him whom you allowed to be assassinated — to the Duchess de Chevreuse, whom you suffered to be exiled — to the Duc de Beaufort, whom you imprisoned; but if he made allusion to me it was because he is ignorant of the relation in which I stand to you.”
Anne drew up, as she always did, when anything touched her pride. She blushed, and that she might not answer, clasped her beautiful hands till her sharp nails almost pierced them.
“That man has sagacity, honor and wit, not to mention likewise that he is a man of undoubted resolution. You know something about him, do you not, madame? I shall tell him, therefore, and in doing so I shall confer a personal favor on him, how he is mistaken in regard to me. What is proposed to me would be, in fact, almost an abdication, and an abdication requires reflection.”
“An abdication?” repeated Anne; “I thought, sir, that it was kings alone who abdicated!”
“Well,” replied Mazarin, “and am I not almost a king — king, indeed, of France? Thrown over the foot of the royal bed, my simar, madame, looks not unlike the mantle worn by kings.”
This was one of the humiliations which Mazarin made Anne undergo more frequently than any other, and one that bowed her head with shame. Queen Elizabeth and Catherine II. of Russia are the only two monarchs of their set on record who were at once sovereigns and lovers. Anne of Austria looked with a sort of terror at the threatening aspect of the cardinal — his physiognomy in such moments was not destitute of a certain grandeur.
“Sir,” she replied, “did I not say, and did you not hear me say to those people, that you should do as you pleased?”
“In that case,” said Mazarin, “I think it must please me best to remain; not only on account of my own interest, but for your safety.”
“Remain, then, sir; nothing can be more agreeable to me; only do not allow me to be insulted.”
“You are referring to the demands of the rebels and to the tone in which they stated them? Patience! They have selected a field of battle on which I am an abler general than they — that of a conference. No, we shall beat them by merely temporizing. They want food already. They will be ten times worse off in a week.”
“Ah, yes! Good heavens! I know it will end in that way; but it is not they who taunt me with the most wounding reproaches, but —- “
“I understand; you mean to allude to the recollections perpetually revived by these three gentlemen. However, we have them safe in prison, and they are just sufficiently culpable for us to keep them in prison as long as we find it convenient. One only is still not in our power and braves us. But, devil take him! we shall soon succeed in sending him to join his boon companions. We have accomplished more difficult things than that. In the first place I have as a precaution shut up at Rueil, near me, under my own eyes, within reach of my hand, the two most intractable ones. To-day the third will be there also.”
“As long as they are in prison all will be well,” said Anne, “but one of these days they will get out.”
“Yes, if your majesty releases them.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Anne, following the train of her own thoughts on such occasions, “one regrets Paris!”
“Why so?”
“On account of the Bastile, sir, which is so strong and so secure.”
“Madame, these conferences will bring us peace; when we have peace we shall regain Paris; with Paris, the Bastile, and our four bullies shall rot therein.”
Anne frowned slightly when Mazarin, in taking leave, kissed her hand.
Mazarin, after this half humble, half gallant attention, went away. Anne followed him with her eyes, and as he withdrew, at every step he took, a disdainful smile was seen playing, then gradually burst upon her lips.
“I once,” she said, “despised the love of a cardinal who never said `I shall do,’ but, `I have done so and so.’ That man knew of retreats more secure than Rueil, darker and more silent even than the Bastile. Degenerate world!”
82
Precaution’s.
After quitting Anne, Mazarin took the road to Rueil, where he usually resided; in those times of disturbance he went about with numerous followers and often disguised himself. In military dress he was, indeed, as we have stated, a very handsome man.
In the court of the old Chateau of Saint Germain he entered his coach, and reached the Seine at Chatou. The prince had supplied him with fifty light horse, not so much by way of guard as to show the deputies how readily the queen’s generals dispersed their troops and to prove that they might be safely scattered at pleasure. Athos, on horseback, without his sword and kept in sight by Comminges, followed the cardinal in silence. Grimaud, finding that his master had been arrested, fell back into the ranks near Aramis, without saying a word and as if nothing had happened.
Grimaud had, indeed, during twenty-two years of service, seen his master extricate himself from so many difficulties that nothing less than Athos’s imminent death was likely to make him uneasy.
At the branching off of the road toward Paris, Aramis, who had followed in the cardinal’s suite, turned back. Mazarin went to the right hand and Aramis could see the prisoner disappear at the turning of the avenue. Athos, at the same moment, moved by a similar impulse, looked back also. The two friends exchanged a simple inclination of the head and Aramis put his finger to his hat, as if to bow, Athos alone comprehending by that signal that he had some project in his head.
Ten minutes afterward Mazarin entered the court of that chateau which his predecessor had built for him at Rueil; as he alighted, Comminges approached him.
“My lord,” he asked, “where does your eminence wish Monsieur Comte de la Fere to be lodged?”
“In the pavilion of the orangery, of course, in front of the pavilion where the guard is. I wish every respect to be shown the count, although he is the prisoner of her majesty the queen.”
“My lord,” answered Comminges, “he begs to be taken to the place where Monsieur d’Artagnan is confined — that is, in the hunting lodge, opposite the orangery.
Mazarin thought for an instant.
Comminges saw that he was undecided.
“‘Tis a very strong post,” he resumed, “and we have forty good men, tried soldiers, having no connection with Frondeurs nor any interest in the Fronde.”
“If we put these three men together, Monsieur Comminges,” said Mazarin, “we must double the guard, and we are not rich enough in fighting men to commit such acts of prodigality.”
Comminges smiled; Mazarin read and construed that smile.
“You do not know these men, Monsieur Comminges, but I know them, first personally, also by hearsay. I sent them to carry aid to King Charles and they performed prodigies to save him; had it not been for an adverse destiny, that beloved monarch would this day have been among us.”
“But since they served your eminence so well, why are they, my lord cardinal, in prison?”
“In prison?” said Mazarin, “and when has Rueil been a prison?”
“Ever since there were prisoners in it,” answered Comminges.
“These gentlemen, Comminges, are not prisoners,” returned Mazarin, with his ironical smile, “only guests; but guests so precious that I have put a grating before each of their windows and bolts to their doors, that they may not refuse to continue my visitors. So much do I esteem them that I am going to make the Comte de la Fere a visit, that I may converse with him tete-a-tete, and that we may not be disturbed at our interview you must conduct him, as I said before, to the pavilion of the orangery; that, you know, is my daily promenade. Well, while taking my walk I will call on him and we will talk. Although he professes to be my enemy I have sympathy for him, and if he is reasonable perhaps we shall arrange matters.”
Comminges bowed, and returned to Athos, who was awaiting with apparent calmness, but with real anxiety, the result of the interview.
“Well?” he said to the lieutenant.
“Sir,” replied Comminges, “it seems that it is impossible.”
“Monsieur de Comminges,” said Athos, “I have been a soldier all my life and I know the force of orders; but outside your orders there is a service you can render me.”
“I will do it with all my heart,” said Comminges; “for I know who you are and what service you once performed for her majesty; I know, too, how dear to you is the young man who came so valiantly to my aid when that old rogue of a Broussel was arrested. I am entirely at your service, except only for my orders.”
“Thank you, sir; what I am about to ask will not compromise you in any degree.”
“If it should even compromise me a little,” said Monsieur de Comminges, with a smile, “still make your demand. I don’t like Mazarin any better than you do. I serve the queen and that draws me naturally into the service of the cardinal; but I serve the one with joy and the other against my will. Speak, then, I beg of you; I wait and listen.”
“Since there is no harm,” said Athos, “in my knowing that D’Artagnan is here, I presume there will be none in his knowing that I am here.”
“I have received no orders on that point.”
“Well, then, do me the kindness to give him my regards and tell him that I am his neighbor. Tell him also what you have just told me — that Mazarin has placed me in the pavilion of the orangery in order to make me a visit, and assure him that I shall take advantage of this honor he proposes to accord to me to obtain from him some amelioration of our captivity.”
“Which cannot last,” interrupted Comminges; “the cardinal said so; there is no prison here.”
“But there are oubliettes!” replied Athos, smiling.
“Oh! that’s a different thing; yes, I know there are traditions of that sort,” said Comminges. “It was in the time of the other cardinal, who was a great nobleman; but our Mazarin — impossible! an Italian adventurer would not dare to go such lengths with such men as ourselves. Oubliettes are employed as a means of kingly vengeance, and a low-born fellow such as he is would not have recourse to them. Your arrest is known, that of your friends will soon be known; and all the nobility of France would demand an explanation of your disappearance. No, no, be easy on that score. I will, however, inform Monsieur d’Artagnan of your arrival here.”
Comminges then led the count to a room on the ground floor of a pavilion, at the end of the orangery. They passed through a courtyard as they went, full of soldiers and courtiers. In the centre of this court, in the form of a horseshoe, were the buildings occupied by Mazarin, and at each wing the pavilion (or smaller building), where D’Artagnan was confined, and that, level with the orangery, where Athos was to be. From the ends of these two wings extended the park.
Athos, when he reached his appointed room, observed through the gratings of his window, walls and roofs; and was told, on inquiry, by Comminges, that he was looking on the back of the pavilion where D’Artagnan was confined.
“Yes, ’tis too true,” said Comminges, “’tis almost a prison; but what a singular fancy this is of yours, count — you, who are the very flower of our nobility — to squander your valor and loyalty amongst these upstarts, the Frondists! Really, count, if ever I thought that I had a friend in the ranks of the royal army, it was you. A Frondeur! you, the Comte de la Fere, on the side of Broussel, Blancmesnil and Viole! For shame! you, a Frondeur!”
“On my word of honor,” said Athos, “one must be either a Mazarinist or a Frondeur. For a long time I had these words whispered in my ears, and I chose the latter; at any rate, it is a French word. And now, I am a Frondeur — not of Broussel’s party, nor of Blancmesnil’s, nor am I with Viole; but with the Duc de Beaufort, the Ducs de Bouillon and d’Elbeuf; with princes, not with presidents, councillors and low-born lawyers. Besides, what a charming outlook it would have been to serve the cardinal! Look at that wall — without a single window — which tells you fine things about Mazarin’s gratitude!”
“Yes,” replied De Comminges, “more especially if it could reveal how Monsieur d’Artagnan for this last week has been anathematizing him.”
“Poor D’Artagnan'” said Athos, with the charming melancholy that was one of the traits of his character, “so brave, so good, so terrible to the enemies of those he loves. You have two unruly prisoners there, sir.”
“Unruly,” Comminges smiled; “you wish to terrify me, I suppose. When he came here, Monsieur D’Artagnan provoked and braved the soldiers and inferior officers, in order, I suppose, to have his sword back. That mood lasted some time; but now he’s as gentle as a lamb and sings Gascon songs, which make one die of laughing.”
“And Du Vallon?” asked Athos.
“Ah, he’s quite another sort of person — a formidable gentleman, indeed. The first day he broke all the doors in with a single push of his shoulder; and I expected to see him leave Rueil in the same way as Samson left Gaza. But his temper cooled down, like his friend’s; he not only gets used to his captivity, but jokes about it.”
“So much the better,” said Athos.
“Do you think anything else was to be expected of them?” asked Comminges, who, putting together what Mazarin had said of his prisoners and what the Comte de la Fere had said, began to feel a degree of uneasiness.
Athos, on the other hand, reflected that this recent gentleness of his friends most certainly arose from some plan formed by D’Artagnan. Unwilling to injure them by praising them too highly, he replied: “They? They are two hotheads — the one a Gascon, the other from Picardy; both are easily excited, but they quiet down immediately. You have had a proof of that in what you have just related to me.”
This, too, was the opinion of Comminges, who withdrew somewhat reassured. Athos remained alone in the vast chamber, where, according to the cardinal’s directions, he was treated with all the courtesy due to a nobleman. He awaited Mazarin’s promised visit to get some light on his present situation.
83
Strength and Sagacity.
Now let us pass the orangery to the hunting lodge. At the extremity of the courtyard, where, close to a portico formed of Ionic columns, were the dog kennels, rose an oblong building, the pavilion of the orangery, a half circle, inclosing the court of honor. It was in this pavilion, on the ground floor, that D’Artagnan and Porthos were confined, suffering interminable hours of imprisonment in a manner suitable to each different temperament.
D’Artagnan was pacing to and fro like a caged tiger; with dilated eyes, growling as he paced along by the bars of a window looking upon the yard of servant’s offices.
Porthos was ruminating over an excellent dinner he had just demolished.
The one seemed to be deprived of reason, yet he was meditating. The other seemed to meditate, yet he was more than half asleep. But his sleep was a nightmare, which might be guessed by the incoherent manner in which he sometimes snored and sometimes snorted.
“Look,” said D’Artagnan, “day is declining. It must be nearly four o’clock. We have been in this place nearly eighty-three hours.”
“Hem!” muttered Porthos, with a kind of pretense of answering.
“Did you hear, eternal sleeper?” cried D’Artagnan, irritated that any one could doze during the day, when he had the greatest difficulty in sleeping during the night.
“What?” said Porthos.
“I say we have been here eighty-three hours.”
“‘Tis your fault,” answered Porthos.
“How, my fault?”
“Yes, I offered you escape.”
“By pulling out a bar and pushing down a door?”
“Certainly.”
“Porthos, men like us can’t go out from here purely and simply.”
“Faith!” said Porthos, “as for me, I could go out with that purity and that simplicity which it seems to me you despise too much.”
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.
“And besides,” he said, “going out of this chamber isn’t all.”
“Dear friend,” said Porthos, “you appear to be in a somewhat better humor to-day than you were yesterday. Explain to me why going out of this chamber isn’t everything.”
“Because, having neither arms nor password, we shouldn’t take fifty steps in the court without knocking against a sentinel.”
Very well,” said Porthos, “we will kill the sentinel and we shall have his arms.”
“Yes, but before we can kill him — and he will be hard to kill, that Swiss — he will shriek out and the whole picket will come, and we shall be taken like foxes, we, who are lions, and thrown into some dungeon, where we shall not even have the consolation of seeing this frightful gray sky of Rueil, which no more resembles the sky of Tarbes than the moon is like the sun. Lack-a-day! if we only had some one to instruct us about the physical and moral topography of this castle. Ah! when one thinks that for twenty years, during which time I did not know what to do with myself, it never occurred to me to come to study Rueil.”
“What difference does that make?” said Porthos. “We shall go out all the same.”
“Do you know, my dear fellow, why master pastrycooks never work with their hands?”
“No,” said Porthos, “but I should be glad to be informed.”
“It is because in the presence of their pupils they fear that some of their tarts or creams may turn out badly cooked.”
“What then?”
“Why, then they would be laughed at, and a master pastrycook must never be laughed at.”
“And what have master pastrycooks to do with us?”
“We ought, in our adventures, never to be defeated or give any one a chance to laugh at us. In England, lately, we failed, we were beaten, and that is a blemish on our reputation.”
“By whom, then, were we beaten?” asked Porthos.
“By Mordaunt.”
“Yes, but we have drowned Monsieur Mordaunt.”
“That is true, and that will redeem us a little in the eyes of posterity, if posterity ever looks at us. But listen, Porthos: though Monsieur Mordaunt was a man not to be despised, Mazarin is not less strong than he, and we shall not easily succeed in drowning him. We must, therefore, watch and play a close game; for,” he added with a sigh, “we two are equal, perhaps, to eight others; but we are not equal to the four that you know of.”
“That is true,” said Porthos, echoing D’Artagnan’s sigh.
“Well, Porthos, follow my examples; walk back and forth till some news of our friends reaches us or till we are visited by a good idea. But don’t sleep as you do all the time; nothing dulls the intellect like sleep. As to what may lie before us, it is perhaps less serious than we at first thought. I don’t believe that Monsieur de Mazarin thinks of cutting off our heads, for heads are not taken off without previous trial; a trial would make a noise, and a noise would get the attention of our friends, who would check the operations of Monsieur de Mazarin.”
“How well you reason!” said Porthos, admiringly.
“Well, yes, pretty well,” replied D’Artagnan; “and besides, you see, if they put us on trial, if they cut off our heads, they must meanwhile either keep us here or transfer us elsewhere.”
“Yes, that is inevitable,” said Porthos.
“Well, it is impossible but that Master Aramis, that keen-scented bloodhound, and Athos, that wise and prudent nobleman, will discover our retreat. Then, believe me, it will be time to act.”
“Yes, we will wait. We can wait the more contentedly, that it is not absolutely bad here, but for one thing, at least.”
“What is that?”
“Did you observe, D’Artagnan, that three days running they have brought us braised mutton?”
“No; but if it occurs a fourth time I shall complain of it, so never mind.”
“And then I feel the loss of my house, ’tis a long time since I visited my castles.”
“Forget them for a time; we shall return to them, unless Mazarin razes them to the ground.”
“Do you think that likely?”
“No, the other cardinal would have done so, but this one is too mean a fellow to risk it.”
“You reconcile me, D’Artagnan.”
“Well, then, assume a cheerful manner, as I do; we must joke with the guards, we must gain the good-will of the soldiers, since we can’t corrupt them. Try, Porthos, to please them more than you are wont to do when they are under our windows. Thus far you have done nothing but show them your fist; and the more respectable your fist is, Porthos, the less attractive it is. Ah, I would give much to have five hundred louis, only.”
“So would I,” said Porthos, unwilling to be behind D’Artagnan in generosity; “I would give as much as a hundred pistoles.”
The two prisoners were at this point of their conversation when Comminges entered, preceded by a sergeant and two men, who brought supper in a basket with two handles, filled with basins and plates.
“What!” exclaimed Porthos, “mutton again?”
“My dear Monsieur de Comminges,” said D’Artagnan, “you will find that my friend, Monsieur du Vallon, will go to the most fatal lengths if Cardinal Mazarin continues to provide us with this sort of meat; mutton every day.”
“I declare,” said Porthos, “I shall eat nothing if they do not take it away.”
“Remove the mutton,” cried Comminges; “I wish Monsieur du Vallon to sup well, more especially as I have news to give him that will improve his appetite.”
“Is Mazarin dead?” asked Porthos.
“No; I am sorry to tell you he is perfectly well.”
“So much the worse,” said Porthos.
“What is that news?” asked D’Artagnan. “News in prison is a fruit so rare that I trust, Monsieur de Comminges, you will excuse my impatience — the more eager since you have given us to understand that the news is good.”
“Should you be glad to hear that the Comte de la Fere is well?” asked De Comminges.
D’Artagnan’s penetrating gray eyes were opened to the utmost.
“Glad!” he cried; “I should be more than glad! Happy — beyond measure!”
“Well, I am desired by him to give you his compliments and to say that he is in good health.”
D’Artagnan almost leaped with joy. A quick glance conveyed his thought to Porthos: “If Athos knows where we are, if he opens communication with us, before long Athos will act.”
Porthos was not very quick to understand the language of glances, but now since the name of Athos had suggested to him the same idea, he understood.
“Do you say,” asked the Gascon, timidly, “that the Comte de la Fere has commissioned you to give his compliments to Monsieur du Vallon and myself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you have seen him?”
“Certainly I have.”
“Where? if I may ask without indiscretion.”
“Near here,” replied De Comminges, smiling; “so near that if the windows which look on the orangery were not stopped up you could see him from where you are.”
“He is wandering about the environs of the castle,” thought D’Artagnan. Then he said aloud:
“You met him, I dare say, in the park — hunting, perhaps?”
“No; nearer, nearer still. Look, behind this wall,” said De Comminges, knocking against the wall.
“Behind this wall? What is there, then, behind this wall? I was brought here by night, so devil take me if I know where I am.”
“Well,” said Comminges, “suppose one thing.”
“I will suppose anything you please.”
“Suppose there were a window in this wall.”
“Well?”
“From that window you would see Monsieur de la Fere at his.”
“The count, then, is in the chateau?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“The same as yourself.”
“Athos — a prisoner?”
“You know well,” replied De Comminges, “that there are no prisoners at Rueil, because there is no prison.”
“Don’t let us play upon words, sir. Athos has been arrested.”
“Yesterday, at Saint Germain, as he came out from the presence of the queen.”
The arms of D’Artagnan fell powerless by his side. One might have supposed him thunderstruck; a paleness ran like a cloud over his dark skin, but disappeared immediately.
“A prisoner?” he reiterated.
“A prisoner,” repeated Porthos, quite dejected.
Suddenly D’Artagnan looked up and in his eyes there was a gleam which scarcely even Porthos observed; but it died away and he appeared more sorrowful than before.
“Come, come,” said Comminges, who, since D’Artagnan, on the day of Broussel’s arrest, had saved him from the hands of the Parisians, had entertained a real affection for him, “don’t be unhappy; I never thought of bringing you bad news. Laugh at the chance which has brought your friend near to you and Monsieur du Vallon, instead of being in the depths of despair about it.”
But D’Artagnan was still in a desponding mood.
“And how did he look?” asked Porthos, who, perceiving that D’Artagnan had allowed the conversation to drop, profited by it to put in a word or two.
“Very well, indeed, sir,” replied Comminges; “at first, like you, he seemed distressed; but when he heard that the cardinal was going to pay him a visit this very evening —- “
“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan, “the cardinal is about to visit the Comte de la Fere?”
“Yes; and the count desired me to tell you that he should take advantage of this visit to plead for you and for himself.”
“Ah! our dear count!” said D’Artagnan.
“A fine thing, indeed!” grunted Porthos. “A great favor! Zounds! Monsieur the Comte de la Fere, whose family is allied to the Montmorency and the Rohan, is easily the equal of Monsieur de Mazarin.”
“No matter,” said D’Artagnan, in his most wheedling tone. “On reflection, my dear Du Vallon, it is a great honor for the Comte de la Fere, and gives good reason to hope. In fact, it seems to me so great an honor for a prisoner that I think Monsieur de Comminges must be mistaken.”
“What? I am mistaken?”
“Monsieur de Mazarin will not come to visit the Comte de la Fere, but the Comte de la Fere will be sent for to visit him.”
“No, no, no,” said Comminges, who made a point of having the facts appear exactly as they were, “I clearly understood what the cardinal said to me. He will come and visit the Comte de la Fere.”
D’Artagnan tried to gather from the expression of his eyes whether Porthos understood the importance of that visit, but Porthos did not even look toward him.
“It is, then, the cardinal’s custom to walk in his orangery?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Every evening he shuts himself in there. That, it seems, is where he meditates on state affairs.”
“In that case,” said D’Artagnan, “I begin to believe that Monsieur de la Fere will receive the visit of his eminence; he will, of course, have an escort.”
“Yes — two soldiers.”
“And will he talk thus of affairs in presence of two strangers?”
“The soldiers are Swiss, who understand only German. Besides, according to all probability they will wait at the door.”
D’Artagnan made a violent effort over himself to keep his face from being too expressive.
“Let the cardinal take care of going alone to visit the Comte de la Fere,” said D’Artagnan; “for the count must be furious.”
Comminges began to laugh. “Oh, oh! why, really, one would say that you four were anthropaphagi! The count is an affable man; besides, be is unarmed; at the first word from his eminence the two soldiers about him would run to his assistance.”
“Two soldiers,” said D’Artagnan, seeming to remember something, “two soldiers, yes; that, then, is why I hear two men called every evening and see them walking sometimes for half an hour, under my window.”
“That is it; they are waiting for the cardinal, or rather for Bernouin, who comes to call them when the cardinal goes out.”
“Fine-looking men, upon my word!” said D’Artagnan.
“They belong to the regiment that was at Lens, which the prince assigned to the cardinal.”
“Ah, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, as if to sum up in a word all that conversation, “if only his eminence would relent and grant to Monsieur de la Fere our liberty.”
“I wish it with all my heart,” said Comminges.
“Then, if he should forget that visit, you would find no inconvenience in reminding him of it?”
“Not at all.”
“Ah, that gives me more confidence.”
This skillful turn of the conversation would have seemed a sublime manoeuvre to any one who could have read the Gascon’s soul.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “I’ve one last favor to ask of you, Monsieur de Comminges.”
“At your service, sir.”
“You will see the count again?”
“To-morrow morning.”
“Will you remember us to him and ask him to solicit for me the same favor that he will have obtained?”
“You want the cardinal to come here?”
“No; I know my place and am not so presumptuous. Let his eminence do me the honor to give me a hearing; that is all I want.”
“Oh!” muttered Porthos, shaking his head, “never should I have thought this of him! How misfortune humbles a man!”
“I promise you it shall be done,” answered De Comminges.
“Tell the count that I am well; that you found me sad, but resigned.”
“I am pleased, sir, to hear that.”
“And the same, also, for Monsieur du Vallon —- “
“Not for me ,” cried Porthos; “I am not by any means resigned.”
“But you will be resigned, my friend.”
“Never!”
“He will become so, monsieur; I know him better than he knows himself. Be silent, dear Du Vallon, and resign yourself.”
“Adieu, gentlemen,” said De Comminges; “sleep well!”
“We will try.”
De Comminges went away, D’Artagnan remaining apparently in the same attitude of humble resignation; but scarcely had he departed when he turned and clasped Porthos in his arms with an expression not to be doubted.
“Oh!” cried Porthos; “what’s the matter now? Have you gone mad, my dear friend?”
“What is the matter?” returned D’Artagnan; “we are saved!”
“I don’t see that at all,” answered Porthos. “I think we are all taken prisoners, except Aramis, and that our chances of getting out are lessened since one more of us is caught in Mazarin’s mousetrap.”
“Which is far too strong for two of us, but not strong enough for three of us,” returned D’Artagnan.
“I don’t understand,” said Porthos.
“Never mind; let’s sit down to table and take something to strengthen us for the night.”
“What are we to do, then, to-night?”
“To travel — perhaps.”
“But —- “
“Sit down, dear friend, to table. When one is eating, ideas flow easily. After supper, when they are perfected, I will communicate my plans to you.”
So Porthos sat down to table without another word and ate with an appetite that did honor to the confidence that was ever inspired in him by D’Artagnan’s inventive imagination.
84
Strength and Sagacity — Continued.
Supper was eaten in silence, but not in sadness; for from time to time one of those sweet smiles which were habitual to him in moments of good-humor illumined the face of D’Artagnan. Not a scintilla of these was lost on Porthos; and at every one he uttered an exclamation which betrayed to his friend that he had not lost sight of the idea which possessed his brain.
At dessert D’Artagnan reposed in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and lounged about like a man perfectly at his ease.
Porthos rested his chin on his hands, placed his elbows on the table and looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of confidence which imparted to that colossus an admirable appearance of good-fellowship.
“Well?” said D’Artagnan, at last.
“Well!” repeated Porthos.
“You were saying, my dear friend —- “
“No; I said nothing.”
“Yes; you were saying you wished to leave this place.”
“Ah, indeed! the will was never wanting.”
“To get away you would not mind, you added, knocking down a door or a wall.”
“‘Tis true — I said so, and I say it again.”
“And I answered you, Porthos, that it was not a good plan; that we couldn’t go a hundred steps without being recaptured, because we were without clothes to disguise ourselves and arms to defend ourselves.”
“That is true; we should need clothes and arms.”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, rising, “we have them, friend Porthos, and even something better.”
“Bah!” said Porthos, looking around.
“Useless to look; everything will come to us when wanted. At about what time did we see the two Swiss guards walking yesterday?”
“An hour after sunset.”
“If they go out to-day as they did yesterday we shall have the honor, then, of seeing them in half an hour?”
“In a quarter of an hour at most.”
“Your arm is still strong enough, is it not, Porthos?”
Porthos unbuttoned his sleeve, raised his shirt and looked complacently on his strong arm, as large as the leg of any ordinary man.
“Yes, indeed,” said he, “I believe so.”
“So that you could without trouble convert these tongs into a hoop and yonder shovel into a corkscrew?”
“Certainly.” And the giant took up these two articles, and without any apparent effort produced in them the metamorphoses suggested by his companion.
“There!” he cried.
“Capital!” exclaimed the Gascon. “Really, Porthos, you are a gifted individual!”
“I have heard speak,” said Porthos, “of a certain Milo of Crotona, who performed wonderful feats, such as binding his forehead with a cord and bursting it — of killing an ox with a blow of his fist and carrying it home on his shoulders, et cetera. I used to learn all these feat by heart yonder, down at Pierrefonds, and I have done all that he did except breaking a cord by the corrugation of my temples.”
“Because your strength is not in your head, Porthos,” said his friend.
“No; it is in my arms and shoulders,” answered Porthos with gratified naivete.
“Well, my dear friend, let us approach the window and there you can match your strength against that of an iron bar.”
Porthos went to the window, took a bar in his hands, clung to it and bent it like a bow; so that the two ends came out of the sockets of stone in which for thirty years they had been fixed.
“Well! friend, the cardinal, although such a genius, could never have done that.”
“Shall I take out any more of them?” asked Porthos.
“No; that is sufficient; a man can pass through that.”
Porthos tried, and passed the upper portion of his body through.
“Yes,” he said.
“Now pass your arm through this opening.”
“Why?”
“You will know presently — pass it.”
Porthos obeyed with military promptness and passed his arm through the opening.
“Admirable!” said D’Artagnan.
“The scheme goes forward, it seems.”
“On wheels, dear friend.”
“Good! What shall I do now?”
“Nothing.”
“It is finished, then?”
“No, not yet.”
“I should like to understand,” said Porthos.
“Listen, my dear friend; in two words you will know all. The door of the guardhouse opens, as you see.”
“Yes, I see.”
“They are about to send into our court, which Monsieur de Mazarin crosses on his way to the orangery, the two guards who attend him.”
“There they are, coming out.”
“If only they close the guardhouse door! Good! They close it.”
“What, then?”
“Silence! They may hear us.”
“I don’t understand it at all.”
“As you execute you will understand.”
“And yet I should have preferred —- “
“You will have the pleasure of the surprise.”
“Ah, that is true.”
“Hush!”
Porthos remained silent and motionless.
In fact, the two soldiers advanced on the side where the window was, rubbing their hands, for it was cold, it being the month of February.
At this moment the door of the guardhouse was opened and one of the soldiers was summoned away.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “I am going to call this soldier and talk to him. Don’t lose a word of what I’m going to say to you, Porthos. Everything lies in the execution.”
“Good, the execution of plots is my forte.”
“I know it well. I depend on you. Look, I shall turn to the left, so that the soldier will be at your right, as soon as he mounts on the bench to talk to us.”
“But supposing he doesn’t mount?”
“He will; rely upon it. As soon as you see him get up, stretch out your arm and seize him by the neck. Then, raising him up as Tobit raised the fish by the gills, you must pull him into the room, taking care to squeeze him so tight that he can’t cry out.”
“Oh!” said Porthos. “Suppose I happen to strangle him?”
“To be sure there would only be a Swiss the less in the world; but you will not do so, I hope. Lay him down here; we’ll gag him and tie him — no matter where — somewhere. So we shall get from him one uniform and a sword.”
“Marvelous!” exclaimed Porthos, looking at the Gascon with the most profound admiration.
“Pooh!” replied D’Artagnan.
“Yes,” said Porthos, recollecting himself, “but one uniform and one sword will not suffice for two.”
“Well; but there’s his comrade.”
“True,” said Porthos.
“Therefore, when I cough, stretch out your arm.”
“Good!”
The two friends then placed themselves as they had agreed, Porthos being completely hidden in an angle of the window.
“Good-evening, comrade,” said D’Artagnan in his most fascinating voice and manner.
“Good-evening, sir,” answered the soldier, in a strong provincial accent.
“‘Tis not too warm to walk,” resumed D’Artagnan.
“No, sir.”
“And I think a glass of wine will not be disagreeable to you?”
“A glass of wine will be extremely welcome.”
“The fish bites — the fish bites!” whispered the Gascon to Porthos.
“I understand,” said Porthos.
“A bottle, perhaps?”
“A whole bottle? Yes, sir.”